So, why did it take so long?
It was years and years ago, a late October, and the air froze. Five of us squeezed into Essy’s mini and drove south. We rolled down the windows to let out the sweet smoke, freezing but laughing. Arriving, the pier was barren and the beach bare. But inside was steaming. For the sound swept us away in a swirling sea of arms and legs. And right then it had me and would not let go. The love supreme.
For what felt like forever, me and my pal Dave, who, like me, loved Stan & Ollie, Smokey Robinson, and Subway Sect, slept in each other’s pockets; staying up nights at his girlfriend’s house on the hill; pouring homespun speed poems and scatter-gun rhymes from our pens, dreams in sync. Wrapped in the bullet-proof armour of fearless youth. In a frantic rush to make every second count. The world might turn its nose up, but what did we care?
Enter Harriet. Our Scarlet Rivera. And, pretty soon we had 50 or more soul tunes, deep folk truths boiled in her paraffin flat in the deep midwinter. Tipping a hat to the greats: Holly, Piaf, Robeson. Determinedly out of time, bang in tune. And we bagged ‘Balloon’ because it sounded like nothing but felt like it one day might mean something. For a year or more we rolled our circus jazz around London’s smoke-filled cellars, chasing the ghosts of Dylan and Drake: a pretend blind man with a tambourine, a gypsy fiddler, and the acoustic Tom Verlaine. Then later full-on Basement Tapes with Tom and Mark, and rolling piano waves – Mick Bolton, sweet soul dreamer, gone too soon. And we sent word to anyone we thought might care or may listen. Most didn’t. Until one day, one did.
So, we hooked Basher from Dexys, and a deal was done. And Michael said: “I know just the place to make this happen”, and off we flew to weave folk-soul tapestries beneath the Spanish moss and the cross of Marie Laveau, voodoo queen of New Orleans. Angel Hearts, spooked by Jimmy and John. Frighten to Death and the Tightrope Walker. Sarah and Pierre, Darryl and Ronald, Mark and Freddie. Willy de Ville, Little Richard, and Fats; The Harley-Davidson Orchestra of America.
And then off in search of those in love or in heartbreak, alive to the cadence of simple songs; twice tripping around the mythic States. Up beat minstrels in a low art van; coffee houses and student dives, Graceland and Motown, Beale Street and Nashville; singing hard for our suppers at barbecues and diners; with Jimmy the Pink and Spider. And once more, this time with Sarah, to thousands who loved her and a few who, along the way, smiled our way too.
We learned fast, so when Bill called we were on it. The cosmic comic sprinkled his loving encouragement generously. His neck on the block, his balls on the line, his blood on the tracks. And while not many sensed it among his raucous midnight choir, those that did were the precious few. Which brings us here, and to this.
Time blurs and bends, and back then Balloon was a question mark rather than an exclamation point; a corner not a straight line; the what if before what is. But blessed are those who keep the faith. For as the mighty Max Garrett said: “Everything that ever happens, never really stops happening.”
Gas ‘n’ Air is the new LP from Balloon. Recorded in Mexico City, it appears more than 30 years after ‘Gravity’, Balloon’s critically acclaimed debut.
