Dreamweavers Dept.

Why we looked to musicians for spiritual guidance back in the late sixties is not so much of a mystery. Drugs, of course. Aldous Huxley's door was smashed to splinters by anyone who scored a tab. Pop and rock musicians, who tend to have inflated egos already, bragged about how their egos had been destroyed - they'd become prophets, seers and sages, and Tin Pan Alley was now Xanadu. Rock lyrics were full of references to the shining progress of the seeker after cosmic truth. Concerns of the heart were seen as childish - the mind is what mattered.

The idea of pop singer as mystic adept with a message from beyond might be ridiculous, and much of the message was cliché at best, meaningless at worst, but there is something there that's worth recognising through the trappings; the recognition of wonder in the mundane. Something beautiful, beyond words. Which is where the trouble lies when you start to write about it, or worse - sing.

Here's a couple of dreamweavers, in all their naiveté [naivety - Ed.]. Bob Ray was half of Thorinshield, whose album is not as successful as this. Marc Brierley gave up music in '73, emerging for a lone gig in 2017.

Music to be listened to by candlelight.