I remember first seeing this album cover at a record store in Toronto and thinking "what on earth is this?" And then hearing it and realizing the intensity of that enigmatic portrait is everywhere in the music, songs that call out to something inside you that you realize has been long neglected, a fire that's in danger of going out if you don't take a clear look in the mirror and revive yourself with music, poetry, and truth. I stumble on Bill Fay's music when it seems I need it most — a burned CD on the shelf, a reference in an interview, a cover by a popular musician that instantly sends me back to the source instead. "All my time is lying on the factory floor," he sings. I've never worked in a factory, but I know exactly how he feels.
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