Stephen Fretwell songs are gentle, like a mother brushing a fringe out of their child’s eyes. They emerge from the hum of silence, almost unexpectedly, and yet they compel you to listen in the same way sirens turn heads on the street.
And so begins Magpie, the debut album from a songwriter who weaves words into stories that he then sets to music, most often his guitar occasionally accompanied by keyboards or drums. He doesn’t need accoutrements with lyrics as accomplished as his, nor does he need to adorn those words with anything other than the simple musical vehicles he’s chosen. It’s vulnerability captured and held down, perhaps against its will.
The album starts with a slight faint hiss of static before a single piano key rings out. Then the guitar comes in. This is how Fretwell seems to begin many of his songs. Delicately. Without fanfare. But he is a supermassive blackhole of music, sucking in everything from you towards his songs and swallowing your emotions. And there seems to be no escape from it, which I find is just fine.
In 2004, when this album first came out, this kind of music wasn’t entirely in vogue. Stephen’s work sounds more like it would sit well in the 60’s. I bought an advance copy of the CD, probably in Reckless Records, Berwick Street or one of the many other records shops that lined this particular London street back then. I think they’d suggested it was a bit like Damian Rice. And in a way it is (singer songwriter) and in so many ways it’s not.
I don’t know if this album was recorded live, but it has that feel. As if the songs were pouring out of Stephen like sweat from a dancer. They had to come out and we were just lucky that someone was able to bottle them up and sell them back to us. Bad Bad You, Bad Bad Me is an example of this. It’s not that it sounds unvarnished and roughly hewn; on the contrary, it’s almost perfect, like every one of the dozen songs on the original release (later versions brought additional tracks and live or demo versions).
He was 23 when Magpie was released. A fact that belies the voice and the weight of the world that seems to hang on his shoulders. The north Lincolnshire accent, underscored with a hint of Mancunian, occasionally making itself known, almost apologetically. The simplicity of everything is what makes each track so complex, akin to the best meal you’ve ever had that was concocted from five ingredients and no one has ever been able to recreate. (Except Fretwell has, in his later albums.)
These are shiny gems. Perhaps, given the title of the album, this was how they are meant to be? Plucked from their hiding place and collected, guarded by their owner but proudly shown off, too.
Yes, there is melancholy drizzled across this album. Songs such as Lost Without You and What’s That You Say Little Girl sound like they’ve been marinating in some long forgotten grief that surfaces and breaches, reminding you that you’re a human, one of billions who is but a tiny speck in the grander universe. And yet… and yet it is so personal, so compact that it’s impossible to comprehend how Fretwell’s emotional gravity can have had such an impact on you.
While Run was the song that brought him to a wider audience, thanks to it being used as the theme tune to Gavin & Stacey, a UK sitcom that I never did watch, for me Emily was the big hit from the album. It showcases Stephen’s exceptional songwriting abilities well, and it probably got played during some scene in Cold Feet or whatever the big TV show of the day was. However, the commerciality of the track doesn’t diminish the effect when he sings, “…just look at you… you’re a tragedy.” It’s surely designed to break you open.
This is how Fretwell’s songs work. They hold an entire screenplay that plays out in under four minutes. Cinematic yet gritty, they stay with you long after the final chord has ceased to ring out and the credits have rolled. You might even find yourself looking off into the distance, wistfully. Perhaps wiping away a stray tear and not really quite understanding what it is that has brought you to tears.
Stephen Fretwell often disappears for a while, shifting from the public’s gaze. He was missing in action for almost 14 years after being dropped by Fiction. His mailing list often falls into disrepair or is being held captive by bots and then resurrects itself now and again with news. And while he continues to write beautiful songs and releasing them on the excellent Speedy Wunderground label, finding a place to see them live is rare. This is probably right, though. As it should be. This is a talent that might fade if its brought into the light too often. Which is why it’s taken a global superstar like Harry Styles to entice him to the stage over two nights as part of his Meltdown Festival line-up at London’s Southbank.
The other thing to note is how Fretwell’s supposed Bandcamp actually sends you to a VPN site that wants to charge you £10 to download the album for free. This is not major label behaviour. I would suggest it’s a hijack. Shame. Perhaps this is why there is no vinyl version of this album available. Yet, if ever there was an album destined for this form factor it’s surely Magpie.