Hope London - Aim Low - Alex Main

Music fans, aficionados, the real deal, are an open hearted breed.

We, because I include myself as one, barely give any consideration to what is in fashion, who is bothering the charts, or who is being groomed by the music business as the next superstar. We rarely care if a song that catches our attention was released ten minutes ago or a decade a go.

All that matters to us is the music.

We fundamentally understand that we have to be attuned to everything, and we fervently try not to miss a beat as who knows if that singular snare drum snap, or piano key being struck, could lead to another and then another and ultimately introduce us to an artists, or artists, who will fill our heads with wonder.

And because we lay ourselves bare to all the sounds passing us by we are frequently swayed by glimpses of magic.

And this is how I came across Hope London.

A serendipitous meeting in a tent during the Eden festival of 2015 where we exchanged a few pleasantries led me to seeing her again in 2016, but this time rather than as an attendee she was there as a performer on the Wee Tim’rous stage in Rabbies Tavern where I discovered her running through a set of songs that sounded as if they were influenced by my own desert island disc choices.

To say that I was impressed doesn’t really come close to describing how I felt.

Enthralled, beguiled.

They both come closer to capturing the impact, but still fall short of being descriptive enough to explain how the songs fitted like long lost jigsaw pieces to the musical terrain of my life.

And now, here and now, with the music and words of her album Aim Low pouring out of the speakers I again feel that connection.

There’s some Amanda Palmer, some Tom Waits, Kafka is name checked, there’s jazz, torch songs being touched on, there’s the New Orleans barfly communing with the New York bartender at 3 am.

There are the ghosts of beat poets, the ring stain of a Bukowski memory, and Warhol is nodding his head to John Cale tapping out a cadence that reminds him of the Welsh hills as Lou heats up a spoon in a corner of the loft, and all of this and more, so much more, is encapsulated in the songs that make up the album.

I don’t even know where you could get a copy.

I bought it from Hopes husband and it was slipped out of a bag and into my hand with the money doing the reverse journey in a manner of a dime bag dealer in the Bronx.
However it’s a release that deserves to be listened to.

So fly my pretties, fly.

Go forth and seek it out.