Listening to Lists is something I’ve rarely experienced with art, not something I’ve not felt before, but something rare. I can tell you I felt the same thing when I saw Mulholland drive or heard nude by Radiohead, it was something that was somehow tailored not just for me, but for the moment around me. Something I’d understood innately and something which was somehow mutually soul bearing. And all of it came from a man who resembles a hip Kris Boyd.

To do this music justice, and the thought at the base of this ramble – I ought to explain that I’m personally connected to the man behind the moniker (– as he is to me and my nomme de guerre Mr Hummels (Snr when overseas)). But please, don’t let that diminish any glowing word, rather, allow me to introduce something special to you. And, this is special. What you should take away from this little tale is not the tale itself, but music; joyous and deeply-intimate music.

To meet Lists in a grubby kitchen was a rare pleasure, like a spare portion of nachos only larger and much more sarcastic. One of the underlying reasons anyone works in catering in creative settings is to be spotted from across a dimly lit bar and be proclaimed the next James Dean. This is indisputable. The other benefit is the interest in the passing creative traffic, be it film, theatre, art or music. Ironically, it is also here one finds the true artists, the cripplingly shy but brilliant, the washed-up failures and the other worldly. In actuality I suppose I worked in these places to meet these people, though admittedly it took me a while to realize it. (I have been described as a Rebel without a Cause on multiple occasions.) Irritation and awe at those who fronted our bars with confidence, products and unending pomp cemented my place- either at the end of, or behind a bar. Any previous notion of my own creative flourishing, of being part of a lauded creative epoch and celebrated through the ages had all but slipped away and been replaced by a somewhat bitter and lost individual when I met Lists. Until, one particularly slow and dire open mic was graced with a moment of surprise which glimmered like a goal in an Edinburgh derby.

There is an anecdote here, which I’m sure I’ll perfect over the years; about how, with customary sarcasm through a kitchen hatch, he’d told me he’d play in the open mic and about how I’d served the pitiful crowd and returned to joke only to see kitchen lights go off, how I’d stopped in my tracks as I saw him walking to the stage with a guitar case. How I’d watched him nervously unclasp the guitar case, find a seat and adjust the microphone as I’d cleared away nachos which were paid for by Creative Scotland. His fingers picked intricately through an intro and he faltered and mumbled an apology. Suddenly I’d understood his nervousness and I felt the blood rush to my face for him, he’d only really been a good acquaintance then but I predicted something painful. An empty open mic, the mistakes, the judgmental bar staff eating cold, free nachos. He began again and made it through the intro and as he began to sing, time stood still. I’d almost dropped a glass, like they do in films, except mainly because I was inept. The juxtaposition of his  frame and character I’d known against the earnest singing voice I could hear was a moment which I’d remember for some time. And also an anecdote which I’d need to polish up.

Now, you don’t know Lists, and you likely don’t work in a terrible bar however that should not be a factor in your listening to his music. This was a personal experience. Since, Lists and I developed a friendship on the opposite and correct side of the bar. We drifted in and out of contact but somehow – through the miracle of social media remained friends. In the successive year, a strange year in my own life (documented in places below), he sent me the demo for his first single, Autumn, and I understood that this wasn’t a flash in the pan. (Pardon the pun). The substance of his composition was as good as the nervous energy of the solitary falsetto in a bleak open mic. The arrangements on his singles since have shown a maturity and a knowledge of craft which you can’t possibly expect from someone who used to mess up burger orders on the reg. (That is a joke, Lists is one of the best chefs I’ve ever seen wear the off-whites.) As he sits proudly on 2 million Spotify listens, I figure now is as good a time as any to claim that I indeed liked him before he was cool, before his inevitable and deserving fame. Lists is lucky in some respects, he is creating wonderful creations in a time where we can be spread out across the globe and connect. Our friendship is lucky in the same respect. Ironically, his online presence is minimal and this is further testament to his music and its artfulness, in an age where the twitter, facebook, youtube and spotify demand an ‘identity’ or rather a brand. Lists has connected on purely, true aesthetic level. To put this in perspective, his song ‘Haven Lea’ has been listened to more times than Paul MCCartney and Wings sold physical copies of “Mull of Kintyre”.

Mull of Kintyre, by Wings, B’God!

As you may have read (you won’t have, I have 2 regular visitors), I’ve occasionally weighed up the questions of myth, rock stars, social media, creativity etc. before. So, I should stress this moment of inspiration, on a slow Tuesday night was a reason to believe in creativity again. While we may not have the luxury of an artistic blank slate as I’ve often lamented, of being able to live in some utopic dingy neighborhood like creatives apparently once did. It is out there. The purist creative visions do exist, and they do succeed. (If that is even reason to pursue creativity – another question for another day.)

In many ways we also have something those people of our imaginative yesteryear didn’t have. We have a place where we can be together without judgement, where we can live out all of our wildest creations, a place where the cream rises to the top. Perhaps this new space may give us reason to work in theatre and cinema bars again (other than the tasty living wage and free tickets). Or reason to take notice of each other (and hang on to the coat tails of talented friends). In each song Lists does this (except the coattails), intimately telling you things about yourself you already knew but couldn’t voice, things which shouldn’t get ignored. Music which is capable of registering with a moment in time. This is the type of music which allows us to create our own myth, or at least feel satisfied with an anecdote. The more I hear, the more I believe. Even though we live our lives in an ever more cynical, disparate and cyber ways, it is there, true aesthetics, it just seems to lurk. Unsurprisingly it lurks everywhere it did before, but also here online. Lists music moves from strength to strength; intelligent and sensitive and I look forward to EP 2. Perhaps my Greenwich village is out there somewhere, strung out on cyber smack.

20 years from now –

I could have played for the Hibs. Did I ever tell you that I’ve shared a bar with Lists?

Fuckin’ terrible Chef, eh.

Mr Hummels

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