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She arrived on the seventh day of March in 1985, born through an Irish mother who wove celtic melodies throughout a stable barn. The Devon house sang with shrill tones of sitar and 70s rock ‘n’ roll as her father taught her the basics of music; improvising, jamming and harmonising. It was a family affair.


Dancing to pop music, Michael Jackson taught her to moon walk. At 16 she wore a sari on the Jazz World Stage at Glastonbury Festival and The Eden Project in Cornwall, accompanying her touring father on the tanpura. She spun a thread from the green hills of the English west country to the square blocks and disposable coffee cups of London – off to train as a contemporary dancer at The Place. Royal Albert Hall operas, Findhorn art shows and back street Berlin night club improv gigs gave her dancing feet a variety of venues to make their mark. She choreographed her way around the UK festival circuit, did a stint at Philippe Gaulier’s acting school and got some Arts Council Funding for her own dance company. Punchdrunk and Queen Elizabeth’s Hall were flung on the touring schedule of the twenty-something dancer before music called again.


It was Paris on the phone and her sister left the message; “Do you want to sing backing for this p-funk band, this hip-hop crew, this gospel choir, this all-night studio session?” “Yes I do” she thought. They formed a folk band and together they toured Europe in a Peugeot 106 with a sound engineer cousin and a French guitarist, leading to a cacophony of cosmic human meetings in Parisian clubs, 3000-seater concert halls and television studios alongside the likes of Talvin Singh, Fatoumata Diawara, Ibeyi, Alan Souchon, -M- and Goran Bregovich. She honed the art of poetry whilst sitting on a terrace in Montmartre surrounded by espressos and cigarettes and French chanson and bon appetit on the red chequered table cloth. With French record label in tow they flew to Canada, performed at Rock en Seine and made a bunch of music videos. They were Sparky In The Clouds.


Shutdown, locked-in 2020 came around and she flung herself into a guardianship in South East London with a gang of other artists. Time to write that solo album, she thought; finish off that short film, dig out that poetry from that sack of notebooks; master the art of Logic Pro and get yourself a drum sequencer to revisit your raving days; come to terms with the challenges of the past, weave a bit of magic, and turn some seeds into flowers. And you are here for the result! Amazing we have met in this interweb of interesting musical outpourings. Not a coincidence. It’s with the greatest pleasure that I welcome you to my world…


Much love Bryony xxx

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