This one's for anyone revising C2 this Christmas.

So, um, I accidentally upset Mitch Benn last week by submitting the John Snow song without mentioning I'd 'borrowed' the tune. Yes, borrowed. I put it right back on Blood On The Tracks after I'd used it, no harm done.

Anyway, I owe him an apology. So here's an apology to Mr Dylan:

Dear Mr Dylan, I write to apologise
I recently borrowed one of your tunes
But you might call it 'plagiarised'
Mr Dylan! I'm not a copyright fan
But Mr Dylan! I copy you as right as I can

Dear Mr Dylan, native of Duluth
There's one problem everyone has
With three chords and the truth
If you're a folk singer searching for your own sound
Pretty soon you're going to find there aren't enough tunes to go round

Dear Mr Dylan, I'm not as prolific as you
You must have written thousands of songs
Surely you can spare me a few?
Mr Dylan! I'm not a copyright fan
But Mr Dylan! I copy you as right as I can

Dear Mr Dylan, please don't call it stealing
It's just the same thing as you yourself did
On every album up to Freewheeling
Mr Dylan! I'm not a copyright fan
But Mr Dylan! I copy you as right as I can

In honour of Record Store Day...

There's a girl I've never seen before
Browsing in the record store
She's behaving like an obsessive fan
Looking for some Bowie on import from Japan

And I'm in love with her (record collection)
I'm in love with her (record collection), yeah.

I'm gonna introduce myself
Once she moves away from the country shelf
I don't think I can let her escape
Until I promise to make her a tape

Because I'm in love with her (record collection)
I'm in love with her (record collection), yeah.

I hope the shine'll
Never fade from her vintage vinyl
Like it did with my Neil Young
Oh the needle and the damage done!

I'm in love with her (record collection)
I'm in love with her (record collection), yeah.

A small protest song. A couple was ejected from a Soho pub for kissing, apparently because they're both guys. Happily, the internet got hold of the story, and organised a huge gay kiss-in at the venue.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2011/apr/15/john-snow-kiss-in-london

This one is for Muammar Gaddafi.

I was thinking, as I recorded this, "Hm, I worry this sounds a bit too much like the original." Then I listened to the original, and felt a lot better. Mine doesn't have any of that deliberate wobbling about the tune. All of my wobbling is entirely coincidental, and any resemblance to real melodies is entirely coincidental.

What better artist to show off my vocal talents (and open-D tuning) than Leonard Cohen? I've stolen the lovely chord-slide from Blood on the Tracks.

I'd be astonished if Steve Forbert hadn't revamped The Oil Song in the last month or so. I had a shot at it just in case he hasn't.

This is what I sound like in the morning before coffee. Hence wrong chords, bum notes, all the usual stuff I do after coffee but with added excuses D

It's nice to write sad songs about other people's problems. It makes them feel all fuzzy and me glad that I don't have their problems

A new song, largely a result of playing with words and chords. Mendenhall is a street in Bozeman and a glacier in Alaska.

Th

FedEx mysteriously delivered my iPod to someone other than me last year. It resolved itself eventually, but it still set me off on one. I tried to play it at the Hauf on Sunday but could only remember half the lyrics, and finally got to reconstituting them tonight.

Somebody wanted a song that could be used as a duet.

Good God, this is silly. Lyrics are currently available at the old, easy-to-edit site.

A brand new song, recorded as badly as ever. The guitar's a bit crunchy and I sound like I have a cold... but otherwise it's a masterpiece.

Very simple: if heaven's going to be full of fundamentalist Christians, I've no interest in being there for ten minutes, let alone for time immeasurable.

By the way, if you have thoughts, comments, memories, etc. about any of the songs listed here, please leave me a comment or a shout-out or something. And declare yourself a fan! And sign up so I can tell you when I put something new on here! And! And! And! Thanks.

"Some people believe that football is a matter of life and death. I am very disappointed with that attitude: it is much, much more important than that.”
- Bill Shankly

I hope there are as many people who think this trivialises football as who think it trivialises love. Richard Thompson's rightly renowned 1952 Vincent Black Lightning is about a man who, even when dying with his best girl by his side, witters on about his motorbike. I don't know anything about motorbikes.

One of my favourite covers. Again, don't tell the music police.

I guess this is an indirect assault on rich white men who shouldn't be allowed within a million miles of the blues. I'm one of them, but at least I acknowledge it and generally don't try to imbue my sort-of-bluesy songs with anything more emotional than the occasional laugh.

This is, at least in part, based on a true story. I went to Dublin and in HMV I bought two very cheap Bob Dylan CDs. Will expressed surprise that I didn't already own them, I explained that I did but they were too cheap not to have a spare in case of my house burning down. He explained to me that I had a problem and should seek therapy or something.

Missing is a song about growing up and growing old and the changes that come in between. When I'm Gone is a cover (sh, don't tell the music police) of a Phil Ochs song which shares the chord structure and seems to fit nicely together with it.

Crail is a small fishing village, about 10 miles from St Andrews, and home to the nearest folk club. From time to time I'd wander down there with some friends, usually to find the gig was cancelled, and we'd wind up making our own entertainment. And it'd cheer me up.

Some time after 9/11, I was amused by an Onion headline reading "Liberties curtailed in name of freedom" and - given that my mind was at its most fertile then - it was only a short step to a really strong song.

I wrote this in France, not really about anybody (at least, I think not). It has a twiddly guitar bit which, even after more than seven years of practising, I still can't get right... which is why I don't usually play it live.

Hopscotch... is one of the oldest songs still in my repertoire. The Scooniehill Road is the southern boundary of St Andrews, and marks the point at which you fall off the edge of the world.

My only real memory of this song is playing it on Castle Sands one time while someone else juggled fire. Well, obviously someone else. It's hard enough playing guitar, without having to avoid setting fire to it too.

Once (rather inaccurately) described as a "Marxist fantasy" in a review, this is dedicated to the Tibetan National FA. It's named after a Dundee fanzine.

It's a simple break-up song. It used to have a verse about playing solitaire, but I thought it was already arsey enough.

Song for the Shy is probably the most honest song I've ever written, and certainly my favourite. It's a series of snapshots of many different people. I don't know who the shy one is, though.

Song for the Shy is probably the most honest song I've ever written, and certainly my favourite. It's a series of snapshots of many different people. I don't know who the shy one is, though.