I grew up a mile from the seashore. On one of those Atlantic coasts. When in the summertime the day went on forever. When sometimes the air was liquid but never languid.

From July until the end of August I feel like an animal, with the migratory call sirening me back to the sea. Not on the beach, but by the sea.

I’ve never read a book that captures it properly. But occasionally songs get close.

Songs like Brian Eno’s “By This River“. I remember trying to write bad impressionistic poetry along these lines back in 1977 when this came out.

Here we are
Stuck by this river,
You and I
Underneath a sky that’s ever falling down, down, down
Ever falling down.

Through the day
As if on an ocean
Waiting here,
Always failing to remember why we came, came, came:
I wonder why we came.

The Beach House also puts me in that saltwind-stripped hut that shelters me from the sun and sand. Some things do last a long time.

But it’s not people-less. Except that the people are less formed than the rest of the time. More blurry. Perhaps they’re drunk, joining in a Midnight Feast with James Yorkston. This is woozy, Celtic music, from the edge of the world.