Thistles [Single]

by Jack Cookson

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Produced and performed by Jack Cookson, featuring...

Brogan Bowden - cajon
Calvin Thomas - backing vocals
(calvinthomas.bandcamp.com)

credits

released June 17, 2017

Mastered by James Trevascus at Invada Studios.
(www.invadastudios.com)

Cover shot by Ryan Sharpe.
(instagram.com/ryansharpedp/)

Design by John Primmer.
(instagram.com/primmstergram/)

This single was recorded in various makeshift studios across the South West of England. Thanks to everyone who gave brutal feedback on this song during its writing and recording processes - particularly Chris Webb, Pete Waterman, Nicky Walker, Ryan Sharpe, Zoe Alker, Sydney Christie, Calvin Thomas, Mum & Dad, and of course the FTI gang. You're all rad.

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Jack Cookson Plymouth, UK

2016 BBC Radio 2 Young Folk Award Nominee

Gigs:
www.bandsintown.com/JackCookson

Profile photo by Sorrel Price

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Track Name: Thistles [Full Band]
Well the morning is sore, the morning is exposed,
in the morning I awake with my pillow case stained red.

Next time I’ll just put myself in the washing machine,
for a contorted baptism at 30, maybe 40 degrees.


‘Cause after all I’m a citizen of Europe’s congestion capital,
but I can weave between those cars on my Diamond Back Sorrento.
When I left Plymouth I watched those hills slowly turn to plains,
as I crawled up the South West face of this island I call malaise.


I’ve been chewed up and spat out by a behemoth called Bristol.
Landed in a thicket somewhere far away,
and I’m still picking out thistles. Oh, I am still picking out thistles.

By the afternoon I’m feeling some sunny spells of calm
for I have walked my black dog into a fitful stirring slumber.
So we can go walk in that field we always thought would be nice to go walk in when we saw it from the window of a First Great Western train.

You’ve been chewed up and spat out by a behemoth called Bristol.
Next to me in a thicket somewhere far away,
and you’re still picking out thistles. Oh, I am still picking out thistles too.

So if nothing in this life moves us quite so much as music and misery,
lets marry the two by moonlight, and self-indulgently sing ourselves to sleep.

We’ve been chewed up and spat out by a behemoth called Bristol.
We landed in a thicket somewhere far away, and we’re still picking out thistles.