london live

release 4 november 2014
producer AIMUA EGHOBAMIEN
co-producers JEROME DAVIES and STEVE ORCHARD
executive producer DAVID QUINTAVALLE
QML002
℗ & © 2014 QUAESITOR MUSIC

sounds




tracks

01 benediction (live)
02 on the surface (live)
03 patches / enough (live)
04 coffee shop window (live)
05 wayfaring stranger (live)
06 same girl (live)
07 you gotta move (live)
08 there is a balm in gilead (live)
09 pearls (live)
10 indigo / slate of the atlantic (live)
11 loving you (live)

album description

The album showcases a number of Eghobamien’s own compositions that realise the full synthesis of his musical roots. “Slate Of The Atlantic”, simple and stately, looks back to the work song, the blues style of “You Gotta Move” and the traditional spiritual style of “There Is A Balm In Gilead” (both also covered on the album). It builds in intensity with West African drums and with strings in a style one might associate with the Highlands or bluegrass. “Coffee Shop Window” capitalises on the complexity of an off-rhythm bass line and anxious strings to transform a sweet lyric of life’s possibilities into a more edgy and modern composition. “On The Surface”, with a catchy melody and bittersweet lyric, just soars in the perfect fusion of Eghobamien’s ear and heart. For the first time, Eghobamien’s poetry complements his music to create an innovative performance aesthetic. The poem, “Indigo”, precedes and sets the mood for “Slate Of The Atlantic” and “patches” is used to prepare the narrative for the song, “Enough”. This song builds relentlessly from the poem adding a steady, mantra-like bass groove to climax with the existential lament, “I cannot go back home/I am not even here, anymore”, then fades away again.

lyrics

ẹdo
ghẹ ghi m’ohan
vuọn n’oghọghọ
rhunmwunda mẹ n’osa ọre n’ọ yaaẹn okọ
vbe n’ọ rhirhi gha ye hẹẹ
I gha gu’okọ ọghuẹ s’ufomwẹn

english
whatever storms may come your way
I will anchor you till they pass by

ẹdo lyrics SAMUEL E OGBONMWAN
© 2008 poured gently music—bmi

another day is come; another day is gone
another night will darken without you in my arms
the surface of things seems nice for a while
the telephone will ring, but your voice won’t sing

forgetting how to love behind our bedroom door
our conversation shaded by the threat of distance
the surface of things won’t hold anymore
they crumble beneath dreams—the weight of this song

waiting and dreaming and fighting then leaving
in the middle of the war
waiting and dreaming and fighting then leaving
in the middle of the war

the keys you left behind; the record of our life
pretending that the whole world is at war just for us
the surface of things that keep us apart
are lies we tell our friends that we now believe

waiting and dreaming and fighting then leaving
in the middle of the war
waiting and dreaming and fighting then leaving
in the middle of the war
waiting and dreaming and fighting then leaving
in the middle of the war
waiting and dreaming and fighting then leaving
in the middle of the war

waiting and dreaming and fighting then leaving

© 2012 poured gently music—bmi

poem
what I remember of you quickly fades
the hem of a sundress
half the insignia on a platinum cufflink
the beginning of a gasp
the end of an avenue on a day
when sunset refuses and colours the sky
endlessly with our history

glimpses of us on endless cobblestones
halt at the beginning
of a street we might have lived on—
I think

I claw at shreds of synced footsteps in the park
now in a strange rhythm
I don’t hear the music we dance to

song
I’m not strong enough without you
I’m not nearly as brave or wise
the toll I pay is expensive
my currency isn’t worth much

dreaming of the way it used to be
the floor no longer befriends my feet
I cannot go back home
I am not even here

I’m not strong enough without you
I’m not nearly as brave or wise
the toll I pay is expensive
my currency isn’t worth much

dreaming of the way it used to be
the floor no longer befriends my feet
I cannot go back home
I am not even here

it’s not enough that the scent of you lingers awhile
never enough, not enough, not enough, not enough
waking from slumber attempting to run for a mile
it’s not enough, not enough, not enough, not enough

placing myself in a crowded room filled with delight
it’s not enough, not enough, not enough, not enough
silently lotused and humming; not stating my plight
never enough, not enough, not enough, not enough

dreaming of the way it used to be
the floor no longer befriends my feet
I cannot go back home
I am not even here—anymore

© 2012 poured gently music—bmi

I fell in love with the girl
in the coffee shop window
she doesn’t look up
she doesn’t dance with me

years from now we’ll be married
with three little ones, two boys and a girl
I fell in love with the girl
in the coffee shop window

I fell in love with the boy
in the coffee shop window
he pays attention
he glances up at me

spaces ahead showing promise
of birthdays and wine, scholars at a cocktail
I fell in love with the boy
in the coffee shop window

standing here in front my life
catching glimpses of my choices
was it right or wrong to hold you
will you walk with me till the end

I fell in love with your love
in the coffee shop window
newspapers, music
sweet smelling coffee brewing

standing here in front my life
catching glimpses of my choices
was it right or wrong to hold you
will you walk with me till the end

I fell in love with your love
in the coffee shop window

© 2012 poured gently music—bmi

poem
I could hear the silence of the full moon that night
casting shadows on the glassy slate of the Atlantic.
I could see the hand strokes on drums of my people being
led from the land my soul is from as they swelled out in threes—
father, son, spirit; stripes
of glistening indigo between fetters that rippled
their moans and sighs; free to their rhythms; gyrations creating
melodies to memorise.

(The sea drifts low to sleep with each nocturne wave.)

I drift awake in dream of unfettered chains.  Shivering erect
against the concrete that resound my torturer’s keys.
I am shocked to submission.  Submitting to shock I look up
through louvres to fractions of the night indigo sky,
the moon calls to me to join my brothers—join
my sisters.
My escape—to awake—I decline.

(A young child losing innocence—unaware
—fully grown at dawn tending wounds.)

My first taste of my blood—my first time.
I’ll return tomorrow and the day after until
I recognise the familiar face that dominates my dream,
until I can tap the dance like my brothers and sisters
before me—that secret passage.  So I can
finally burst at the unimaginable
indigo heights with
the moon as my captain; rhythm my chart.

My brothers and sisters in threes still call out to me—
their chain links their blood to mine.

song
the slate of the Atlantic
reflects our story
the indigo skins of
my brothers and sisters
unfettered in chains bind us
one to another
we dance and we skate on the
slate of the atlantic

the journeys we’ve taken
for centuries mark us
as nomads who dream of
a home not forgotten
where red earth and blue skies paint
stories unwritten
and full moon is still on the
slate of the atlantic

the slate of the Atlantic
reflects our story
the indigo skins of
my brothers and sisters
unfettered in chains bind us
one to another
we dance and we skate on the
slate of the atlantic

© 2012 poured gently music—bmi