Behold a rather splendid little film from friends Brian Sweeney and Kenneth Mackenzie of clothing label 6876 infamy after joining some Harris Tweed dots for the latter’s ongoing Black Project and collab with NYC’s C’H’C’M brand. Looking forward to much more hands-on stuff like this with strangely like-minded souls in 2015++
“As part of the Black project Arco jacket release with C’H’C’M & Harris Tweed we decided to shoot a film in Glasgow with Brian Sweeney who has worked with the brand for many years.
Brian was also instrumental in introducing Mike Donald from https://thecroft.wordpress.com/ and in turn Mark Hogarth from Harris Tweed to Six Eight Seven Six.
These connections were formative in our understanding that we as a label could work with such a traditional supplier and that we could create a unique garment that still felt like a 6876 item.
New York & Glasgow: Two cities built on a grid system,both with a stand alone uniqueness and to this day when i visit Glasgow it always strikes me as a city yearning to the west and beyond.”
This is Eleanor Nicolson, she is 14 years of age and attends the local secondary school, The Nicolson Institute, here on the island.
She also sings songs and plays guitar rather damn nicely.
Here she is playing an original song of hers live.
Maybe they’ll rename the school when she’s rich and famous…
A new video from the new album of music by Lewis singer-song writer Iain Morrison.
Homeward is the first release from the forthcoming album ‘To the Horizon, Sir’.
It is available as a free download HERE
Weirdly, I’d penned a very short story a couple of years ago, having never seen this video, but now after watching it seems to tie up a little spookily…
He rose from his old armchair, in his family croft, sat on the shores of an expanse of sand, perched at the edge of the Atlantic.
Draining his glass, he slipped off his unknotted boots and thick woolen socks and pulled his navy geansaidh over his head. The jumper’s neck rasping at his own, tugging at his ears as it did when he was a young boy.
Stood barefoot outside his door he let his toes curl in the grass and faced the wan yellow sun which was slipping beyond the western horizon. Lazy evening clegs buzzing fore and aft, like four stroke engines far over the hill. As he walked away from his red door, ewes and lambs scattered over the rock strewn headland. He felt the dry heather now roughly caressing his soles and the mosses soaked like bathroom sponges, washed his steps.
Nestled between ridges, hunkered against the prevailings, the empty blackhouses stood. Walking through the mantle-less doorway, nettle beds held their sting as he reached down to pick up a great block of stone that once made up a wall. The roof and beams were long gone leaving him ringed in lichen rock, ragged tattoos of silvers and bronze.
Walking, stooped, across maram grass, whipping lightly in the evening breeze their in-curled leaves bowed at him, sphagnum gave way to machair. Clovers and dogweed kissed his path as his heavy steps led him to the beach where, like stars in the universe, below him they flowed countlessly.
The sands were hidden from everyone but the sea and in the rocks at its edge flotsam and jetsam stored up from voyages unknown lay. A long faded plastic box, marked STO NO AY COOPE ATI E, held a blue rope, plastic and faded and frayed.
Setting the stone down he sat once again and set about coiling the rope into embracing knots. His small fingers spun hitches and cloves from straight lines, unforgotten intricacies bound the block and kneeling now, the gniess tight in its sea-beaten grip, he looped the remaining rope around his neck, crossing it over his chest and tied tight at his back.
Taking the strain he rose to his feet and walked to the waves breaking on the secret shore. Razor clams rose beyond the waterline and the limpets and mussels clung to the nearby rocks opened wide while his footprints led to darker sands and seafoam.
Cold brine raced around his ankles hugging them as he walked on, knee deep now, up to his waist, the sea carried his weight, held him upwards, refused to chill his bones.
The waves of Uig broke across his breast and he strode firmly now, forward into deeper water.
His grey eyes lifted towards Hiort as the sky erupted into golds and burnt ambers. Water face-slaps him one last time, stinging his thoughts away one last time
Dropping his burden, rock that preserved generations, he was pulled down. Remembering, he released everything to the roar of tides and time. Arms raised, feet still grounded in sands, he breathed in.
Catrin Evans is a 15 year old singer songwriter who lives on Grimsay a small tidal island in the Uists.
Apart from that I don’t know much else except that at 15 she shows a lot of potential, showing shades of Laura Marling, and should be another one to watch from this remote part of the world.
Wee Studio is a recording studio/booking agent/record label based in Stornoway here in the Isle of Lewis.
They have a neat YouTube channel that houses all their goings on including live sessions from local musicians.
Check them out.
Have really been neglecting island musical talent on here recently, something I intend to rectify toot sweet.
Let’s start with Lewis singer songwriter Mr Colin Macleod aka The Boy Who Trapped The Sun who has some new music in the pipeline…
Colourful even on the greyest of days.
One Van (Halen) and his dog.