mccartney raze when you lost the only job you'd ever known, you retreated to your home in st. john's wood, plugged a single microphone into a four-track studer deck, and opened your veins. what hit the tape wasn't blood, but the fierce love you felt for your family, hard-won and homespun. you imagined the inner lives of unwanted objects and improvised instrumentals named for days you knew well and people you would never meet. every fragment and full-length song a flare fired from the abyss. every drum fill and lead lick a step back into the light. the critics took a collective shit on your heart. it didn't matter. they were silver-tongued corpses, and you were alive again. 240528 what's it to you? who go blather from