I came very late to Evil Hand's release "Huldra" last year, and regret that I didn't get a chance to write about it's strange atmospherics here until it was much too late. And here again, in these first hungover weeks of the new year when most right-thinking people are still licking the wounds of the first week back at work rather than thinking about new releases, "Rain Check" arrives. There is of course, every danger it could again go undetected too, slipping under the radar while we're all contemplating our waistlines or trying to figure out if the recycling collections will ever get back to normal. But in another sense it couldn't be better timed - the post-festive comedown is never easy, and in these straightened times even less so perhaps. So what is the perfect sound track to this time of year? What lets you wallow in just enough of the winter darkness before lifting you with it's almost absurd optimism? Perhaps Evil Hand has had a damn good go at writing that very record here. Evil Hand is of course Derek Bates - one half of Bottle of Evil who recently graced these pages with their "Inside Looking Out" EP, a record which has only grown in my estimations since first hearing. What is less clear is quite how to describe "Rain Check" - it's either a long EP or a short album. In a sense it doesn't matter because it stands alone as a collection of regret-laced noisy tunes and curious musical experiments, beginning with "A Drop of Sunshine" with distant vocals buried in doomladen guitar chords and a wash of white noise. Next, "Good For Nothing" is a wistful piece with hints of late-sixties guitar pop and traditional folk ballads, like an out-take from a lost Gene Clark album. It's gentle melody and half-whispered vocal shimmer over a backing of hollow electronics and replicated voices, with the whole thing melting beautifully together.

I confess I've never been much of a fan of the Beach Boys, though I've always respected Brian Wilson's songwriting craft above their over-sweetened bubblegum delivery. But by 1971's "Sunflower" the dark heart of the songwriter was beginning to overtake the gleeful harmonies, and "Forever" is a surprisingly gloomy faux-country oddity. Evil Hands's take preserves both the forlorn lead vocal and the gentle melody, but couples it to a tremelo-heavy, note-bendingly joyous musical backdrop. On what I regard as the record's stand-out track "Three Faces", Bates manages to accomplish what My Bloody Valentine have been fruitlessly trying to repeat since 1991 on a tiny fraction of the budget, by fusing skittering beats, washes of effect-laden guitar and a gorgeously delicate tune. As the first vocal section of the song fades into it's own noisy sheen an extended instrumental coda strikes up, building layer on layer of blissful melody and squalling feedback. It's a short, unfocused and confusing piece in some respects - but the simple fact is that it's utterly beguiling. Likewise, the jittering pop squall of "Sonograph" - a dizzying clash of guitars and tweeting electronics, with a low-slung Mary Chain like vocal embedded deep in the mix, and which builds towards a fuzzy, psyched-out ending. The record closes with a couple of more experimental pieces, culminating in the mighty "Iceberg". Clocking in at nearly seven minutes of David Lynch soundtrack style rumblings and washes of sharpened guitar sounds which dissolve into static. Then, perhaps when least expected, the track is invaded by what appears to be the entire 1970s staff of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop. Strange, analogue synthesiser drones which have teleported in from Blake's Seven or Doctor Who sit alongside echoing atmospherics. Played loud, it has a curious effect. I used to it to quell some irritating neighbours to remarkable effect. It's a curiosity rather than an essential part of the EP for sure, but it demonstrates the breadth of Bates' interest, musicianship and vision.

So, another year of my rambling about music kicks off with a release made in such an understated way that it would be easy to miss - it's to my great dismay that it took me so long to find Evil Hand's previous work, and I'd urge you not to commit the same error. This is in parts dreamy and ambient, and in others noisy and challenging - but throughout there is a thread of pop sensibility winding through these songs which I find completely irresistible. Here's to 2012. Happy new year.

Evil Hand's "Rain Check" is available as a free download from Bandcamp, where you can find 2011's "Huldra" album, again absolutely free. More of Derek Bates work can be found via Bottle of Evil.

Evil Hand - Three Faces

The year has started uneasily, and I found myself looking forward almost desperately to this trip - a chance to escape and not have to consider some of the really pretty irritating things which have been going on just lately. My injured foot ached, and wearing brand new boots probably wasn't a smart move either, but as I dragged my sorry self to the station I knew that it was imperative I got moving. Today was a bit of a random gluing together of several imperatives - some visits I'd not realised I was going to make, some revisitations of old territory and some familiar and comfortable trips to soothe the soul. I started out as early as possible, making the switch to the London train at Weston. Oddly, some late running on the first Down service meant the stock hadn't arrived, so had the novelty of watching the ECS terminate before boarding, getting breakfast and dozing and reading my way to sunrise. This happened somewhere around Didcot, a golden and clear morning. This is one of the best reasons to leave so early.

The first target was Liverpool Street. With C2C services running out of the station due to work at Fenchurch Street, this meant the novelty of the Woodgrange Park section, and the flyover at Barking. Nothing new, but it had been a while. My objective was Tilbury Town. I'd been reading about Tilbury and wanted to square my image with the reality. After a slow journey, padded with excess delay minutes to mop up any issues on the diversion, we sped up over the flat empty marshes at Purfleet before pulling into the rather grim station at Tilbury Town. To the south, the dock wall blocked any view at all, and to the north the boarded up facade of Dock Road. A range of deleted and closed businesses, shutters down. The Post Office closed - unclear if it was forever - it's former pub status proclaimed by the "Toby Stout" tiling above the doors. A pawnbroker nearby had lost two of the balls from the traditional emblem, just a single pendulum hanging outside the shop - one of the few still open. Pressing into the side streets soon indicated that this short parade was Tilbury. There was nothing behind the facade. So, I moved east toward the junction with Calcutta Road and a Metropolitan Water Trough celebrating the founding of Tilbury Town in 1912. One hundred years later, there was little left. Across the street was Rourke's Drift - a boarded up guest house of terrifying aspect, beside a yard also belonging to the mysterious Rourke. Uncomfortable with the empty streets and the attention of the Dock Police car which was now tailing me as I pointed my 'phone camera at things, I returned to the station and to the relative comfort of London, much earlier than planned.

With some time on my hands, I made a slow circuit to Marylebone, using one of the new S-Stock underground trains. These subsurface only units are proving troublesome and deliveries have been halted, but the ones in operation on the Metropolitan Line seem pretty reasonable to me. Air-conditioned, and open plan so that passengers can pass along the train through wide gangways like the Class 378s on the overground, they feel safe, light, open and spacious. The short hop to Baker Street was an enjoyable enough ride. Wandered to Marylebone via Dorset Square, hoping to sit and read away some of my spare time, but the private garden was locked. Noted a plaque unveiled to celebrate the first MCC match being played on Dorset Fields, before heading into the station and finding a spot to watch activity while I waited. It was a fairly quiet time, the midst of the afternoon lull in the rather beautiful old station. I don't use this place enough I decided, and I noted I'd still not tried the new 'mainline' locomotive-hauled services on weekdays. Today's traction was a Class 168. It was comfortable, not too crowded and had Wi-Fi and power sockets. It takes a few minutes longer by this route than using Virgin from Euston, but the route is a pleasure to travel - rolling Chiltern countryside and graceful old Great Western stations are the order of the day. Even Banbury's 1960's concrete cavern has a certain charm, if only in the period typography around the station. The sun set over the M40 as we sped north west, a relaxing and calm trip despite a precocious child demanding attention a few seats away. Headphones on and tuned into the countryside and the rails rather than the passengers, the time sped by. This trip cost the princely sum of £5 by advance ticket. I'd promote this more, but I want it to stay a secret.

Leaving the splendid GWR terminus at Birmingham Moor Street, I walked the few feet into the centre and found a chaotic Saturday still winding down. No room to sit and contemplate coffee, so wandered back to New Street via a strange encounter with a rather well-to-do, middle class Irish woman. She stopped me, very specifically and asked if I had any change because she was recently homeless. I looked at her and wondered - who knew if mental health issues, domestic abuse or some sort of relationship breakdown had put her onto the street? Given that no-one else appeared to be stopping for her I delved into my pocket and grabbed a fistful of copper and silver. "It's just pence" I said, "but you're welcome to it". She looked a little scornfully at me and said "it doesn't matter". Trying to read this situation, I played for time with a rather silly "are you sure?". Was she upset because it wasn't enough, or was this some sort of test to see if I'd stop? If so, had I passed by stopping - or had I proved that people give indiscriminately to those why don't need it. She flapped her hands at me, irritated "go, no it's fine". I left, feeling confused and foolish.

I mulled over this encounter with coffee as I waited for the familiar 1V65 home. It made little sense, and I'd been very tempted to go back to find her to demand some sort of explanation. I had no right of course, and it was very unlikely she'd be there. I even checked my pockets and bag, imagining it had been some sort of distraction technique. I put it out of my mind, boarding the refreshingly quiet train and heading home in the dark, head buried in a book. It had been just the distracting, diverting day I needed.

Over the last few years, I've found myself deliberately revisiting some of the earliest rail trips I made in the 1990s. Partly, this is because the idea of comparing my hazy recollections of first impressions with how I'd view a place now is entertaining. The wide-eyed traveller of nearly twenty years ago, grateful for freedom and never imagining that I'd get very far along some of the lines on my rail map is a distant memory now. When my travelling was rekindled in late 2003 it was for similar reasons - a push for freedom, a wish to explore wider vistas - and a need to unravel some journeys from the past. However, some of these journeys have found their way into a repertoire which I'll nearly unconsciously repeat for comfort, familiarity or just the sense of movement. Liverpool has become one of these places.

So today, I popped out for a new year coffee. Nearly 200 miles from home I grant you, but after the unsatisfactory short hops of the illness clouded inter-holiday period I needed long, thoughtful journeys. In near identical circumstances last year I'd done the same thing - a late booking, the first train out from home, and a lazy trip to Birmingham and breakfast. After Bristol, there were just six passengers on the Voyager. I had the entirety of my favourite coach to myself. Bank Holidays can be tricky - empty like this, or suddenly rammed with shopping bags and students returning to distant universities. I enjoyed the quiet while I could, stretched my aching foot and coughed impolitely without fear of reprisals. New Street was busier, but still a little quiet. I watched the world go by over breakfast, realising just how good it was to be out and about. Back into the cavernous station and onto the waiting train for Liverpool. It had been cold and windy when I left, but now the sun was rising in a clear sky, and it was warm through the windows. Music on, I sank into my seat and thoroughly enjoyed the trip through Crewe and over the Mersey. Arriving at Lime Street nowadays is a joy - straight off the train onto the broad sweep of steps to the road, the skyline of the city ahead of you. Braved a longer walk than I've taken these last couple of weeks to get to my favourite spot for coffee. It was quiet, efficient and friendly just like I remember it from a couple of visits over the past year. I also recall my first visit - just like I sat here doing exactly a year before - a shameful, sorry time in many ways which has actually turned into a much better situation. I thanked my lucky stars and swigged strong coffee while a strange group pensioners assembled next to me. One at time they arrived - they obviously did this often - and chatted about their new year, the sales and the unpredictability of holiday period public transport. At one point, the sole female among them shushed her companions and nodded to indicate me. In a harsh scouse whisper she hissed "what's he doing? He's writing!". They kept pretty quiet after that - so who knows what they were planning.

Back to the station for a trip over to Manchester. I took a fast train at the risk of it being busy. It was, a little, but I found a decent seat and enjoyed the scud over the flat marshy Lancashire landscape of Chat Moss and one of my favourite views as Manchester builds from derelict edgelands into stepped brick towers and modern glass skyscrapers. Down to the main station, noting that the flat bit of the travelators had been switched off, presumably to save energy. Shamefully, this is one of the few escalator type devices I can use due to my terror, so I was sorry not to be able to. Out of the station into the bright, cold Piccadilly afternoon. I set off to wander and instantly thought I'd made a bad choice - my foot ached, and people were thundering around the place carelessly. I felt big, stupid and pointless in this monstrous retail jungle. A quick visit to W.H.Smiths to find that my beloved A6 casebound Black and Red notebook is apparently no more, then back to the station for more coffee in a nicely refurbished, but weirdly slow Starbucks which took forever to produce drinks.

The 17:05 was strangely quiet - in my coach at least, and despite "those standing in the vestibules" being urged to walk forward, few if any did. So, once again I had a relaxing sprawl home on one of my favourite trains, all the way to Bristol. It had been a day of fine music, a little reading, a little writing, lots of relaxing. I realised how much I needed these excursions - not for the first time and not for the last. Most of all, it was a day of remembering. Darker times on this route have often been offset by days like this one. Either way, it's good to have made my first trip of the year. I don't write here so often these days, and I'm sure when I do it's not interesting as all my thought's seem to funnel into Songs Heard on Fast Trains nowadays. This entry won't have helped - it's whimsical, a bit boring, a bit maudlin even. But there are days when only a good long blast on the train quite does it. Today was one of them.

It's become traditional to try to squeeze some sort of railway value out of the holiday period, but often proves tricky for a number of reasons - confusing timetable changes, later starts to service and generally unpredictable passenger loadings to name but three areas which have scuppered things in the past. So, for this extended break I decided to do things a little differently, and get a Freedom of the South West Rover ticket. By combining this with a Southern Daysave on one of the days, I could get deep into the South East for a bargain fare, and could use the other days to wander aimlessly about fairly locally. Day One started with some local rambling - a spin down to Plymouth from Bristol on a CrossCountry HST, then up to Westbury via First Great Western, missing a connection into the rare Melksham service by literally seconds - seeing the tail-lights heading off as I opened the door of our train. Instead, headed for Bath then back to Swindon on a London service, only to find the next Cheltenham train was the continuation of the service we'd missed! An interesting day, with some surprisingly good weather.

Movebook Entry

An early start for the second day, and happy to find some timely retail outlet opening at Bristol so I could get coffee and breakfast before setting off on the 07:22 to Cosham. A brief wander around this station and it's environs which I'd not used since about 2004 by my reckoning revealed that much was the same - including the takeaway and burger van which provided necessary sustenance on the return from the fateful Southwick failure. before collecting my Southern ticket at Chichester and pressing on to Brighton. Loadings weren't as bad as they were on the Coastway a few weeks back, but there were still a good few on board, as evidenced by the wedged Platform 1 at Brighton on arrival. Here, took a Seaford bound train which headed out to Lewis before turning south onto the coast. Noted the remains of Newhaven Marine, still technically open if not served by trains any more. Some splendid views of crashing waves in the English Channel too. Time to wander around Seaford a little before heading back, feeling it was a bit like Swanage in some respects, if rather smaller and quieter perhaps. I'd last been here in the mid 1990s to deliver Christmas presents for a work colleague to an elderly aunt. In many ways, little had changed - but of course the slam-door stock was now missing! Returned via a change at the curious complicated Lewes station with its mysterious in-filled platforms, then directly into Victoria via an attachement at Haywards Heath to bring us to 12 carriages. Home was a long but fairly relaxing slog down to Portsmouth for the unit home. A very productive and nostalgic day.

Movebook Entry

Finally, today. I woke with an aching right foot much exacerbated by yesterday's exertions, and a developing case of tonsillitis. Medicated myself and set off early, feeling reasonable a little later. Decided not to go for too elaborate a route given my disadvantage, ending up heading up to Cheltenham on the 07:00 then heading down to Swindon on the 08:00. Took a call suggesting I was somehow embroiled in other's business which I simply ignored. A brief early lunch and a read here, before heading into Wales. Could have managed a run out to Salisbury, but that meant more waiting around, and the 11:00 to Taunton beckoned. It had been a much shortened day but given how I felt, I think surviving this long wasn't a bad outcome. I'd still managed well over 1000 miles over the three days, and kept the cost within the magic 7p/mile band. Slunk home early, feeling sorry for myself. It's odd ending the year on a bit of a dull note, but it's back to the rails on Tuesday for my annual winter Merseyside pilgrimage. Taking stock of the last year though, I've had a fair number fine days out, and managed about 35,000 miles by rail. And all this despite a litany of railtour cancellations during the summer. Here's to many more such excursions...