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Real Home

by Kiran Leonard

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  • Real Home LP
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  • Real Home CD
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1.
Eyes forward, forward step. The temptation divides to spite itself. “Oh, where I go, actuation rules. Vacate the room. Your signs are grieving.” I saw, through a great whirlwind, unknown stations laid still as time was shaking. “Oh, will I know agitations bloomed, raised true? A light without envy—” “How, when faced with demons and foulness?” I see it now! In cities robbed of their wreaths, grasping at outlines of accelerating imagery, proceed, take action, and protect your reverie. Pass between houses; reject expectant history. “Alone, I strive. I have no brothers. Anticipation defines our fight for life—“ Lies! We cease loping forward; as you stand, you are. I see it now! I see it frame the Real, arising: You say, you will, arising. Say you ‘will’, and the ‘will’ is right! Say what you will, or our lives run aground. You say, you will: it’s so good! Say what you will, or our lives run aground. You say, you will, and the will is right. Say “you will.” I say: “Alright!”
2.
Streetlights survey the room. His ashes circulate the parquet, spill like wine. Go long, go on. The vectors wind. ** In houses at night, where the theatre comes in, through singing kitchens where our stakes in the world are reclaimed, in with bad academics, slouched at the window there, there where I kissed you and the tin-foil melted, stuck to the beams, our hair was rushes there, where the rushing felt like home. And in our rushing, are seeds propelled as the jerking and the yelling of the sad casinos intensifies? Are our lives going missing in a dust cloud out there? ** Where? So close. Our lines leapt and bound like smoke. ** It happened innocently when you offered your hand— searchlight cast across wreckage for stillness, —wishing for a settlement some miles from the stage. New theatre for change: love song with roots renovated to wrap around arms. That night was a terror: outsourced, in the waiting room! “As peace expired, clung to my side, I saw vile doctors shout ‘CRIMINAL’, (certified by knives) and the short one said ‘HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM’, while drifting away, and in his wisdom, turned pagan to soil in the spinning heat—“
3.
Real Home 03:21
Real independence is what? We lie out, like sleeping z’s; like swans. Real fevers are in orbit: the real engines go forever on. How do, real alleluia? To home through the fog. A dell of respite. A walk in the park? Smell of inside. Damned if I don’t aspire to wild boasts that police our strange lives; I cross and wind to you. Smell of inside. A vault through the night?
4.
The message, though simple, is hanging on the line I don’t know why And the clouds smoke the sky And you treat me a stranger And I can’t go on The sun has gone And I miss you I’m half-dead And I can’t make the bed And you treat me a stranger And I can’t go on So I tried to write you this message
5.
As the working day decays, and the city-song starts to bleat, won't you take your turn, return upon the heath? It has no images, or signs. A home, a range, all peace-like, to aerate your brains. It doesn't change. As peat soils drink carbon up from the wild country air all at once, in silence, will their vastness save us all from our history, kept once and for all from its tide? Caught outside! Will a hook, that I free, cast off galleon, catch on the deep behind the deep? On the past foaming underground; on the last crimes of the paramount that made up our lives? Utopia of bog: if you could just whisper, then I would run straight into your arms. I'm terrified! To have withstood these ordeals... To press the vapours underfoot, to mask the trial of having withstood; would it be alright, reborn like a parallel of God? Will a hook, that I seek, set our hearts by some new device without wrongs? Will a hook? Will a hook replace this darkness with something alive? Will a hook, direct as a child, cry out? (As if words were invented to be drowned by marsh then rectified)
6.
7.
When you say things I can’t express When thought does a runner, and I get distressed My love, let’s take the stage tonight There’s fear in the heart that the taking dispels My heart longs to bring you news of something else Beyond the mirror, it’s a chaos: we’ve got to brace ourselves, but outside, we’ll see a half-moon smile It seems by love my life is rectified It seems by love my life does right Answering you Just like we were meeting again On the curb with our heads spent On the stairs of a basement At a crossroads in Europe In a lake with your hair up Always the first time One deepening encounter We don’t have to yawn, withdraw when it gets dark Leave the rubbish, leave the dishes and let the sink block The night’s young, but still it’ll take too long We don’t have to trudge on, left, right— You know I used to be hostile, and I felt so alone But you shook me, you said: “Don’t be foolish! You can’t hide— no don’t you moan— just stay at my side! Just look at that sky tonight!” The moon made wishbone trails on the water You said: “Do you have the time?”, and time multiplied We said: “Let’s stay awhile— it feels right”, but pulling at the breach, with wild wind hair were our futures impressing on the world, impressing on the world, impressing on the world, impressing on the world— If we could see it take The shape of our image The shape of our image
8.
The Kiss 09:46
I like to boast with you waltzing around. “Can’t you see those fictional listeners? Do you hear me?” Out corralling ghosts, the brushfires pace through the fog. But feeling you trace my hips, it dawns on me I am a stranger to my senses, to my sight. No work-around: this is the arrow, this is the flight. But what names can I give that don’t conceal their course like crimes? No work-around; no imitation life. The chorus falls backward; the put-ons expire— The record isn’t real. But so what? Just to say that I like that. Wonderful. So much I have lost to a great noise. ** Out of the writhing, westbound evening, exhumed, exhumed idol of meaning, engraved, caught on a gesture made just for you. Bold as a shop-steward, I took your arm and we made our exit (we were headed for the coast), but were then separated, not fifty yards from our posts. In a maelstrom, I fell, or melted. Outside was windswept. Red foxes hovered. Clave of thorns; fanfare of lawns. I held your image like a lantern, side-on and dimming. Fences rattled like phantoms. Phantom hour, where the dead run amok and so I reached out looking for you, and then a voice said: "YOU CAN'T COME IN. NO NORTH, NO COURSE." And I reached out for a second time, and the voice said: "YOU CAN'T COME IN. NO NORTH, NO COURSE." And I reached out for a third time, and the voice said: "YOU CAN'T COME IN. NO NORTH, NO COURSE." And I reached out for a last time, and the voice said — nothing, as if revealing some promise, we begin to see ourselves, begin to see ourselves... (I like that…) ** A kiss, a kiss. Fountain of memory brings words to you, my coastline, my parallel. “You were selfish. Cast nets to catch on simple things you could have simply touched. Performance vessel. Oh, love of mine, is our love a vessel? To dress with sails, to drive? The flowers throw your veils down; still they thrive.” Far on, far out, the flower is singing, unheld, far on, far out, the silence is singing, like stone, far out, the silence is singing, unheld — far out — like stone — a kiss — our lives — unheld — far out —
9.
Outstanding home where the decades sat proud, as flat as Bibles. I put trust in our pictures, so we didn’t have to speak. You know, I harboured true affection. No poems; you were warm soil, you were steeples and domes. The rest, kept encased in our system. I played my bit part. And when He took you, and the stillness ignited— life companions— we split like a stone. Spilt colours from unborn summers, when I thought that I knew you, when the world seemed much wiser. Double vision: the living room splits, and I see something withheld, something wild — I stand swaying, my tethers undone. Oh, my selfish quiet, my proud silence. For you, only now do words come at your window, hidden in oils, I’ve run aground. At your window— it is not something— it is not reversible. Selfish peace, undoing. So come back now; hidden in oils, I’ve run aground. At your window, hidden in oils, I’m full of life. So come back now, there are two homes now; home for you, so come back, come back, for one last take

about

‘Real Home’ is the new album by the Manchester-born, London-based artist Kiran Leonard. His sixth album proper (not including innumerable tour-only CD-Rs and short-run cassettes), since his precocious debut in 2013, ‘Real Home’ finds Leonard invigorated by inspiration and experience, making passionate, literate, and mercurial music that explores displacement, love, memory, climate change, connections to home and more.

Encompassing songs recorded after moving to South London, ‘Real Home’ reflects on ideas of belonging and domesticity through folkloric, stream-of-consciousness songwriting. Across nine tracks, Leonard traces lived impressions of the household and the city, expressing sentiments of dislocation, alienation and stasis, but contentment too.

Infusing the avant-rock effervescence, terraced dynamics and visionary lyricism of his music with what he defines as a greater sense of openness, Leonard is as versatile, fervent and imaginative as ever on ‘Real Home’, yet his music is somehow more intimate, affecting, and acutely expressive. Shaped by dual considerations of simplicity and formalism, ‘Real Home’ is by turns beautiful, allusive, and ruminative, an album on which Leonard considers what his songs have resembled in the past and what they mean now.

In recent years, Leonard has crafted eloquent chamber music inspired by the likes of James Joyce and Clarice Lispector (‘Derevaun Seraun’), responded to contemporary politics and communication breakdown in the digital age (‘Western Culture’), and compiled solo works and ensemble recordings for a longform ode to Jonas Mekas and to one of Leonard’s enduring themes; home (‘Trespass On Foot’).

On ‘Real Home’, Leonard reiterates this abiding thematic focus yet ascends to new, different heights, in music of cathartic delicacy and dissonance where all the myriad dimensions of his work to date seem to crystallize.

There are sinuous songs about struggle and defying the pace of city life through drift and diversion (‘Pass Between Houses’), stirring songs of intense feeling and crescendo, described as a form of speculative detective fiction (‘Theatre for Change’). There are touching solo piano ballads (the title track), symbolic contentions with carbon capture and climate change (‘Utopia of Bog’), modes of experimental minimalism (‘Void Attentive’), and other profuse feats of compositional range, embroidered with wild tendrils of narrative and lyrical depth. A record to pore over, and get lost in.

Exemplifying the vast aesthetic scope of Leonard’s music, lead single ‘My Love, Let’s Take The Stage Tonight’ is inspired by country lodestar Hank Williams, Russian poetry and a late period love poem by William Carlos Williams. Yet for Leonard, the song signals a sense of accessible materiality, and is the product of a more linear approach to writing songs:
“My imitation of the great Hank Williams, in spirit if not in substance…This is one of the best efforts on Real Home at a song-as-object. Looking at it now I realise I was trying to write a song that made itself known as a song to the listener, and I wonder whether that’s crucial if you want a song to transcend its context. And that this is either accomplished through a total openness – by being inviting, by laying the tricks of the song out plain to see, as Williams and his many ghostwriters did so well – or by adopting a knowing aloofness, positioning oneself against the listener but letting it be known that that’s what it’s doing. In this song I try both, but mostly the former: as in, I wanted to write a song where every line follows on from the next.”

Imbuing the endlessly elaborate and inventive qualities of his music with a newfound streak of candid, clear-cut melodicism, Leonard has reached a special place in his artistry, on a record that feels familial, and expresses closeness. Assembled with affiliates including Lauren Auder, Otto Willberg, Jasper Llewellyn (caroline), Tom Hardwick-Allan (Shovel Dance Collective), Magda McLean (caroline, The Umlauts), Alex Mckenzie (caroline, Shovel Dance Collective), Isabelle Thorn (Dear Laika) & more, the recording process had a significant influence on the subject matter of ‘Real Home’, in sessions defined by close-knit camaraderie and artistic eccentricity:

“The theme of the home obviously recurs throughout the record; the album was mostly recorded in domestic spaces with friends, and the name of the album is Real Home. I like the qualifier ‘real’, like you’re getting past the cloak of the word and towards the thing-itself…[also] nearly all the percussion in this record was recorded on items from my dad’s shed (jam jars, sandpaper, blocks of wood, etc). Real home record!”

‘Real Home’, like anything by Kiran Leonard, is a record of dazzling multiplicity. Yet it’s a companionable prospect with a central premise; a collection of songs where listeners old and new can find a home. An album led by a scene; of Leonard standing at the threshold, ready to welcome you inside.

credits

released April 17, 2024

Matilda Agace – voice (1); electronic percussion (4)
Lauren Auder – voice (1, 8)
Maelin Brown – voice (4); ppooooll (5)
Oliver Hamilton – violin (1, 6-8)
Tom Hardwick-Allan – bass harmonica (1, 8); trombone (8)
Jasper Llewellyn – cello (1); voice (8)
Ted Mair – clarinet (1, 2, 8)
Magdalena McLean – voice (2, 8); violin (6-8)
Alex McKenzie – voice (1, 8)
Margo Munro Kerr – voice (4, 7)
Nathan Pigott – soprano saxophone (1, 2, 8)
Isabelle Thorn – voice (1, 5, 8)
Otto Willberg – double bass (3, 6, 8)


All songs written by John Kiran Leonard
Published by Mute Song Ltd
Mix, master and additional production by Maelin Brown
Tin sculpture and back cover photograph by Matilda Agace
Sleeve design by Joseph Bradley-Hill and Hannah Machover

Memorials of Distinction Records
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