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  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    A beautiful shiny disc and a 16 page booklet stuffed full of lyrics so you can sing along.
    All housed in an eco friendly gatefold card sleeve with more pictures of Gavin and his Comment Section than even the most devoted fan could ever reasonably need.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Scrolling Home via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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I play guitar in front of an audience Mostly in the minors and the majors It’s just four chords but they’re played in different orders And I’m prone to too much self-deprecation It’s acoustic folk with the emphasis on rhyming With well-worn and tried and trusted tropes I’m a cut-price atheist pound-shop Paul Simon With a rolling cast of awkward misanthropes Still if you ask me, what kind of thing is it that you do? I will answer, I just sing these songs for you But I’m scared of revealing myself to you Still the truth is probably hiding in the tracks Anyway you don’t want to hear my story do you? There’s only so much light between the cracks And I make records, but I can’t seem to sell them Can’t describe myself in pithy paragraphs Right now I’ve got a band here for the album But live I’m just one bloke and his guitar Still if you ask me what kind of thing is it that I do? I will answer, I don’t have a bloody clue And there are Tory-bash incursions into some social commentary Stories in third person, yeah but they’re all versions of me And if I sense a tense atmosphere and you’re all getting bored I just stick a capo higher up on my guitar fretboard Maybe I’ll sing something edgier Higher in my vocal register It’s like if Billy Bragg had swapped Barking for Bedford If Jim Croce met John Hegley in the shower If you cross Pat Sharp with some early Robert Redford That’s what’s it’s like to sit and watch me for about an hour And the best way to get some people to listen Is it hit them right in that funny bone Yeah but after that’s occurred, I’m on a mission To make them cry before the night bus home And well, sometimes there’s a piano But mostly it’s just me, And I’m always seeking validation for existing in this place and You regret asking the question now obviously Because I clearly sing these songs just for me
With my World Cup ’82 edition, I played Subbuteo on Dad’s floor Cos it had a more reliable roll than the original cloth Knew one day my index finger, would need to be insured Then my sister came in and trod on Dino Zoff And I know she never meant it, but that day a dream just died No Superglue invented could keep my eye on the prize And I guess I drifted off. I lost interest. I drifted off onto something else and yes, I guess I drifted. A window opens in my schedule, so I turn on my computer But my desk is overflowing with old CD’s and receipts So I go downstairs ostensibly to find my Henry Hoover Then turn the radio on and just stand there eating sweets That unfinished masterpiece will have to stay that way Cos there’s a chaffinch on my windowsill that wasn’t there yesterday Chorus Then I ask you how you’re doing, I’m nodding in all the right places Then I mentally congratulate myself on a good interaction And I’m focusing on you and pulling all of the right faces Then I panic when I realise that I’m hopelessly distracted ‘Cos maybe you just poured your heart out, maybe you told a joke Either way I hedge my bets and say “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go” Chorus That drink friends keep asking me for, I’ll get around to that one day Oh but currently I know I’m worse than useless Cos I spend my weeks dreaming of one unencumbered Sunday And I’m worried that you’ve heard all my excuses My friend Helen moved to Hobart, she’s got her Helmsman’s license And Darren’s selling pictures of the astronauts that went to the moon Beth has set up her new website, dedicated to upcoming writers And Matthew’s in the Amazon protecting baby guinea baboons But I dropped my dreams a while back and forgot to pick them up So instead I’m eating Cheerios from my World’s Best Dad mug Chorus Looks like everyone is winning, everyone’s in the know Or maybe they curated all their greatest hits I guess I could’ve been a sculptor, ha, but then again no ‘Cos I spend my time teaching Subbuteo to my kids
Blue Plaque 04:43
Grey suit shows me around, the house that I grew up in Telling me my bedroom “just needs a lick of paint” “Back in the late Seventies, a brown and yellow patterned carpet Must’ve been all the rage”, but if I could look past it Then there’s “plenty of potential” He doesn’t know the lampshade cracked, from our game of indoor football Or that the wood chip wallpaper, used to help me get to sleep By counting all the grooves, where I dug my thumbnail in I see all your successes where this stranger just sees failings And a rundown rental. With plenty of potential. It doesn’t need “a lick of paint”, it needs to stay the same Every picture framed by your nicotine stains I never want it cleaned, I won’t fix the toilet seat It’s a museum piece, I’m tearing up the lease Chorus ‘Cos there should be a statue of you Or a marble monument in the drive Or on the wall, by the door, round the back, at the very least A blue plaque. There should be a blue plaque Kitchen lino made a tough green for the inexperienced putter Every Boxing Day the golf balls came crashing down the stairs And your voice echoes through the walls, singing to Sinatra A beautiful tuneless whistle and the rattle of your laughter Grey suit says…”we’re near the A600” “Such good access to Bedford” Tourists will flock to see your favourite crossword seat Take pictures of the doorframe where you leaned This is where you hosted parties, this is where we parted Oh this is where my heart is, so take it off the market Chorus Here lived an extraordinary ordinary man
We walk in, there’s a chicken satay on the stove Pass the three-legged cat by the door Help move furniture into the alcove Making room for an amp and a keyboard Dave hands me a cider I drink from a mug By the picture of cows on the wall Caroline throws her arms wide, the warmest of hugs Though we only met once before And I feel like I’m home. I feel like I’m home In Caroline’s kitchen If that Formica island could talk I am sure It would tell incredible stories All the singers and songs that have played here before In this vinyl floorboard auditorium By bay windows all bathed in glow of fairy lights, We play misses and hits and crowd-pleasers There’s a buzz of excitement in the air tonight Or maybe that’s just the fridge freezer And we feel like we’re home. We feel like we’re home In Caroline’s kitchen Next time I think I should just give it all up I’ll know there’s a home tucked in a cul-de-sac, Where ten people or so feels like ten thousand to me Light’s fading outside like invisible ink But we’ve still got time left and there’s still rum to drink And decisions to make on what our funeral songs should be The cat’s on his pillow, John’s too scared to sleep Dave takes our glasses and refills them It’s Sarah and Phil’s fifth gig this week Liam’s playing the chords to No Children How is it some people that you barely know Feel like a memory-foam sofa? Well I’m under a spell at a hypnotist’s show And I don’t want the spell to be broken ‘Cos I feel like I’m home. I feel like I’m home In Caroline’s kitchen Not too many people can put me at ease And I trust anyone who’s still buying CD’s And I didn’t even have to leave, my shoes by the door When my casket is lowered I won’t know what’s next Which song to play loud as they lay me to rest Anything from tonight will be fine, played in four-four Something from Caroline’s kitchen
That armrest isn’t big enough for both of us But still you seem to want to take it all An overcrowded train pausing in a tunnel I’m insignificant and small When standing I’m six feet of bone and muscle With arms outstretched I guess I am the same I need a little room these days, envious of the tree that sways Alone and separate from all the others Eyes fixed firmly to the floor Seems like I’m always in this place I guess all I’m looking for, is space Just a little space Face covered with my palms I can imagine I’m flying over this like a canary Looking down on everything, my beating wings of cinnamon The closest that I get to solitary All cosmic dust and galaxy explosions Our bodies were all created together But spending time apart might give us some more perspective Until the next great supernova So read the room and look away Picture that look upon my face I guess all I want today, is space Just a little space I refuse to feel ashamed But I’ve replayed this whole scene, again and again and again and again Headphones should’ve been a clue And I wear them just in case I think I need a rendezvous with space Just a little space With space With space Just a little space
Contender 04:30
Well I’m asking how I ended up here right now In this two up two down in this West Country house If I’d tried a bit harder there is no doubt That I could’ve been a contender. But there’s got to be something much better than this Should’ve been someone’s choice on Desert Island discs Ah but I was too scared to take too many risks And I could’ve been a contender Always wanted to be on the Top of the Pops Now I order CDs from all the online shops The most joy that I get is from opening the box And I could’ve been a contender But it’s 11am on a Tuesday And I’ve popped back to bed for a rest If eighteen year old me could look forward and see, He’d probably call this success I never went backpacking through the streets of Bangkok Cos I tried to get known in the world of folk rock And like Brando down by the old waterfront docks I could’ve been a contender Well I tried to be bad but I always succumb I’m someone you could introduce to your mum If I’d not wanted to be liked by everyone Maybe I could’ve been a contender In the rain at my son’s game on Sundays Stand with other Dads, getting drenched They shout ‘”GET STUCK IN”, I say “Football’s the winner!” I’ve lost my competitive edge I thought the first one now would later be last And it’s not like I just sat around on my arse But if I can’t even make my own podcast Then how can I be a contender? Still as long as I’ve got something worthwhile to say As long as there’s blood still pumping through my veins Then it’s in my own hands, it’s never too late Maybe I can still be a contender Maybe I can still be a contender
Balance 04:31
We’re here to take the temperature of this divided nation Please contradict each other, that’s much better for our ratings If you’re in a mixed-race marriage or a card-carrying racist Call in, we’ll bring you balance Let’s speak to Trotsky on Line One, calling for a revolution Oh Tommy Tommy on Line Two, who says “just line ‘em up and shoot ‘em” Before the news and sport, Mick wants to bring back executions We’re here, it’s clear, for balance Our enemy is too much peace and quiet, So how loud can you be? So long as we are not accused of bias or partiality If a politician’s caught naked in front of little kids Someone will call to say “well, that was fine back in the Seventies” Like gymnasts on Olympic beams or a funambulist We thrive, survive, on balance A dinosaur expert is here to debate today’s big issue With evidence of fossils and a T-Rex’s soft tissue So we’ve found an angry creationist who can give us his view Call in, we bring you balance Text or tweet or ring in with your unverified stats All we want is your opinion, who cares about the facts? Peaceniks want to ban videos that teach us to make bombs But we don’t want you to think that there’s a moral right or wrong So our next guest’s in a suicide vest, oh everyone be calm, It’s clear he’s here for balance Everyone’s a pundit, In a hostile atmosphere All reason is redundant, nuance is so last year There’s a parent on the air who says her child has been taken Talking to a man who once kept a whole family in his basement Please hold, your fury will be heard we thank you for your patience We’re here to take the temperature of this divided nation Like an ice rink attendant helping toddlers with their skating One of our greatest talents Is being here for balance
Clothes pegs are clipping two bed sheets together And underneath is every duvet we can spare Sofa cushions, yoga mat, shut the door, keep out the cats In case they jump on blankets tied to the armchair In our den we can pretend nothing can harm us Tory policy or a sub-atomic blast We’ve turned off the wireless feed, got all the comics that we’ll need And we hope our cardboard box front door holds fast Out there it could be doomsday, But time keeps ticking on And I’m pretty sure it’s Tuesday, but I could be wrong If forensics took our t-shirts Then they could tell what we ate this week Sweet popcorn, cheesy crisps, some orange juice and the best bit Those tiny cereals you get kids for a treat We could rejoin the world but don’t intend to In this fortress we hope we are never found But batteries are getting low on the Nintendo And the roof looks architecturally unsound In here it’s a slow news day, But time keeps ticking on And I’m pretty sure it’s Tuesday, but I could be wrong I’m pretty sure it’s Tuesday, but I could be wrong And you say it’s like being abroad On a holiday we can afford And we’re not stuck in traffic in the car But you wish that you had tightened Up the laws on luxury items ‘Cos you’re sick and tired of me playing guitar Six months in and there are some things that we’re missing New text alerts, that old endorphin rush We try to tell the time from church bells in the distance And I wish we’d got some soap and a toothbrush Oh this must be what it’s like out in the Arctic If an igloo was made out of pegs and sheets I mostly miss seeing my warm breath in the darkness And the sound of my own footsteps on the street But I can’t hear a word you say, Because I never pick up the phone And I’m pretty sure it’s Tuesday, but I could be wrong I’m pretty sure it’s Tuesday, but I could be wrong
Weltschmerz 04:27
If the people in this café could see my thoughts In much the same way that you can see when someone’s typing online Maybe they’d put down their flapjacks for a time And if I could see inside their minds a while, before that sigh becomes a smile, before the mask slips, maybe, maybe we’d be fine These things we delete and throw away. They’re the truthful things. And what we’re left with here today Is this weltschmerz, as the Germans say. This weltschmerz that won’t go away. I try to bury all the thoughts of the polar ice caps shrinking All the oil-polluted water we’re all probably drinking Drown the thought that my kids will be forced to fix this mess Phone-in calls are engaged in a row about creation Newspaper reports enrage a much-divided nation So I decide staying quiet is for the best But these things we delete, discard and throw away. They’re the truthful things And what we’re left we here today is this weltschmerz As the Germans say. this weltschmerz that won’t go away And I’m not fine, you’re not fine, don’t tell anyone That I’m not fine, you’re not fine, once more round the sun And I’m thinking of a Christmas at the summit of the city Taking photographs of London, god it never looked so pretty And somewhere on that undeveloped film is what’s inside my head Balloon rides and ferris wheels, the fog of breath in winter Blue beanie on your head and the scarf around your shoulders Those pictures, if we print them, could never live up to that And this world might never turn out how I thought it would at 18 But through tinny café speakers I hear the sound of Springsteen Thunder Road trying to break through clink of spoon on china And that restless inner voice that’s a constant reminder That magic can occur in the most unlikely places Sit back and take hold, as Mary’s dress keeps waving ‘Cos when I think about this planet, I can’t help but adore it But reality won’t tally with the hope that I have for it As the sun goes down, on another day There’s a coffee stain, on another empty page And this weltschmerz, as the Germans say. This weltschmerz that won’t go away
De Helling 05:00
Some nights are just too perfect There’s too much light, too much life And you, all yellow cardigan Dungarees and Converse Mouth upturned in repose Small Heineken in hand Surrounded by strangers in this foreign land And you, my doppelgänger brother Black v-neck and swept hair And your moth-eaten scarf And I barely know you But I know that We are lost and don’t want to be found Tonight Lights drop House music fades out First chords Have To Explode And I think that I could die here If I’m not already gone T-shirts at the merch stand But I’ll wear this forever like a tattoo on my hand And you, eyes closed and barely breathing Everyone keeping time on our side And you, beer raised up to the heavens Purple Converse tapping Just so bloody happy I barely know you But I know that We are lost and don’t want to be found


The eagerly awaited follow up to Echo Bridge finds Gavin and his trusty Comment Section augmented by an all-star cast of musicians performing ten beautifully observed and melodically sumptuous new songs to make you laugh, cry and and shout with righteous indignation.


released April 22, 2022

Recorded, mixed and produced by Nick Parker.


all rights reserved


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