Al Stewart
Bedsitter Images / Like William McKinley

Forty-one years exactly. That is the chronological distance separating these two wonderful songs by Al Stewart; “Bedsitter Images,” the first track on the self-titled debut album, and “Like William McKinley,” the last of “Sparks Of Ancient Light,” to date his artistic testament, dating back eight years ago. Between these two extreme boundary lines, there is something I have already extensively described in the past, something for which Al will forever remain one of my guiding stars, something for which he will have my eternal gratitude, something that has enriched me; in the noblest sense of the term.

And it all begins and ends here, encompassed between two songs whose absolute symmetry is too, too evident, too perfect to be a product of chance. In “Bedsitter Images,” there is a cold and rainy London night, there is a young man with nothing to lose, grappling with his dreams, his hopes, his solitude, who immortalizes himself with these words: “And so you see I can’t go back until I either win or crack, I’m standing in a one way street, the stages set, the story incomplete”. And, believe me, I know this type of feeling perfectly, it is something that accompanies me even today, even though it probably shouldn't be like this anymore.

And that young man seeking fortune eventually won, decades later we find him in the guise of a wise, sly, and ironic country gentleman, a poet, an aesthete, an intellectual, a Musician who, by continuously marching unyieldingly to his own beat, finds himself satisfied and fulfilled, observing the world from his porch. And he is happy, fulfilled, to the point that regrets and disappointments leave nothing but a pale imprint; “The country round here is deserted, there’s no one at all, people come here in the summer and leave in the fall, you followed after them, disappeared into the night, now all that’s remain is a footprint you made in the mud, frozen in white.”

Nothing is left to chance; the first, crowned by magniloquent orchestrations as demanded by the canons of the era, is a pursuit of excellence, the second, a striking waltz for harmonica and acoustic guitar, does not follow fashions and styles, because at this point Al Stewart has his style, already, and it is something unique, invaluable; a style formed by life, by eyes, by the sensitivity of a man equipped with intelligence, sensitivity, and elegance absolutely superior to the average. A Man I have no hesitation in defining as my personal hero, an endless source of inspiration.

This is how I want to pay ultimate tribute to you, soothing poetaster, historical memory of a world that perhaps no longer exists, my dearest friend; they will never give you a Nobel prize, which you so greatly deserve, so I want to make up for it in my own way, celebrating you once again, with infinite pleasure and infinite gratitude.