John Martyn
Sunday's Child

THE REVIEW

Before starting these few lines I want to preface my absolute adoration for this man, for his vocal cords and for those damn hands that make him play his instrument so divinely.

Then, for the rest.
 
John Martyn has always been a temperamental artist, exposed to the whims and moods of the wind and emotions more than most. His great masterpiece is "Solid Air," full of songs about troubled women and dedicated, as many know, to Nick Drake, one who was certainly not in a good place. Likewise, "Inside Out" is full of humble uncertainty; in short, he always seemed to be fumbling, gently following the flows of that guitar that seemed part of him.

On the other hand, during the biennium 1973/74, good John lives - I believe - one of the happiest periods of his life, especially with his wife Beverley, bless her. It is inevitable that this condition reflects in almost every note: "Sunday's Child" is a sunny album, and Martyn aficionados will struggle to recognize him and identify with certain passages. The darkness where Martyn timidly felt his emotions has cleared, making room for a parlor on a summer's day, the sun's rays streaming through the window and illuminating songs like One Day Without You or My Baby Girl. Children play, and under the carpet, between the wooden boards of the house (strictly by the sea, as on the cover) you might find Lay it All Down or maybe Sunday's Child, always if you don’t first stumble upon a guitar strumming Call Me Crazy by itself behind the door. What does "Sunday's Child" mean? Nothing, it is simply a reimagining of the Monday's Child, one of the nursery rhymes (ring any bells, Genesis?) that were told to children in the 19th century.

John Martyn somehow revisits the English tradition of the story conjoined with song, highly exploited years ago in terms of psychedelia and progressive, but reimagined in the light of an adult watching a child play - not pretending to be a child. Acoustic guitars (many), piano, bass, and drums: perhaps it's no coincidence that in the end, the two most successful tracks, Spencer the Rover and A Satisfied Mind, are folk inherited from tradition; a backward journey, a trip away from the depths of introspection of the previous albums. Not forgetting the achievements of those past albums, however: conducted by the mastery of the echoplex, especially rhythmic experiments like in Root Love and the infernal Clutches are there to prove it, and the fruits will not delay in ripening a few years later.