What's Left

by Matthew James Crutchlow

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about

Beautifully arranged acoustic folk-rock with a touch of Urdu gospel.

credits

released November 11, 2016

Matthew Crutchlow – acoustic and electric guitar, vocals
Andrew Holdsworth – piano, Hammond, synths, vibraphone, string and brass arrangements
Binzer Brennan – drums and percussion
Robbie Malone – bass, piano
Bill Shanley – electric guitar, tenor guitar, banjo

With:

Charlie Brown – violin (1, 4, 11, 12)
Tony Woollard – cello (1, 4, 11, 12)
Jacko Peake – flute (1, 8)
Deepti Bulsara – vocals (2)
Abi Omonua – backing vocals (2, 3, 9, 10, 11)
Johnnie Fiori – backing vocals (3, 4, 11)
Nigel Hitchcock – saxophone (4, 12)
Tom Walsh – cornet, flugelhorn (6)
Trevor Mires – euphonium, tenor and bass trombone, sousaphone (6)
Greg Miller – harmonica (9)

Produced by Andrew Holdsworth. Rhythm tracks recorded at The Cauldron Studio by Michael Manning, assisted by David Montuy. Additional recording at Cathy’s house and Tony’s house by Andrew Holdsworth. Mixed by Andrew Holdsworth at Method and Madness Studio and The Red Room. Mastered by Tony Lindgren at Fascination Street Studios.

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about

Matthew James Crutchlow London, UK

London songwriter and philanthropist.

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Track Name: Lidl Briton
Lidl Briton

No I never left home young,
Seems more like home left me.
Took a dad I never knew,
Left me and mum with not much glue to hold us tight.

She took to bed, the bills built up.
I pawned the telly, the washer, even the rabbit hutch.
I washed our clothes in the kitchen sink,
Still them at school say I stink.
At just 12 years old, life’s a soiled and heavy load.

And when she gets the demons in her head
And disappears for days I leave some dry toast by her bed,
To soak up the longing, to prove I’m still here.
Oh I know those demons come and go
And when she says she hates me I can make believe that it’s not so.
I’ll never fight with her though,
I’ve still got some glue, if she’d only come and hold me tight.

The council sent some men again.
I told the mother not to let them in.
I wear my clothes until they dry.
No one can say that I don’t try.
At just 12 years old, I feel tired, alone and cold.

And when she gets the demons in her head
And disappears for days I leave some dry toast by her bed,
To soak up the longing, to prove I’m still here.
Oh I know those demons come and go
And when she says she hates me I can make believe that it’s not so.
I’ll never fight with her though,
I’ve still got some glue, if she’d only come and hold me tight.
Track Name: (Another) Blue Monday
(Another) Blue Monday

An a.m. pint with a short of hope,
A bottle of black milk for a blue Monday.
Along the bar like rotten bunting
Hang gin-powered hags with offspring hunting
Fags for them and dear old dad.
They all agree the council’s mad
For letting so many of the buggers in.

Kicking dogshit through the leaves,
Finding love between your knees,
Trying anything to not let it fall apart.
What’s the salve this crushed heart needs?
Bury’s finest, if you please!
Strike up bold boys and don’t let it fall apart.

Call in sick again on Tuesday
And buy some crying wine from the end of the road.
Watch a film with Eddie Marsan
And that lass from Clocking Off and Playing the Field.
From the sofa to the pub
To take the edge off, and then the blade,
Keep yourself safe from the day.

Broken promises like thieves,
Nicking quavers leaving breves.
Trying everything to not let it fall apart.
What’s the salve this crushed heart needs?
Mr. Garvey, if you please!
Sing it loud and please don’t let it fall apart.

Take it easy flower – put yourself to bed before somebody gets hurt.
Track Name: Ashtray Crown
Ashtray Crown

No love just pain,
Frustration and self-blame.

Oh I know he’s up there,
The fag ends are falling like rain.
His laughter echoes like a cell door’s slam,
Like the end or the beginning of pain.

I’ve seen him ‘neath the golden arches,
Prison whites blazing away –
A bargain bucket Caesar
Stinking of Post Office aftershave

I’ve seen the bruises, it’s for you I feel –
A lassie so punch-drunk she don’t know where to reel.
Christ on a bike just can’t keep up with him
And what he’s doing to you, girl, is a mortal sin.

So he’s out on bail again
With his promises that don’t mean a thing.
Two weeks of bliss and then it’s back to this:
Bagging up the white and brown all day

I’ve seen his boys standing in line
To polish his ashtray crown.
The lad’s a fucking joke but, sadly,
You’re the only one who gets the punchline.

I’ve seen the bruises, it’s for you I feel –
A lassie so punch-drunk she don’t know where to reel.
Christ on a bike just can’t keep up with him
And what he’s doing to you, girl, is a mortal sin.
Track Name: Gone. Done. Wrong.
Gone. Done. Wrong.

Is this a break or are we all done?
Will you wait her while I’m gone?
Paid the price for an unmade bed
And you are gone, out of here, without a tear.

Khat men do nothing but chew
Under a blue moon tonight.
As their drool pools they stare through you.
Your horse done run. You gone done wrong.

Aching and cross desperate because
Something you can’t replace just got lost.

A fist or a wave to the even-favourite.
A kiss or a crave, all you’re left with is this song. So long.

As distant as the Maunsell forts,
It’s what you do with the sadness that counts.
Plant some seeds, grow emotional needs
And keep them well watered and warm.

Aching and cross desperate because
Something you can’t replace just got lost.
Track Name: Nobody Like You
Nobody Like You

You should be reaching for the stars, but you still can’t find your arse –
With both hands, then you do. There’s nobody like you.
Blunt instructions from sharp tongues have you scraping up the crumbs
To feed the birds on cue. There’s nobody like you.

When your heart’s as big as all of outdoors, it’s hard to keep it dry
And you’ve wrung it out so often, you’ve forgotten why you try.
You’re a 12-stone bag of salty water and each poke makes you cry.
Why you see blue, what you hold true: nobody knows what it feels like to be you.

You’ve been rattling the bars, opening old scars
And pushing every bruise. There’s nobody like you.
Now there’s nowhere left to hide, you’ve swallowed all your pride –
And many other bitters too. There’s nobody like you.

When your heart’s as big as all of outdoors, it’s hard to keep it dry
And you’ve wrung it out so often, you’ve forgotten why you try.
You’re a 12-stone bag of salty water and each poke makes you cry.
Why you see blue, what you hold true: nobody knows what it feels like to be you.

When it pumps so hard you can’t stop anx, no matter what try
And every call reminds you of the one you made as a manchild.
Always looking back, can’t see the good in what you do.
Nobody knows what it feels like to be you – think no one knows, well I do.
Track Name: InKD
INkD

I inked myself up in the big house’s smallest of rooms
While the counsellors filled out form after form full of fuck yous
And the social workers, nice as they were, they came and went too. Boo hoo.

All those dirty fingers, those grubby hands
Can’t wash off the feelings with bottles and cans.
The uncles, the parties, the presents, the bleeding –
I couldn’t stop it. Why didn’t they stop it?

All those dirty fingers, those grubby hands
Can’t wash off the feelings with bottles and cans.
This ink tells a story. Read this damage on me.

Can’t really blame the lads and lasses at the many, many failed interviews.
I can see it all too well in the mirror, I’ve got the wrong kind of tattoos
To be serving up craft brews, or even down Camden Market, knocking out cheap trews.

All the dirty fingers, the grubby hands
Can’t wash off the feelings with bottles and cans.
The uncles, the parties, the presents, the bleeding
I couldn’t stop it. Why didn’t someone stop it?

All the dirty fingers, the grubby hands
Can’t wash off the feelings with bottles and cans.
This ink tells a story. (My story.) Read this damage on me.
Track Name: It Ain't half Cold Mum
It Ain’t Half Cold Mum

Your face is creased like three-day old sheets.
Brow lined with canyons from longing too deep.
‘I don’t feel too alive, feel to alive,’ you say.

Chasing the distance and running too fast,
Belting so hard you’ve caught up with the past.
‘Is it mean to be me, mean to be me,’ you say.

Here, around the fire with beer,
No one can touch you and no one comes near
And then there, pushing through charred roots,
You’ll feel the sprouting of sturdy green shoots.
So I say, ‘Here’s to all that burns through the blues.’

Chops like a smacked arse from keeping the peace.
Your coupon’s been stamped while you wait for release.
‘I can’t see things too clear, see things too clear,’ you say.

Decisions, decisions, the wrong ones made quick.
Sorry my lad, looks like you’ve had your chips.
‘I can’t bear to be me, bear to be me,’ you say.

Here, around the fire with beer,
No one can touch you and no one comes near
And then there, pushing through charred roots,
You’ll feel the sprouting of sturdy green shoots.
So I say, ‘Here’s to all that burns through the blues.’
Track Name: Aidey Cooper's Theorem on Premium-rate Numbers
Aidey Cooper’s Theorem on Premium-rate Numbers

Some days you rise and then you fall,
Some days you never rise at all.
Can’t spare a second there for people who care,
You think you’re better on your own.
This inviolation tastes like soot.

Most days the duvet’s stiff with guilt,
Your pillow salty with your sleep-weep’s silt.
You list your interests as drinking, tears and porn,
Are you sure you’re better on your own?
Self-awareness itches your dirty crutch to…

Let you out and take another sup.
Belt it down you need another cup.
Shower under this fleeting…

Release – then step out and rub your wrinkled skin until it bleeds.
Release – no towel’s big enough to reach the bottom of those holes,
Holes that never close.
You’re old enough to know life can’t breathe without holes.

Each day’s a carbon of the last,
Words getting fainter ‘cos tomorrow is the past.
Same train, same book, same shift, same different underpants,
You only know one way to make the bad times last.
Muscle-memory itches your dirty crutch to…

Let you out and take another sup.
Belt it down boy you need another cup.
Shower under this fleeting…

Release – then step out and rub your wrinkled skin until it bleeds.
Release – no towel’s big enough to reach the bottom of those holes,
Holes that never close.
You’re old enough to know life can’t breathe without holes.
Track Name: Last-minute Winner
Last-minute Winner

Bolton’s top scorer, ’32-’33, scourge of slow defenders.
He sits alone and sips his tea, then the home help
Wheels him right, right up close to his TV screen…

…so he can hear one last cheer as the ‘keeper’s beaten near post.

And the young kin that visit him, dressed in Man U’s red and black,
Think Stanley Matthews farms turkeys.
Last of his kind, when he died, Football Focus showed the newsreel
Of his winning header, Cup Final ’29…

…so he can hear one last cheer as he beats the ‘keeper near post.

Now you, you can turn the light out
On his photographs, his medals and his memories.
You, you can turn the light out
As the referee blows full time.

Morton Betts, Arthur Kinnaird, Charles Mackarness, William Stafford, Charles Wollaston, William Lindsay, Arthur Kinnaird, Charles Clerke, Clopton Lloyd-Jones, Edwards Wynyard, Reginald Macaulay, Jimmy Costley, Jimmy Forest, Clive Jarvis, Jimmy Forest, Clive Jarvis

Can you hear one last cheer as the keeper’s beaten near post.
Track Name: Mother's Ruin
Mother’s Ruin

Creeping home at first light of morning,
Creeping home to sleep through the day.
Listening for the front door’s bang
And cracking my last can,
I can’t look him in the eye
‘Cos he’s the spitting image of his old man.

Creeping out at first glimpse of evening,
Creeping out to live night like day.
Listening for the school bell’s ring,
Chuck the dry toast in the bin,
Leave a fiver on the worktop
‘Cos he’s the sensibility of his old man.

Reaching out, reaching up, reaching through the longing, it’s so hard.
I wonder can he see his love is crippling me.

Creeping home at first light of morning,
Creeping home to sleep through the day.
Listening for the front door’s bang,
And cracking my last can,
I can’t look him in the eye
‘Cos he’s the spitting image of his old man.

Reaching out, reaching up, reaching through the longing, it’s so hard.
I wonder can he see his love is crippling me.