An homage to the favourite bands of my childhood - late-70s, early 80s guitar-driven power-pop. The Cars, Vapors, Undertones, Buzzcocks, Police, Boomtown Rats, Knack, Beat, plus more than a dash of the ever-topical Beatles’ “And Your Bird Can Sing”. I first owned Revolver in 1978 and in my young mind it fit seamlessly with the charts of the day.
At the point of my last release, the daily Spotify new-song-count was estimated at 60,000. The latest has risen to 100,000. Per. Day.
Even if two-thirds of those are still “archive tracks” (sooner or later, they’ll all be released?) my jolly little bittersweet love song will emerge unnoticed by anyone, no matter what efforts I make, save for the handful of glorious and enlightened humans who have chosen to “follow” me.
Hence, this time around, my many lessons learned, I am questioning every move I now make in relation to anything that can be considered as “promotion”. Virtually anything I do, save those things that give me personal satisfaction (e.g. writing a blog, creating a little video to go with the tune, telling my 20 friends on Twitter), is an utter waste of time; perhaps time I could spend feeling genuine fulfilment, for example, by beginning a new song, or weeding my lawn.
So if you’re a radio station who played the last one, or a blogger or journalist who wrote about it, expect an email. The other 2,000 on my mailing list, those who used to play my albums back in the era of CDs, but who now don’t even reply to me, I will now happily ignore, safe in the knowledge that anything else would be a waste of electrons and my oh-so-finite heartbeats.
