In 2010, Moira had moved to Ireland with me, leaving so much behind and facing into the great unknown. As we were settling in, she often stayed up long after I had gone to bed, working through her thoughts and feelings, about our future and about her past. She would sit in our tiny apartment, in the middle of a recession-sick Dublin City, singing these tiny, improvised and truly raw, fragile pieces into her laptop, whilst the world moved, fought and danced outside.

I was aware of one or two of these, as she had sent them to me at the time, with my typical response being, ‘these sound good, but you should work on them some more!’, much to her irritation. When she passed in 2016, I thought of these recordings again, and I went looking for them. What I then found was a folder within a folder on her computer, that led to the discovery of nearly 100 recordings, that I did not know existed.

Initially, it was completely overwhelming as I began to wade through the recordings, picking out the pieces that spoke to me, in some way or another. I felt an urgency to do something with these voice recordings both as a way to honour Moira and her largely unseen and unheard body of work, and also as a way to hack through the dense field of grief. I also felt at the same time, that I had been given a gift. I am not a singer n’or a lyricist, so I valued these words hugely.

With two dozen or so songs, snippets and scraps collected, I began to add accompaniment to her voice, playing as though she was in the room with me, singing these songs, embracing her completely improvised, honest and pure spirit. Her voice is unchanged. Her timing and pitch is strange at times. I know that she wasn’t setting out to write ‘songs’, but the freedom of expression in her thoughts and emotions was incredibly musical. It is quite strange now to listen to the pieces in their original raw form, with no musical accompaniment, but in a way, I feel like what I played, is what she was hearing. There was also a strong sense in these recordings, alongside much of her writing, that she knew they would be set free at some point. They were seeds sewn, to slowly grow. Setting them free was a deeply cathartic experience.

This collection is called, ‘Do You See The Wild Coming Your Way?’, a question that Moira asked me during a very early email exchange between us. What seemed a whimsical comment at the time, now has a much greater weight and I think the title fits so well.

Looking back on this album as I get ready to release it on vinyl in late 2019, I hear something really interesting in her words and voice. Again, whilst she was improvising and allowing vulnerability to flow, and not writing ‘songs’, I can feel a sense of inspiration from certain musicians and writers that she loved, particularly those who wrote about darkness and existential absurdity, whether the world’s or their own, such as Jason Molina or David Berman.

Some of these songs are about me, I guess, but I want to turn her sentiment outward, making it more universal. This is why I added the ramshackle choir to, ‘Kind and Handsome’ for example. I considered including lyrics for the songs too, but ultimately, I want people to hear them as they hear them and interpret them as they wish, though it is hard not to be overwhelmed in certain moments, at how profound or apt some of the words have now become, in particular the last line of the album, which gives me goosebumps every time I hear it.

I could probably compile a second volume of these recordings, but in truth a lot of the other work is possibly too raw, too personal. I might revisit it at a later point.

There is one piece which I could not fit on the record, that exists online in digital versions. It is called, ‘Jeez Loueez’. It is Moira at her most raw. It is hard to listen to, but I think important to hear. She is baring all. I think she longed for everyone to hear her say those words, that ultimately she reflected and focused on in her work.

I could not have done this without certain incredible works that come from the experience of grief, in particular, the unique, ‘A Crow Looked At Me’ by one of my favourite artists, Phil Elverum. His collection of songs was hugely important for me. It released the spectre of grief to a certain degree and his work enabled me to cry deeply and openly and from that came a profound perspective and uplift. Similarly, Nick Cave And The Bad Seed’s record, ‘The Skeleton Tree’, was a moving, intense experience to see live. And again, a uniquely uplifting feeling came from that album. In some ways, this album forms a triptych with those two recordsings, at least for me.

I am so proud that it exists. I can’t imagine it not existing. I will forever feel sadness that we found it difficult to collaborate in her lifetime. I wish she could hear this. I think she would really love it. I know she would. I love it. This is her record, not mine. When a group of friends met to listen to the album on her birthday last year, I fully realised the value in sharing in this experience and the solace in a collective grief. When I sat in a room with a few hundred people in Brooklyn, watching Phil Elverum perform his songs about real death, people wept openly, for their own grief, for his grief, or for reasons unknown. It was a powerful moment, heavy in a way I can’t describe. The next day I felt a lightness, an awareness and a peace that I also can not describe.

I know this is a difficult thing to listen to, but I want to share that feeling.

I thank you sincerely for listening, for singing along.

Gareth

August 2019