The Gare Du Nord record label, despite its name, is a small island of Englishness. With a set of artists on its roster like Papernut Cambridge and Joss Cope who document the particular quirks and idiosyncrasies that make this place what it is for better and worse.
And as if to drive the point home, here is the eponymous debut album from Cold Spells, a music trio based in the Essex hinterlands of London. Four years in the making and clearly a labour of love. Utterly English in its vision, I was reminded of Robert Wyatt and Kevin Ayers particularly, and it speaks of the understated but quiet ambition that has stoked so many great records from here over the years.
Full of the chatter of birdsong and the rustle of nature of parks and gardens, Cold Spells is a comforting listen like, made for the days when you tire of the stupidity of this place and long for retreat into meditative trance and a reminder of the things you still love about it. A place where 'the ducklings cannot comfort me' and 'nettles make the sweetest tea.' Cold Spells, (how fitting that they take their name from description of the weather), have made a record that won't be heard by many but will be gratefully appreciated by a few.
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