On Ke$ha’s hit 2010 song, Blah Blah Blah, she says “zip your lip like a padlock”. I never even questioned this 7 years ago but I’ve been thinking about it lately. It makes no sense. Padlocks don’t zip.
Last Young Renegade is a story of self-realization. A collection of songs written from the perspective of the other side of the mirror. In writing this record, I delved into all of the different versions of me that other people might have met over the years, through the ups and downs, in the public eye and behind closed doors. I gave those other sides of me a persona, and a name, and The Last Young Renegade was born. It became a symbol for those characters and allowed me to comfortably write about some things that I’m not as comfortable talking about openly. This is a very personal record, our favorite that we’ve written. We hope you enjoy the album as much as we do. Thank you for being along for this journey with us. Get Last Young Renegade: smarturl.it/atllyr
A little impromptu mini-series based in Jamaica during the writing/recording of Harry’s new album. Enjoy. xo
The music in the bar was pounding as the sounds of the Caribbean flowed through the humid air. It was a small establishment, one that could probably only accommodate for two hundred people at most. It definitely wasn’t a tourist place; most of those were on the other side of the island with the copious amounts of resorts and hotels that offered travellers sanctuary.
Harry wasn’t there to vacation, though. He was there to write and record his new album.
The bar, “Pipo’s Shack”, was about a ten minute walk from the recording studio that Harry had been working in for the past little bit. It had been a productive couple of days; he’d spent the first night there having a few beers and getting to know his team better. After all, they were going to be working together until this thing was done, so they might as well be comfortable with one another. They all got along splendidly, and the handful of songs they’d managed to bang out so far were promising, but not quite right yet. After a couple of days of straight work, Harry decided that he needed a night off to himself.
When you arrived home after a long day of work and smelled
the roast, you knew Harry was up to something.
Either he wanted to talk over a very important decision with
you, or the tabloids were about to—if they hadn’t already—print a false or
prying story about you and he wanted to take your mind off it. However, you
still smiled as you slipped off your shoes and jacket.
It was the little things. That’s what no one told you about
marriage. Marriage wasn’t all about the Instagram posts praising each other, or
the mind-blowing sex, or the grand statements of affection. It was the foot
rubs after a long day, a roast in the oven as soon as you came home from work,
and the quick forehead kiss in the early morning when he woke before you. Those
little things kept the love alive.
He woke up to the sounds of the ocean kissing the sandy shore.
He couldn’t remember what time they finally fell asleep the night before. Sleep had already started to overcome him during the last little bit of the night so he hadn’t been fully conscious, but he did remember a few things: stealing soft kisses and gentle whispers, and the sound of her laugh harmonizing with the sound of the waves.
He’d never seen her that relaxed before, and it brought her to a whole new dimension that only made him fall even deeper—it was almost like she was a new person every day. Like she was constantly shifting into new versions of herself.
He turned over in the bed to look at her—she was laying on her stomach, one of her arms resting by her head as the other remained down at her side. Her shoulders were rising and falling calmly with every breath that she took, and it was almost soothing to see her this relaxed—she had this resilient intensity about her all of the time that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and watching her sound asleep was perhaps the only time that he saw her with her defences completely lowered.
He groaned inaudibly as he gently rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, sitting up in the bed carefully as not to wake her up. As much as he wanted to stay, he needed to get back to the studio to keep working. He slipped out of the bed and padded across the room quietly, and after some debate, he decided to leave her a note. He didn’t want her to think that he was running off, but he also didn’t want to wake her—he wrote her the note and left it on the bed beside her frame, slipping out of the little home and making his way back to the studio.
She woke up hours later, to the beeping of her alarm going off on her watch.