Ode to Johnny Dowd

As we dare to imagine a world where a successful vaccine ushers us back into the electrifying embrace of live music, one artist stands out as my constant companion on that journey: Johnny Dowd. Over the years, I’ve seen him more times on stage than anyone else. I recall one unforgettable trek from Bristol all the way up to The Band Room—hands down, the greatest small venue on earth, at least according to the discerning Hanson Family—nestled deep in the wild beauty of the North Yorkshire Moors. And who could forget the raw magic of his show at The Thunderbolt in Bristol on October 19th, 2016? Pure joy from start to finish.

If Johnny Dowd’s name doesn’t ring a bell, prepare yourself: his music defies easy categorization. Call him a maverick, if you like. Imagine a potent cocktail brewed from the wild genius of Zappa and Beefheart, the gravelly storytelling of Tom Waits and Nick Cave, then add a hefty splash of dry, wry humor—thrown into a blender on full speed and left spinning unattended. The result? Something utterly unique, darkly compelling, and impossible to forget.

Among his many releases, I always find myself returning to No Regrets (2012)—an album that feels like a weathered road map through shadowy tales and sly smiles, where every track resonates long after the last note fades.

Synthesiser for the Devil

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From Punjab with Love (and Synths): Vee’s Sonic Postcard

The line crackles, carrying the faint hum of cicadas and the occasional honk of a passing truck. Somewhere in rural Punjab, in a weatherworn telephone booth that’s seen more monsoon rains than missed calls, the ever-enigmatic Vee dials in her latest transmission for Lost in a Wide Open Field.

This time, her compass spins toward a single, shimmering point of obsession: the synth. Not the cold, mechanical caricature of ‘80s clichés, but the warm-blooded, story-telling kind — the one that can both punch you in the chest and pull at your heartstrings in the same breath.

Vee’s latest set is a curated constellation: established names whose fingerprints are already etched into the circuitry of modern sound, and hidden gems whose work hums like a secret power source waiting to be discovered. Each track, whether wrapped in neon gloss or stripped to minimalist pulse, celebrates the honourable synth as both instrument and alchemist, capable of turning the mundane into the transcendent.

It’s more than a playlist — it’s a late-night drive across sonic landscapes, from city skylines blinking in electronic Morse code to wide open fields where the stars themselves seem sequenced. And like that crackling phone line from Punjab, Vee’s voice is the tether: intimate, knowing, and just mysterious enough to keep you hooked for the next call.

Krautrock 1968-1979

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Vee’s Krautrock Transmission: From the Middle of Nowhere, Straight to Your Ears

Somewhere in the dead centre of a wide open field, a lone telephone booth stands like an art installation that wandered out too far and forgot the way home. Inside, the mysterious Vee leans against the glass, the wind whistling in the receiver as she beams her latest Lost in a Wide Open Field broadcast across the ether.

This time, it’s over an hour of pure, undiluted Krautrock — 10 tracks that chart the genre’s hypnotic, head-expanding terrain. Some are well-trodden classics, others are ghosts from long-deleted pressings, the kind of vinyl that obsessive collectors chase with the tenacity of archaeologists hunting lost civilisations.

The crown jewel? A raw, improvised spark from Can, lifted straight from their legendary John Peel session in the 1970s — a performance that still feels like a live wire running through the decades. The rest of the set spans motorik rhythms, cosmic synth odysseys, and guitar lines that seem to dissolve into the stratosphere.

From her improbable command centre in the grasslands, Vee stitches together a soundtrack that’s equal parts archive dig and cosmic pilgrimage — proof that even in the most isolated places, the right signal can still find you.