“The songs on Some Waking Woman come up like ragged wildflowers in the unnameable heel of wasteland between the end house of the terrace and the already-dated concrete and plastic of the new business park. Too much? The songs come up from the hot gap between the weird dissociative dreamscape and the phone-alarm of a slate Tuesday morningtime. They look out from the record with a gaze that’s lost between doe-eyed affection and a murky voyeurism. They’re made of a music caught between the battered nylon-string and a layered orchestration turning between lush and gritty.

It’s between the pottery and the calcified dogshit; between the filthy rebels and the eerie loyalists; between the probable cause of an action not quite either the Frenchman’s crime of passion or the English barfight. It’s a record of between-ness – like, this is just between us, right? It’s the same gap between the ballad and the mumbled apology, the love song and the exasperated sigh. My trousers have been pulled down in the playground again. Tsk. I love you and all of love turns out to be a colossal shitshow. Tsk.

Some Waking Woman isn’t an anthem nor an elegy, although it has moments of both. It isn’t quite in the gutter, but it’s sure as hell not looking at the stars – the album has its gaze locked on the almost-clean livingroom carpet, or the overgrown tarmac country-road corner, or the PVC windowframes slowly colouring-in with dawn. In the hands of O. D. Davey, the ordinary surfaces of a life like the one everyone actually has are made to glimmer weirdly with the inevitable love, loss and resignation underneath them. The comedy underneath it all. The album’s intimate, and the recording even more so: we hear the creak in Davey’s voice, the sound of his tongue moving in his mouth, the air dragged into his lungs. It’s like being inside his head.

These are touching, intricate ballads with melodies of nursery-rhyme sweetness, but as reimagined by a failed nineties gameshow host, humming his old theme-tunes as he staggers back home pissed after closing time. But they’re songs of love, for all that; his daughters haven’t called in months. The sense is that these narrators have more love than they know what to do with; move love than they can trust themselves to handle; more love than they can believe in. Davey handles the flaws and imperfections and fractures of day-to-day living; finds the gap and digs in. This is an attention paid to the agonising and lovely awkward corners of life that don’t get talked about. This is a record as in an LP, but a record too in the sense of a setting down of something true.”

- Joey Connolly, 2017

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Some Waking Woman is also a series of films by the artists Graw Bockler, available to watch in full via the youtube link in the bio. Here's a little more about that film series:

Some Waking Woman: Super-8 reels by Graw Böckler & songs by O.D. Davey

The following Super-8 reels are unedited so that their contingencies and mistakes remain. Each reel has one theme and lasts approximately two minutes and twenty-two seconds, as all super-8 reels are bound to. Each song therefore lasts the same when bound to its reel.

There’s a feeling you can get when you’re living the story projected in front of you and the movie reel ends and the screen burns white; it can be like when a dream ends and it’s never convenient.

Although each reel and each song has a story of its own, they play together something like a memory of one another; like one haunting the other the way present and past can; the way sadness and happiness can; the way the lives of others, which time and space can no longer hide, can haunt one’s own and yours theirs.

Each of these reels is presented with the album-length lyrics of the O.D. Davey song that they accompany, in the order in which they appear on Davey’s album Some Waking Woman. Graw Böckler and O.D Davey chose each reel together, looking for something intuitive that bound the image and song to tell a new story, be that something sentiment, comedy, fantasy, mystery.



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