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CannaBusTeD walking the stormy Hartlepool promenade with a guitar case

About

Three albums. A bus, a theatre, and this — the tent that goes up on whatever ground it can find, on the last night of a run nobody was counting.

My Fake Laugh is what happens after. After the night bus put you down somewhere. After the curtain came down on the love story. This is the party still going in a field at the edge of town, everybody in costume, the laugh carrying on long past the point where anything was funny. Twenty-three songs about the face you keep on, and what's sat behind it.

You don't need to have heard the other two. But they're there, and they're connected, and working out how is half of it.

Who is Ted

Ted drove buses. Nights mostly, the last run out of town with four people on board and every one of them somewhere else in their head. He'd watch them in the mirror and wonder what they were carrying home. It started there, though he didn't know that at the time.

He doesn't sing and he doesn't play. What he does is write. Every line here came out of his own head, out of things that happened and things he's still turning over. Then he takes what the machines hand back, pulls it apart, keeps the half a bar that sounded like something, throws the rest away, and goes again until it sounds the way it sounded before it existed.

People ask whether it's real. That's the question the whole record is built on, so he isn't going to answer it here.

Human direction, machine assistance, hand-finished intent.

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cannabusted@icloud.com

Lost Property — the cupboard at the back, for what never made it in.