“Now and again, we meet for tea. This is our universe: cups of tea. We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me.” It’s not often that we’re confronted with the secrets of life. It’s not often that we’re presented with such revelation (laced with equal parts comedy and profundity). A zen kōan said with a Scottish wink. However, it’s not often we’re introduced to the world and music of the late, great, humorist, painter, performer, singer/songwriter, poet, and children’s author, Ivor Cutler.
A native of Glasgow, Ivor (born Isadore) Cutler came to this earth a century ago to a Jewish middle class family trying to make their way in an era where being who they were was increasingly becoming weaponized everywhere. As a young Scottish lad, Ivor would face constant bullying, forcing him to withdraw from society, develop suicidal thoughts, and write his first bits of poetry and draw his first cartoons. By the time he was old enough to enlist in the 1940s, Ivor would join the British RAF only to use his time in the air to sketch clouds and daydream, finally being dismissed for that rare affliction: “dreaminess”.
It wouldn’t be until the end of the war, during European reconstruction, that Ivor started to come into his own as something else. Initially, he followed a career in education, working as a teacher in London’s inner-city schools, writing songs, children’s books and more, trying to act as a bridge towards a new form of teaching that worked in opposition to the hard-nosed, corporal methods favored at the time – a job he’d continue for 30 years, well-during his brief bouts with fame. However, back then Ivor remained ever-ahead of the curve, striking others as too unorthodox, disciplining mal tempered school kids by having them write a story about their brothers or sisters death. No matter, it was on his off-hours that he’d take his bicycle down to the BBC’s Home Service studios (with his signature harmonium) to perform his poems and songs.
By the start of the ‘60s, it was those early writings, songs, and recordings that led to his first record, 1959’s Ivor Cutler Of Y’Hup, a pioneering comedy record that was equal parts Franz Kafka and The Goon Show. Marketed as some kind of “oblique musical philosopher”, in a way, Ivor became that to young listeners like Paul McCartney and John Lennon, members of the Bonzo Dog Band, and John Peel, who became ardent, early fans of his seemingly alien music and humor.
It was in the ‘60s when Ivor would come into his own fleshing out his outsider artform, taking his spoken word poetry and songs to radio and TV. By then, many were being introduced to his unique fashion sense and image, one prone to wearing plus-four, golfer’s clothing paired with eccentrically-designed foppish hats. His capstone notoriety would come courtesy of John Lennon who’d cast him as Buster Bloodvessel in their surreal, psychedelic film for the “Magical Mystery Tour”, serving as a segue into their utterly-beguiling “I Am The Walrus”, a song with an obvious lineage to Ivor himself. Shortly thereafter, John Peel would rightfully state that Ivor was one of the few artists who could have his work appear from BBC 1 to BBC 4, so spanned his artistic influence.
Scratching on his brief flash in the pan, Ivor would release his first major label release, 1967’s Ludo with his Ivor Cutler Trio, a surprisingly accessible version of his vision that split the difference between his increasingly otherworldly songs, like “I’m Going In A Field” and the silly worlds of “A Suck Of My Thumb”. Unsurprisingly, his short stint in the limelight shuttered, he lost his contract, and he once again went back to teaching and performance.
At the start of the ‘70s, members of England’s burgeoning progressive jazz scene would come around to rediscovering Ivor’s work. Musicians like Neil Ardley would ask Ivor to contribute his baritone spoken words to records like his, A Symphony Of Amaranths. Then ex- Soft Machine, Robert Wyatt would welcome him back into the leftfield fold on his totemic Rock Bottom, allowing Ivor to contribute vocals and atmosphere, hearkening to the poetic ideas many thought he spirited away many moons ago with songs like “Little Red Robin Hood Hit The Road” picking up the powerful, latent, melancholia of his ideas. Once again, Ivor was in for another renaissance.
Signed to Richard Branson’s Virgin Records, this time around Ivor did things differently. Records like 1974’s Dandruff included all that introspective, reflective “comedy” couched in compositions truer to his original vision, featuring spoken word with fellow teacher and poet, Phyllis April King. It would be the introduction of Phyllis, who would become his long time partner, that allowed Ivor to feel comfortable to do what he wanted to achieve, to (perhaps) couch himself in some kind of support he lacked before.
It’s something you’ll hear ever-present in beatific songs like his “I Worn My Elbows” and the first episode of what would become a long-running childhood meditation titled, “Life In A Scotch Sitting Room”. In the golden age of Virgin’s more exploratory, artist-friendly vision, there existed this space for Ivor to continue onwards a year later with the equally brilliant, Velvet Donkey. Although Ivor would go on to create countless other records, each as beguiling for literature nerds, comedy geeks, and music aficionados, for me, I tend to go back to his final album for the label: Jammy Smears.
There’s no denying that every day we’re getting older and as much as we feel our mind is sharp, our body doth decay. Time bears its weight on all of us. Perhaps, that’s why Ivor’s Jammy Smears presents itself as its own gospel to latch onto. 30-odd compositions that give you the scope of what Ivor was capable of inhabiting.
Piano-ditties like “Jumping and Pecking” and “Barabadabada” throw him head-first into hilarious child-like camp. Spoken-word by Phillis captures that solemnity/comedy of aging up. Other brief bits, like “Unexpected Join” or “Big Jim”, mere seconds long, leave you with simple stories, springing all sorts of unique philosophizing. Profound, melancholic, humorous vignettes like “Everybody Got” walk the fine line we all tend to fall through, one way or the other. This un-afraidness – unafraid to portray himself as he is corporally and spiritually – speaks to an artist whisking Nirvana inside the pudding.
It’s the transcendental meditation of songs like “Squeeze Bees” and “Beautiful Cosmos”, however, that linger with me the most. Long a fan of Arvo Pärt, here Ivor’s harmonium gains its like-minded equanimity, haunting, bellowing, billowing tone, as if sucking in and out all the zen thought Ivor puts to tape, informing us of his connection to a higher, more cosmic, music.
Later on in his life, Ivor would cement his attempt to do away with superfluous noise, to leave behind all the tools that bring sonority to the world, joining the Noise Abatement Society to promote quietness. Stripped bare, it was all about his voice finding the right words to say, in an improper curtsy with memory, that connected his work with his fans. It’s everyone’s universe, all inside “Life in a Scotch Sitting Room”. In the end — as in life — there’s always a laugh to hold on to.