Look at his ‘joyfuls’, he ain’t got no clothes
Nobody says it though everyone knows
Give him a cheer and a roll on the drum
Smile and applaud as he pulls out the plum
Decades of defiant basslines and bold compositions, yet never a record solely their own…until now. Deb Googe (aka da Googie) whose hands have shaped the low-end thrum of My Bloody Valentine, Primal Scream, Thurston Moore’s band, and Snowpony with Stereolab’s Katharine Gifford, steps into the forefront. Cara Tivey, longtime Billy Bragg conspirator and a quiet force behind Everything But The Girl, Blur, Lilac Time, and Au Pairs, brings her deft touch. Together, they present The Golden Thread, an overdue declaration of artistry from two musicians whose work has long underpinned the music of others.
The record took shape in Deb’s home studio, a raw and intimate creation, performed solely by the duo. The songs thrive on contradiction: spacious yet suffocating, heavy yet spare. Dub’s wide-open sprawl compressed into something dense, claustrophobic, relentless. A bassline that rumbles like distant thunder melts into piano notes that barely breathe. Lyrics cut to the bone, sparse yet searing. Shoegaze, post-punk, goth…familiar terrain cast in a darker hue, a moodier descent into what Deb has built before. The past lingers, but here, it twists, tightens, and trembles into something altogether different.
Bad Habits drags the listener through the wreckage of indulgence, a confession soaked in vice and inevitability. Regret clings like smoke, thick and inescapable, as the speaker wavers between remorse and reckless abandon. Sleep offers no escape, silence no reprieve—just the restless churn of consequence. The refrain pounds like a hammer, a plea wrapped in self-deception, as the thrill of destruction proves too intoxicating to forsake. Synths rumble beneath a wavering alarm, a menace creeping through the mix, basslines brooding, disorienting, leading deeper into an unsettled world.
Ragged distortion snarls through the air, scraping against a piano line that lingers like a whispered omen in The Longest Wait. A clash of fractured melody and eerie elegance, each note unsettles, each chord scrapes like nails against glass. The album pulls no punches, an unrelenting descent into unease. The tension coils, the atmosphere thickens, each moment pressing in like a storm ready to break. There’s no respite, no escape: just the steady march forward into something darker, stranger, and wholly consuming.
You Take It With You When You Go mourns a soul lost to time and turmoil, a spirit bruised but never broken. The heart beneath it all still beat, searching for peace, finding it at a price. The refrain lingers like a final whisper, a farewell wrapped in sorrow and knowing, a burden carried even in absence. Swelling tones and stark piano lines stretch, unsteady, unresolved.
An eerie piano riff spirals forward in Rant, chased by a clatter of percussion, a storm of rhythm barely holding together. A long, wailing guitar drone stretches over the wreckage, a desperate attempt to steady the track before it collapses under its own madness. It falters, it fractures, it fights to stand. The chaos flares, each note a jagged gasp, each beat a footstep toward collapse. The tension thickens, the weight unbearable; a brief glimpse into disorder, a song teetering on the edge of its own undoing. When the dust settles, nothing feels certain except the rush of breath before the next fall.
Dumb twists a familiar nursery rhyme into something far more sinister, a macabre satire on power, deception, and blind obedience. A cunning figure, “Little Jack,” basks in his own success, pulling the strings while others remain silent, too afraid or too complicit to speak. The imagery of the cat stealing tongues and the rabbit fleeing suggests fear and submission, while applause masks an underlying darkness. The final lines hint at inevitable collapse, a world propped up by illusion, teetering toward an inescapable fall. The repetition drills the message home: silence isn’t just compliance, it’s complicity.
Mad Mike (Mark My Words) stumbles through the fog, a gathering of unseen figures circling, their murmurs thick with menace, their grip tightening. Friend or foe, it no longer matters—the bogeyman and his sinister court pull the strings, their laughter a snarl, their presence inescapable. Authority looms, but nothing holds them back; even those who dare to contain the chaos find themselves devoured. Memory fractures, the self dissolves, and what lingers is the ghost of a party that never ends. The track pounds forward, drums hammering through cavernous space, piano tolling like a bell lost in the wind. Steeleye Span’s specter hovers, laced with the raw, spectral howl of PJ Harvey.
A minute stretches long in The Last Tear Falls: unease coiling in the air, every note taut with tension. Then, a breath of light—major chords break through, wavering, reaching for something whole. But beneath, the undercurrents stir; whispers grow, slipping through the cracks, creeping back in. The threat lingers, a figure just beyond sight, waiting to seize what peace remains.
Secret Place sings of sanctuary: a world untouched, where the grass glows blue, where the sea scatters light like shattered crystal, where laughter hums like a half-forgotten tune. But paradise is fleeting. The tide pulls, time devours, some never arrived, others never returned. The vow of return hums in the air, but whether the path still exists – or if it ever did – remains a mystery swallowed by the tide.
Listen to The Golden Thread ) below. The album is out now via Tiny Global Productions. Order here.
Plans are afoot for the pair to tour in the UK and Europe throughout much of 2025.
Follow da Googie:
Follow Cara Tivey:
Or via: