Nancy Kerr

It Was Red

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“Well I’ve seen fires that split the summer 
Seen forests burning to rise again 
Sent from the sky to land asunder 
Your songs are turning tears to cooling rain 

I heard their rhythm, it was in the thunder 
It was heard at midnight and through the day 
Your catechism, my eyes of wonder 
That once had seen you could never look away 

You are the tune no one expected 
Unsung and unpredicted 
Like a dream in the night ahead 
I thought the moon 
It just reflected our silver light 
But when it rose up it was red 

No priest or templar ever told the future 
And if they could perhaps we’d never fall in love 
Well I’ll repent if you’re the preacher 
For your songs of gold and the moon above 

You are the tune no one expected 
Unsung and unpredicted 
Like a dream in the night ahead 
I thought the moon 
It just reflected our silver light 
But when it rose up it was red

As red as blood, as black as carrion 
Our muse is scattered on battered wings 
Bruised and bolder, the muse is older now 
And still she sings 

I’ve heard them say blood-moon’s arising 
And this could be the end of all joys 
Well I can face that far horizon 
If the final chorus is in your voice ” 

‘It Was Red’ by Nancy Kerr

Watch a live version of it recorded in 2014 here, including the felted roses and Sweet Visitor Bunting I made for the tour.

 

The air as I’d walked home from the tram after work last night was fresh and crisp, the moon amazingly full.  I’d called Granddad and my brother for a catch up and then spoken to some friends.  The heating in my house is temperamental at best, but had been refusing to engage at all, so I’d spent my evening under some of the many blankets I’ve made over the last 5 years, working on two new ones.  I thought I’d chance the thermostat before retreating to my duvet with a hot chocolate and, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, it worked.  Upon a recommendation from a friend, I put on the Bros documentary and watched it in a state of disbelief – it’s still on iPlayer if you have the opportunity, I just don’t have the suitable words to describe it just yet – slowly becoming enveloped in the warmth of both my bed and the drifting heat from the under-worked radiator.

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The kindness of strangers – now is the time

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In the last few years I’ve had help and support from a number of different people.  My younger* brother, Richard, and his girlfriend, Liz, let me live in their attic when I came back from Tanzania.  My sister, Alex, and her family let me live with them for a few weeks when I came back from travelling.  My poor niece was put out of her room and I don’t think she complained.  Well, if she did then they didn’t tell me and she’s so ridiculously cute she’d get away with it. I’m very grateful to them for helping me out when my world was slowly disintegrating and we had all lost a father.

When I was in Fiji, with about £30 left to my name I was really panicking. I think I knew I was a bit depressed again, I was annoyed with myself because I didn’t have enough to get across America and was having to face the fact that I was going to have to go back early.  I really couldn’t face going to live back in Northamptonshire.

Now I want to clarify, my home town is lovely place.  It’s relatively small, it’s got good schools, it’s a short walk to the countryside.  It’s pretty safe to bring up a family in, but for me it’s suffocating.  I can’t be there at this stage of my life, and actually, I don’t know if I can ever go back permanently.  When I’ve been back to my old school to talk to the 6th form I ask them to put their hands up if they want to stay there for all their lives.  I then ask who thinks that their soul would be sapped away, second by second, if they stayed there forever.  I’ll let you guess which option is voted for the most often.  Obviously it’s a bit of a joke, but I feel trapped there, partially by my own inability to drive.

So sitting by the beach in Fiji last May I was talking to my friend Ruby about how I could manage to move to Sheffield in my self-imposed impoverished state. She suggested contacting musicians to see if they happened to need a house sitter or babysitter over the summer.  Which is how I messaged Nancy Kerr and James Fagan and ended up living in their attic for 6 months or so. (Or, as their infinitely wise eldest son said ‘You live in the whole house, not just in the attic!)**

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Na na na nanana naaaaa, nana na na, hey Jude!

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Fourteen years ago I picked up my GCSE results, walked back down the hill from the top site hall to my house, picked up my bag, piled into a car and was driven, by Mum, to Towersey Village Festival.  

 

I didn’t know that I would be attending 12 of the following 14 years’ festivals, nor that I would remain camping with the same kind people who feed me and give me a chair to sit in and a gazebo to be sheltered by.  I didn’t know that people from that festival would inspire me to study their music at university or trust me to be involved in the behind the scenes workings.

Happy Birthday Towersey

Happy Birthday Towersey

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So lay away your livery, forsake and cut them down

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I moved up to Sheffield carrying with me one large suitcase of general stuff, my travelling backpack, my tent, ready for Towersey Festival, and a big Ikea blue bag filled with things to make stuff from.  When thinking about what I’d need to move to a new city with, I packed clothes, a few items for the start of school, and I knew that travelling up on a train would be a pain, but I couldn’t bear to leave behind my felt, embroidery threads, needles, bits of ribbon and other odds and ends for making bits and pieces.

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