Featured Essay: A Valentine to John Grant's "GMF"

by Mark J. Wray

Long before my wife and I met, as far back as either of us could remember, music had been crucial to our lives. My wife remembers singing along to her parents’ Aretha records as a small child, whilst I, arguably less impressively, was enjoying the music of Status Quo and Erasure. We’d never been record collectors though, or even record owners. Our teenage years, when our love for music was at its most intense, were post-vinyl decline and pre-vinyl revival. The physical media we owned were cassettes, and then CDs. Many, many CDs. I had owned maybe three vinyl records in my life, a couple that had come free with issues of the NME and a 7” single of Hole’s cover of ‘Gold Dust Woman’ which I bought because they were my favourite band at the time, and I was an absolute completist, even though I had no means of playing it (it disappeared somewhere along the way, so I never did get to hear it on vinyl).

When we first lived together, it was in a shared house, and one of our housemates had a small second-hand record collection, mainly folk and singer-songwriters. When it came time for the housemates to go our separate ways, she no longer wished to lug it around. Rather than let it go to waste, my wife and I took it to our new home, a rented ex-council flat in a tower-block on the edges of Brighton, the first home just the two of us had shared. 

Neither of us owned a record player, so for months and months, these records sat there unloved, unlistened to. We wanted to get one, but times were tight. We had a wedding to pay for, and we lived in one of the UK’s more expensive cities, whilst  trying to study part-time as well as work. Eventually though, we bit the bullet and ordered a cheap all in one CD/record player, with in-built speakers. I have never been an audiophile, but even I recognised it sounded terrible. The vinyl wobbled alarmingly on the turntable whilst it played. It was not, perhaps, a wise investment, but it was something, and we made do. We also needed to start building a record collection of our own, but where to begin? Of all the music we had loved in our lives, of all the new records we wanted to hear, which should be the first? An answer, it turns out, had recently presented itself.

Rewind a few months and we were sat in the front row of the Brighton Dome, when John Grant walked on stage, sat down at the piano, and let forth his stunning voice. It may not have been love at first sight, but it was something close. We weren’t even there to see him, he was the support act for Efterklang (a good band in their own right, but one I have barely listened to or thought about since). I’m not sure I had even heard of him before, although he has one of those generic names that makes it hard to be sure. In any case, rarely have I been so glad to have been at a gig in time for the opening act. His voice had the power of a soul singer, but the vulnerability of a Daniel Johnston. It was unlike any I’ve heard before or since, and it felt like he was singing only for us. He played for only half an hour, maybe half a dozen songs, but it was half an hour I’ll never forget.

It was more than just the voice of course, because many an impressive voice is stymied by a lack of material. His songs were truly unique, and contained some of the best lyrics we had ever heard, heartfelt, self deprecating, and genuinely funny.

Half of the time I think I’m in some movie

I play the underdog of course

I wonder who’ll they’ll get to play me, maybe

They could dig up Richard Burton’s corpse

John Grant - GMF

It’s a cliche that something or other will make you laugh and make you cry, and whilst it may sometimes be true of books, or films, or TV shows, it’s rarely true of songs. A Weird Al Yankovic song probably isn’t going to make you cry, and Radiohead are unlikely to make you laugh (well maybe a little bit, sometimes, but not usually on purpose) But the songs of John Grant somehow manage both.

So, his album Pale Green Ghosts was our choice for our first vinyl purchase, the album that the songs he played that night came from. Our stereo didn’t do it justice, but it didn’t matter. The recorded versions of the songs brought new delights, with analog synths and strings perfectly complementing that voice, as well as backing vocals from the great Sinead O’Connor, including two of the standout tracks, “It Doesn’t Matter To Him" and “Glacier.” This record was so good. The songs sounded just as impressive through those shitty speakers as when they were being sung live just a few feet away. I do appreciate that audio quality matters, but truly great music can transcend it. When I was first listening to Nirvana, for example, it was on a well worn cassette in a budget tape player, but I couldn’t have loved the music any more had it been played through the world’s greatest hi-fi.

We played that John Grant record constantly over the next year or two, not just because it was so good, but because it was one of the few that was truly ours. We had both loved a lot of albums and artists in our time, but this was the first one we had fallen in love with together, and the first one where we had fallen in love not just with the music, but the record itself. 

We’re in a different place now, in every sense. In a different city, far from the sea, with children and responsibilities. We have a better record player, and a gradually expanding record collection, although with less free time to listen. The best music can always transport us though, and whenever we put on Pale Green Ghosts, or even glance it on our shelves, it takes us back to that place and time, that flat, that tower block, the sea air and the sounds of the seagulls. That record will always place us in that weird, brief period of time, post-marriage, pre-children when we were starting to build our lives together, that led to everything we have now.

You can find more writing by Mark J Wray at markjwray.com and @markjwray on BlueSky

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