Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Mike Gentry
There's got to be a sanctuary somewhere that could take Teddy Thompson in and make him feel whole, or as close to whole as he's ever going to get back to. If something or someone cracks or breaks apart a little, it doesn't take a scientist to realize that there are some tiny pieces that will never be retrieved or used in the reformation process. They will get swept up with the dirt, the bug legs and the tiny crumbs of food that have found their way to the ground. They'll get moved into that dustpan and dumped in the nearest waste receptacle, never to be glued back into place. It seems like all of these parts of dust that Thompson loses in the wakes of so many tough goes and gets of the heart add up into a pretty sizable pile. Before he would know it, there would be a cavity in the side of his torso and he wouldn't have an explanation for the seemingly hollow feeling throbbing from that general vicinity. There would be chunks mysteriously gone from his arms and legs and there would be no getting them back. They're resting in a wet landfill with the apple cores, dirty diapers and potato chip sacks, out of their elements, just unaware of their predicaments.
Thompson, the son of Richard and Linda Thompson of legendary songwriters of the contemporary English folk scene, seems to be a gentle soul with a set of eyes that are wide, wide open and focused on either unattainable/spoken for women or those who were right there before him and had been let slip away. Both situations can drive a man into an unenviable stupor, where he feels as if he's being constantly thrashed, worked over by the ghosts and the living. The songs on his latest album, "Bella," are burning and aching sentiments that put a man into a gray state of unrest, where thoughts are constantly being flown like a kite. He's got the wind whistling through his ears, detouring through the sinuses and flowing out his mouth in the form of warm and smoky chimney exhaust. It's all those thoughts and visual imprints that are being prepped and stoked with a cleansing fire. They are flowing out like a fever, like being overcome with the acceptable fractures, the ones that will just have to be lived with. They are the hairline breaks that are noticeable when looked at closely, or when a finger or a thumb over them, but we're stuck with them. There's nothing quite like staying broken and living half-fixed. If it's just thinking about the wiles of those ever-perplexing women that makes us broken, our homes with always be delightfully disheveled.