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John Lennon made me want to pick up a guitar, Bob Dylan made me want to play it. I picked up a guitar and I played it. That was when I was 11. Now I am 22 and in the meantime I learnt some chords and wrote some words, tried to sound like the things I heard. There came a point when I gave up trying to hit notes like the cherished sounds of the cherubim, found that it's what you sing, not how you sing. My words began life as inaccessible thoughts, a way of whispering through a loudspeaker from the rooftops and of tapping on doors. Now, after some love, wine and cigarettes, those words have begun to get undressed and hopefully say something a little more revealing, trying to breathe a little more warmth into a world that is cold and concealing enough without any need for isolated indulgence to add to it. In short, whatever our beliefs, whatever our Good Books, manuscripts and political fits; whatever we see in the mirror, whoever returns our glance, whether we drink ourself into the gutter or ask the night to dance we are simply making sense of a feeling, as honest as the space between the lines and the room beneath the ceiling. in the bedroom, or in the concert hall, if we can't share it or make others feel it, we have nothing at all. Fingerpicking, resonant hendrix tones, resurrecting mozart's dulcit bones, or singing from the latest mobile phones, have no place here where honesty wears the latest designer clothes, tastes the wine and evidently knows that they never intended to send it back, I don't really want to imitate or play to that crap. I hope that you maybe feel the same way
