11 years ago I was told I had 2 years to live. I quit everything I was doing at the time and went headfirst into this thing. Determined to see more of the world while I could, music was the only way I knew how. I wrote my first few songs (English Bones) and emailed thousands of people to book shows in dive bars, people's homes, galleries, and wherever would have me. I slept on floors for years and never stayed in one place for more than 2 months. During those early times I must have played 500 shows in 400 cities in 30 months. It was manic, as was I. Across the continent I flitted and flirted, falling in love with every long-distance half-love I pined for and wrote about (Great Deceiver), convincing myself they were more than the real thing. In truth, this self-imposed bubble of isolation, pedestaling and pressure was always a one-way ticket to feeling lost. I spiralled, lost sense of self, and found myself withdrawing from the world and the things I once loved. Songs got lost, the cracks formed slowly and then all at once. I broke down and left everything behind, again, with nothing to turn to. During this time I wrote I Haven't Really Laughed Like That In Months Now, and touring it across my homelands. During those darker years I rekindled with my old friend Ash Wilkie (of Francesqa) and formed the project Settling; two people who re-met over a shared heaviness, exploring soft and sensitive ways to explore it. I'm really proud of that one. I survived. More soon.

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James Walker

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