Quite possibly the island of Ireland’s finest songwriter, Chris McConaghy AKA Our Krypton Son has returned with new single ‘Falling In Love Is A Suicide Mission’. A carefully-crafted, elegiac peak from his critically-devoured second album Fleas & Diamonds, the single is accompanied with wonderfully minimalist visuals courtesy of Tristian Crowe.
Watch the video and have read of an exclusive written accompaniment to the track titled ‘The Old Plymouth’ by McConaghy below.
The Old Plymouth
Harry Dean Stanton lights a cigarette and stands at the water’s edge. The flickering lights of Dupont tremble in a graveyard of stars. He snorts at nothing and listens to the wind carry voices. An argument between two lovers echoes back along the beach. “I’ll build a corral for the horses”, he can hear. “We’ll have a vegetable garden and chickens.” A man’s voice pleads but he doesn’t mean it. “I hate chickens”, a woman’s voice counters. “And I hate horses.” The old Plymouth with the white plastic hood idles gently at the lapping waves. Country music hums softly from the dash. “How much longer do I have to wait?” Harry wonders. White owls swoop from nowhere hunting for jackrabbits. Someone should tell the owls they’ll be hard pushed to find jackrabbits on a beach – that the white owls have been somehow misled. Harry considers this but does nothing, disliking the sound of his own voice, preferring the symphony of noise around him; the thrumming Country music, the bickering lovers in the sand dunes, the swoop of mistaken and ultimately, disappointed owls, the hissing surf, the twinkling lights of Dupont glittering like diamonds, the sea ending in a sad blueness beyond rhyme. “I’m a fool for you!” the man cries. “I hate chickens and I hate horses. And I hate you, Sam. If that’s even your real name.” The woman screams back, her antipathy knowing no bounds. “What do you think it’s like sitting in a tin trailer waiting for butane to arrive?” She questions the man accusingly and he rubs his stubbled jaw. The tin trailer with the corrugated roof where the rain collects in green pockets. The tin trailer with the green pockets of rain reflecting the stuttering lights of Dupont. The lovers begin a dance in the sand as Harry lights another cigarette sternly. “How much longer?” he wonders to himself. The white hooded Plymouth purrs and another Country ballad plays out its tale of doomed romance. “I’m a fool for love”, it seems to sing though Harry isn’t sure, preoccupied as he is, with hunting for dead jackrabbits in the surf. He motions to the white owls who fly around hungry and mystified – that they aren’t alone, that he’s on the case, but his message of solidarity gets lost in the wind. “Nothing done.” He thinks. He lights another cigarette. “I’ll build a corral for the horses!” The man’s voice is desperate but Harry suspects he doesn’t mean a word. “How long have we argued on this beach?” The woman screams her question at the man’s ears. “What are we waiting for?” She starts to break down, “What do you think it’s like sitting in a tin trailer waiting for butane to arrive?”
“The tin trailer with the corrugated roof where the rain collects in green pockets?” Harry whispers to himself silently, disliking the sound of his own voice. “How much longer?” he sighs. The white hooded Plymouth purrs and Harry puts his hand on the bonnet. “Easy tiger”, he whispers. Harry climbs into the old Plymouth and drives slowly through the waves into the water. The pretty lights of Dupont grow faint in green pools of rain, on the corrugated roof of a tin trailer. The butane never arrives. Jackrabbits duck for cover as white owls swoop in the dust. He turns the Country music up over the noise of the arguing couple, “Born a fool, you got to follow the rule, always a fool. A fool for love.” Harry sings silently – disliking the sound of his own voice – as the white hooded Plymouth sinks out of sight.
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