I’m in a strange mood this morning, and I blame Ivor Cutler for it.  He’s a Scottish Shel Silverstein, and on a whim a few days ago I downloaded every piece of song he’d ever recorded.  From the whimsical poetry of “I Ate A Woman’s Bun” to a the creepy toy piano of “Yellow Fly” to this, this bizarre bit of poultry related verse entitled “Bicarbonate of Chicken.”

It’s as if a beloved grandfather figure drank just a few too many Old Fashions, got in the mindset of tellin’ a story, locked himself in the attic next to his antique respirator and defunct carousel horse and put down every thought that’d ever crossed his slowly loosening brain.

I warn you good folk, you’ll scoff at first.  “Hah,” you’ll say, “what is this mess? Who is this doddering old man and why does Noah think we’ll enjoy this at all?”  But you give it another listen and the nagging prod of curiosity will dig in to your brain and you’ll start searching on the internet for more Ivor Cutler (who is he? what has he done?) and then you’ll find yourself staring at an I-Tunes with over four hundred Ivor Cutler songs staring right back.

But at least you’ll be happy.

Ivor Cutler - Bicarbonate of Chicken