Rob Chalklen had let go the steeltrap precision of the old Martin dreadnought to return to the softer wood and honeyed sweetness of a big old Gibson, whilst in the US tour Parks found a vintage Gibson archtop with voodoo wiring that replaces the old honey fuzz of the Danelectro with pure golden syrup. Parks is wallowing! Shit it's sweeeet. They're so sweet. The Yearlings just changed gear. I wonder who their new songs will be? Can't wait.
And I must reiterate: I reckon Rob's as good as rhythm guitarists get anywhere on Earth. She plays like a geological epoch. Masterly. Not even going near that haunting voice. Which only haunts when we need haunting. Love youse.
Like Pike, I found my camera devoid of other images of the following revelry. So forgive my simply posting the lad in his teens:
Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold.
Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin.
They dance on the surface among the flies.
Over a bed of emerald, silhouette
Of submarine delicacy and horror.
A hundred feet long in their world.
Gloom of their stillness:
Logged on last year’s black leaves, watching upwards.
Or hung in an amber cavern of weeds
Not to be changed at this date:
A life subdued to its instrument;
The gills kneading quietly, and the pectorals.
Jungled in weed: three inches, four,
And four and a half: fed fry to them-
Suddenly there were two. Finally one
And indeed they spare nobody.
Two, six pounds each, over two feet long
High and dry and dead in the willow-herb-
The outside eye stared: as a vice locks-
The same iron in this eye
Though its film shrank in death.
Whose lilies and muscular tench
Had outlasted every visible stone
Of the monastery that planted them-
It was as deep as England. It held
Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old
That past nightfall I dared not cast
With the hair frozen on my head
For what might move, for what eye might move.
The still splashes on the dark pond,
Frail on my ear against the dream
Darkness beneath night’s darkness had freed,
That rose slowly toward me, watching.