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Closure

by Maria Quinn

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  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    Beautifully packaged in 4 panel digifile with artwork by Elly Lucas and photography by Colin Templeton

    Includes unlimited streaming of Closure via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    ships out within 2 days

      £10 GBP or more 

     

  • Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    Purchasable with gift card

      £8 GBP  or more

     

1.
In this tiny painted room Everything is large All these things are clamouring To be the one in charge The thing that matters most of all Wins the accolade Lap of honour round the room Breather in the shade From these tiny painted walls Choose your point of view All these angles know their place Everything is true Pages give at the edges to the Thumb that flips the corner, and the Words appear and disappear and the Eye melts over the moment when the Night is bleak and heavy with trouble A blade of grass outside is easing Through the earth and twisting forth And silent into the day What are fingers for, if not for Searching, counting playing Snap and Holding onto something, for Holding onto something? What are Fingers for, if not for searching, Counting, playing Snap and Holding onto something till you’re Good to let it go? Heads a swithering, tails considering Swaying in the wind And tilting like italics into a Future that you never know Time is out of order Days are folded like a fan and you're Holding onto something till you’re Good to let it go In this tiny painted room Everything is large All these things are clamouring To be the one in charge
2.
North 02:55
North I was born facing north Appeared with the morning dew Summer retreating Innocence fleeting If ever a north were true North Where the light is sparse The sun has other things to do A photograph Through broken glass Is all I have of you North Fading like anger Bearings remotely askew The landscape takes A different shape I wonder if it knew I wonder if it knew
3.
Malcolm brings the milk and never makes a sound Malcolm brings the milk every morning, never makes a sound He’s a good man in his overalls, his goodness is renowned Malcolm buys a round, the diamond in The Crown Malcolm buys a round every lunchtime, diamond in The Crown He’s a good man in the public house, a good man round the town Malcolm’s home for supper, with nothing left to say Malcolm’s home for supper every suppertime, nothing left to say To his wife and his daughter waiting, watching, wondering what kind of day... Malcolm’s out till closing, pint of bitter from the spout Malcolm’s out till closing every evening, bitter from the spout He’s a good man, that’s a given, ‘til the bitter has run out Malcolm brings the milk
4.
She was music, was painting Was story, was verse Was deep conversation Was mother, was nurse His name on the door plate, Engraved with her own I knew Josephine He was not, she was home From summer to summer With space in between To grow a year older I witnessed a scene Unfolding like fiction We don’t intervene In matters domestic I knew Josephine The guards in their quarter Must surely have heard her Their three-cornered hats And their flags, their inertia The neighbours were fearful They stood at the door They knew Josephine Was it worse than before? From summer to summer... It was just the one street That the story has passed He sits on his doorstep Misfortunes amassed By his own careless hand He is widowed and shameless I knew Josephine She was blameless From summer to summer…
5.
Pillow Talk 02:15
He's on my left I'm on his right Propped up with pillows Symmetry His phone in both hands Landscape and scrolling The TV is lit And the movie keeps rolling I remember my faults I turn in to face him I say thank you He says thank you too We pause and we treasure This moment we're holding The TV is lit And the movie keeps rolling
6.
Dwelling 02:54
Shoes have been walking the rain A troubadour wandering, wondering, wild Looking for answers, asking the child Dwelling Salt creeping over the toes Dwelling Dwelling Town changing shape in the rain The sea doesn't even come close any more I’ve no reasons left to return to this shore Dwelling Time folding back upon time Dwelling Dwelling House growing old in the rain The touch of a banister waiting On spindles diminishing, tracing the shape of a Dwelling My fingers recall themselves into a fist Dwelling Dwelling
7.
At Beekeeper’s Corner just down from my house Is a gap where the beekeeper’s house used to be I always remember the bees when I pass But today, it’s mostly the gap that I see Cos gaps are neglected and misunderstood They shift in the shadows, through cracks in the stones And when we’re not looking they alter their shape Between things that matter and others that don’t We’re highly suspicious of gaps when they form So we fill them with houses, then up on the walls We hang pictures of landscapes so open and free And repeat, until there are no gaps to see And repeat, until there are no gaps at all And the beekeeper offers some ghostly advice That the gaps are a gift in this world full of stuff But the bees at the corner just down from my house Know that everything - everything isn’t enough
8.
Inside this coat she’s a morning full of promise Bright as any jewel, honest as a tune Beneath this weighted mantle she’s alive, she’s untangled Even whispers can be heard and there is no need to try Deep within these seams she finds all the words she’s looking for She can see where she is going and there is no need to try The kindest coat she’s ever worn, a warm embrace, a simple smile In these soft and tender hollows she belongs And only in the darkness of the lining of the pockets Where she sometimes finds her naked hands relaxing into fists There may be threads of doubt Misunderstandings Just like everywhere There may be doubt And her fingers and their thumb work together at the buttons All of a sudden she’s electric and there is no need to try Within these woven sleeves she’s a sky full of feathers She’s the sparrow, she’s the jackdaw, all the starlings and the swan
9.
Hinges Torn 03:57
Torn off hinges yielding rust Vacant keyhole, naked dust Weathered panels, scratches, scuffs Fading round an absent hook Knotted timber, severed latch Sunlight spilling from the gap Deep devotions, carved desires Unrequited, long expired Aching joints, jaded verse Interrupted, aged, cursed Bearing scars from cigarettes Could it even feel regret? Thinking goes against the grain; Would it be a tree again? Faded varnish, injured, worn Creaking silent, hinges torn
10.
The Gate 03:44
At the bottom of the valley Where the road begins to climb Leave the engine turning By the farm’s dividing line Drawn across the gravel To keep the creatures safe The opening, the holding And the closing of the gate The latch, a crooked finger On a chain, its next-of-kin They are old and worn and heavy They are smooth against the skin An eye fixed to the gatepost Just one hill away from home Chamomile and bluebell In cahoots between the stones A pause in conversation A simple, solemn wait For the opening, the holding … And the closing of the gate My fragile hope, I dare to trust That it will know which way to go, I swear to God, this is the closest thing to Praying that I know On the knife-edge of the hilltop Cattle graze across the sky The gate creeps back across the yard Hinges breathe a sigh A pause in conversation A simple, solemn wait For the opening, the holding And the closing of the gate A pause in contemplation A simple, solemn faith In the opening, the holding … And the closing of the gate
11.
There are so many tunes that I wanted to play for you So many things that I wanted to say to you So many words but they couldn't be heard So many tunes that I wanted to play for you There are so many loaves that I wanted to bake with you So many days that I wanted to break with you So many words but they couldn’t be heard So many tunes that I wanted to play for you There are so many boxes I wanted to tick with you So many bones that I wanted to pick with you So many words but they couldn’t be heard So many tunes that I wanted to play for you
12.
I can see a blade of grass I can see a single blade of grass With a line of dewdrops holding under the winter sun I can sense a restless breeze I can sense a restless shivering breeze As it blows the eye to the edge of the cold, inanimate plash I can hear a heron call I can hear a heron's solitary call As she waits on a distant rock untroubled by all she sees We're under a barren tree We're under a barren sycamore tree With an ancient wound from a broken branch that was lost to the squall We will gather some scraps of wood We will gather some trampled scraps of wood And we'll carry them home for tomorrow's kindling they will be And whenever our work is done Whenever this work is finally done We will riddle the embers knowing what we have is good

about

These songs draw from memories and experiences from early childhood to the present and often shift in focus between different perspectives; a dark, hidden world on one hand and the side which people see on the other. There are songs which feature doors, a gate, a fist, a coat; all things which open and close.

Woven throughout this album you will also hear moments of hope and joy. The Gate is a simple meditation on the opening, holding and closing of a farm gate. The album’s closing number, Tomorrow’s Kindling is a celebration of gratitude and contentment.

For lyrics and song information visit mariaquinn.com.

credits

released June 9, 2023

All songs written by Maria Quinn except 10 by Maria Quinn / Mike Rawlins
Recorded by Angus Lyon at Gran's House Studio, Biggar and at home
Piano on 8 and string quartet (3, 5, 8, 9, 11) recorded by Keir Long at GloWorm Studio, Glasgow
Bass and percussion recorded by Euan Burton and Louis Abbott at GloWorm Studio, Glasgow
Gustaf Ljunggren's contributions recorded at A Small World Studio, Copenhagen
Piano on 1 and all other instruments recorded by Maria Quinn at home
String quartet arrangements by Maria Quinn (3, 5, 9) and Seonaid Aitken (8, 11)
Mixed and mastered by Chris Waite at Gran's House Studio
Produced by Boo Hewerdine

Maria Quinn - Piano / Vocals / Keys
Chris Bradley - Trumpet (1)
Ross Donaldson - French Horn (1)
Gustaf Ljunggren - Mandolin / Keys (1), Flute / Clarinet / Bass Clarinet / Tenor Sax (2), Banjo (4)
Louis Abbott - Percussion (1, 7, 12)
Euan Burton - Bass (1, 3, 7, 12)
Seonaid Aitken - Violin (3, 5, 8, 9, 11)
Katrina Lee - Violin (3, 5, 8, 9, 11)
Patsy Reid - Viola (3, 5, 8, 9, 11)
Alice Allen - Cello (3, 5, 8, 9, 11)
Joanne Donaldson - Clarinet (4, 12)
Louise Black - Flute (6, 10)
Lesley Woodbrooks - Violin (7)

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Maria Quinn Glasgow, UK

“The songs and arrangements are beautiful, like little jewelled boxes“ ~Findlay Napier

“challenges our perspectives about modern music and draws us in to some fascinating story telling“ ~Norrie Hunter

"A record that fizzes with invention" ~Boo Hewerdine

Inspired by jazz/ folk/classical music, and artists such as Joni Mitchell and Randy Newman
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