The second track on Foy Vance’s new album, The Wake, is simply titled, “Hi, I’m The Preacher’s Son.” Among a beautifully intricate and incredibly serene record dealing with overcoming deep grief and prolonged sorrow, the tune hits at the core theme and genuine emotion offered up within the entire body of work – learning to love yourself as you grow older.
“I am no fortunate son/ I am no favoured one/ I am but a loaded gun/ Fired into a world gone wrong,” the Northern Ireland-raised singer-songwriter rumbles through the song. “Face down in the dirt I learned/ You don’t always get what you deserve/ I can hide, I can try to run/ But I am what I have become.”
Captured by acclaimed British producer Ethan Johns, The Wake closes the door on the artist’s 26-year trek, both physically and emotionally, in dealing with the death of his father – what it means for Vance to let go of the pain and finally set his parent free, and himself, as well, within that process.
This journey began in January 1999 on the Spanish island of Lanzarote. Vance was in the midst of a performance when he slipped into this surreal, overwhelming trance, one that felt like the line was being blurred between reality and the cosmos above. The following day, Vance was informed of his father’s passing from a heart attack the previous evening.
“Only time will tell if I know you well/ Or if I did not know you at all,” Vance ascends on “I Think I Preferred the Question,” a selection from the album that squarely aims to put Vance’s past behind him. “It’s heaven, it’s hell/ It is well/ The spell dispels the more that I talk about it.”
The key to The Wake is the number seven. There’s a reason this chapter of Vance’s existence concludes on the seventh of his albums, all of which were inspired by his father. It’s directly linked to an ancient saying often used by Vance’s father, a traveling preacher, which eventually soaked into his son’s heart and soul: “Give me the boy to the age of seven, and I will give you the man.”
“You’ll be up high on the mountain’s peak/ Seeing everything that you just might seek,” Vance rolls through the final track, “Bathed in Light,” an uplifting tent revival number of redemption and closure. “When it gets time for town again/ I’m gonna tell you how you’ll feel right then/ Like nothing will ever bring you down.”
What Foy Vance has presented with The Wake is a raw and real album of sheer vulnerability and human strength, all wrapped up in melodies of such creative depth and sonic splendor. It’s a ceremonial, hallowed shedding of spiritual skin by one of the great songwriters of our day.
Where’s your head space at right now?
Foy Vance: Very good, the field is open. I feel like I walked a narrow road for 26 years, pretty single-minded and focused on one thing. And I don’t think I was even as aware of that at the time I was coming up on the seventh album, realizing that I’d set out on that journey and that was it. So, as you can imagine, finishing a journey that you self-imposed came with a sense of pleasure. Completing something feels good, but there was a bit of dread also, if I’m honest pretty straightaway. But, as is always the way, the end always reveals the new beginning, you know?
You talk about 26 years since your father passed away. What was that heaviness? Was it the relationship you had with him? Things that weren’t said? Things that could’ve been?
I came out [of the womb] singing. There were tapes of me singing at three years old, shutting my brothers up ‘cause they were singing it wrong, saying “No, I’m doing it well.” Music was huge in my life [growing up]. I had just turned 24 when my dad died. I was already playing music and trying to sing a career in it and trying to write songs. And I moved to Lanzarote to try and get away from the humdrum, the comfort zone of life. At home, it was just too easy to become comfortable. I wanted to go and find some time away from all that to seek songs.
And boy, did I find them, but I didn’t expect to find them the way I did. I think it was all the stars aligned at that moment. The moment my dad died, I’d already begun the song the night before as he was dying, and I didn’t even know that bit until the next day. But, the second I found out, I went back and I wrote the first song that mattered to me, the first song that was healing.
It’s like when those musicians were on the Titanic and they played “Amazing Grace” as it was going down. They weren’t playing that for a fee or for applause. Why were they doing that, Garret? You know what I mean? Therein lies something inherent in music that we’ve all but forgotten for the most part. And I think I had that moment [when my dad died] – everything became clear. I realized I’ve been sort of conning music into trying to make it fit my regime. And the whole time, it’s quietly beckoning me to grow and learn and glean. I’m glad I can pay my rent with [music], but that’s not what this is about. It’s not what music is. It’s not what it means.
Did you know that when your dad died or was it this revelation that came in later years?
No, I think I realized immediately, the second that song came and you realize it can come that way. It was like my antenna was out. A thin space was created between me and my dad. And obviously there’s a lot of things going on when you have that shock of grief, a monumental figure like a parent. I’m sure there are a lot of similarities between bouts of great creative inspiration and bouts of mental instability. Like an episode, if you will. So, I was making all kinds of connections that day. I guess I was grasping at anything to make sense of something and give myself something to hold onto and stick to and walk a narrow road with, and just stay focused. My dad was a big figure, and without him it was sink or swim – music was a vehicle for that.
Was he a tough love, hard to read kind of guy?
No. Tough love with three older brothers, for sure. But not so much with me. I think they wore him down by the time I came along. He was very soft and gentle, but he was a rough man. He was from East Belfast, born in 1945. He came from a tough background.
What is it you’re letting go of this far down the road since his departure?
The fact [the album] is called The Wake, it’s the end of it. Where I come from, [at a wake] you go to celebrate the life of someone, not to commiserate the death. You go and tell stories and you laugh your hole off. You raise pints and you sing songs and you have a wake. I realize it’s not the end of “the grief journey,” it’s the end of a grief journey – it’s never going to go away. I hope it doesn’t, because he’s been my co-writer, and I hope it remains that way. But, it just changed. It’s hard to put my finger on what lifted. Something lifted.
You know, I never went to college, I never even passed my school exams. I just left and got a job, didn’t even show up for the exams. I think this is as close as I’ll feel to walking [at graduation]. Like, setting out on a journey and then completing it and there’s your certificate.
In a short documentary about the album, one of the things you mentioned that really struck me was what your father would say to you, “Give me the boy to the age of seven, and I will give you the man.” How has that statement affected you as you’ve gotten older?
Well, because I have two boys. One of ‘em is still under five and I know that by the age of seven, that’s him – he’s locked and dialed. Whoever he is, it’s in there. I’m aware of that and I want to put as much good information in there as you possibly can, all the strong stuff that will be core beliefs when he grows up. [And] being very careful about how you speak to them, the tone you take, making sure that when they hear your voice in their head and you’re not around, it’s a comforting one, it’s a welcoming one. That all takes time and attention to detail and nuance.
I think it’s the same in work in art, like making those seven albums. It was like the making of me as an artist, I guess in my mind. Give me the artist of the age of seven albums and I’ll give you whoever he is. I guess I was making those sorts of connections in my mind. Like, I will have become whatever I am probably by then, I’ll be settled into something.
I have a lot of solidarity with that statement because it plays into another statement that “you learn most everything you need to know in life in the sandbox.” When you look back at who you were at seven, how much of that person is still who you are?
Garret, I’m 51 now. It’s taken me a long time to wander through some wild places, but I finally got back to [myself]. I was right at seven. You can trust your seven-year-old self.
One of the things I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older is how much, in certain ways, I’m turning into my father. Do you notice anything like that?
Well, I think that’s what I got caught up with on “Hi, I’m the Preacher’s Son.” No matter how much you get away, try to run away from what your dad did. What I do is not a million miles away. Let’s face it, I’m just not preaching any truth of any sort, just talking about what’s happening, reflecting my own experience here or whatever. But, it’s not a million miles away [from what he did], that you go off and you dig for details and you articulate them. He always spoke in parables and riddles, so it’s not surprising that I became a songwriter.
Well, whether you perform onstage or you’re in a pulpit, you have everyone in that room facing the same direction, and everyone’s in there for a different reason. In the church or at a live concert, they’re focused on what you have to say and hopefully walk away with a better feeling of themselves.
Yeah. I guess the main difference is I’m not trying to sell them anything. I’m there having an experience, too. I’m caught up in the music. I, too, get lost in those two hours that we’re onstage. I go there. You can’t take anyone anywhere you’re not willing to go yourself.
Do you look at The Wake as maybe a death of an ego?
I’ve never really thought about it like that, but yeah.
It’s also a shedding of your own skin.
Yeah. Perhaps every album is a bit of a death of an ego. Putting to bed, marking the end of that journey and heading out into the next one. At the end of The Wake, I genuinely didn’t know if I was just going to take a few years off or what was going to happen. And then, I exploded, just absolutely exploded. By the time I got into the car [at the recording studio] in Bath, [England], and got home, I just wrote for the next two weeks. Endless ideas. What I thought was going to be the end was very quickly becoming a beginning.
It became fuel on the fire.
It really did.
What would your dad think about where you’re at right now?
It’s hard to gauge, because my dad applauded anything I did. If I boiled rice, he’d be calling my mom in to see how well I boiled the rice. He was very proud, so I don’t know if he could handle this. And I think it’s sort of sad that he doesn’t get to see it. But, at the same time, I wouldn’t have it without his passing – it’s the strangest gift I’ve ever been given.
There’s a lot of heaviness with the album. But, it does feel like, at the same token, there’s a big sense of release. It sounds like you’re in a good place right now.
Yes, I am. I’m done commiserating. I’m ready to celebrate. It’s the wake, you know what I mean?
Photo Credit: Gregg Houston
