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The story of John Martyn's Solid Air, his brooding tribute to Nick Drake

00:00 - 02:56 The enticing, smoky sound of Solid Air 02:57 - 08:13 Coming up in the British folk scene in the early 1970s and leaning into unconventional jazz influences 08:14 - 12:03 The players, including Danny Thompson and John Wood 12:04 - 26:38 The songs: May You Never, fearing commitment and the long shadow of Nick Drake 26:39 - 31:18 John Martyn's thoughts on Solid Air, his lasting influence, Ben Howard In the overstuffed British folk scene of the late Sixties and early Seventies, John Martyn was an anomaly. Make no mistake - he was an accomplished storyteller and guitarist, quickly proving his fingerpicking mettle by cutting his teeth in London's dingy folk clubs. At the same time, he had a mercurial quality that gave his songs an unpredictable character, incorporating the latest delay and guitar effects that would make purist folkies' eyes water. Playing live, he would joke and josh around, poking fun at himself and his craft, another big no-no in a scene marked by its navel-gazing self-seriousness. Despite his maverick status, John had, by 1972, released three solo albums, and two more with his wife, the songwriter Beverley Martyn. These were not pedestrian records - they revealed a keen eye for melody, an ear for innovation, and a restless musical soul - a result of John's energetic love for the most interesting contemporary artists, such as the free jazz experimenter Pharoah Sanders. For his next record, 1973's Solid Air, John would lean hard into these psychedelic influences, incorporating jazz and soul influences such as on the title track - a sultry, smoky soundscape, underscored by the dextrous bass fretwork of John's long-time musical partner Danny Thompson. In the lyrics, he would sing about his downtrodden friend Nick Drake, sadly foretelling his demise and eventual suicide at the age of 26 a year later. In the song, John paints a picture of a mysterious, beguiling but ultimately crestfallen comrade, a friend who cannot be helped. Elsewhere on the record, John would brood and ruminate on his fear of commitment to his wife, such as on the tracks The Man in the Station and Over The Hill. And on the track May You Never - itself a rehash of a standalone single - John sings to an unknown compatriot, reaching out a brotherly arm, a consoling hand on the shoulder, intoning that love will be 'a lesson to learn in our time'. It perhaps still ranks as his most known song today. Later on his life, John would regret the undue influence the album had on his career - he resented the way he thought it boxed him in as a folk artist, and he increasingly tried to move away from that sound on future records by looking toward more jazz, ambient, and electronic sounds. He changed too as a person - he became contradictory, tempestuous and unpredictable - and sadly that sparked a violent rage too, a far cry from his tender folk beginnings. Solid Air contains all of those multitudes of the man who created it - John's passion, intellect and sense of unknowingness in equal spades. Let's dive into 1973's Solid Air together - looking at the cast of players John collected around him to bring the songs to life, his early inspirations for the sound of the record such as Davy Graham and Joan Baez, and how the primitive electronic sounds John was experimenting with on this record still influence artists today, such as Ben Howard. Let me know what you think of this album, and comment below on what this record, and John Martyn's music generally, mean to you. Comment below on future albums I should cover too, and I'll try and get round to them at some point in the future. Thanks for watching!