Letter from a villain (past collaborator): Dear Ghillie / Jim Coulter, Chase me, chase me. Tom and Jerry. Dick Dastardly and Muttley. My two dogs by the fire, contentedly asleep. I miss us, the spark of excitement, the thrill of the chase, the ancient rolls… but most of all I miss making music, our no man’s land. And that’s what makes it difficult at first to listen to your Haar. I hear the hills in it, I hear the sea in it, I hear whitewashed walls, wind and drizzle, shards of sunlight on Scottish sand, I hear the spark and click of a lighter, I hear you. When you left my life you took on a new name, a borrowed name, a name paying homage to a legend in folk circles buried deep in old songs and ancient bothy books. And that’s you through and through - the cryptic layers, the barely tangible stream of consciousness, the subtle fragility of an idea teasingly explored, the suggestion of a hook, the predictably unpredictable. Maybe a bloody genius but most definitely with something to say, a perfectionist but never a polisher or one to dwell too long on precious things. Am I talking about the music, Haar, or you? To me they are one in the same thing, the sea - you, the ghost-like memories of an old fashioned Scotland - you, the Joyce-esque suggestion of a thousand things without ever defining one - you. A rich tapestry from a strange and beautiful mind. This isn’t a vacuous collection of junk collected by some preening magpie but something real, something built with love, craft and tirelessly acquired skill. Referential yes, but only so as to pay respectful homage to tradition and culture. A precise execution on proper machines with big hands and pop-eye forearms, undeniably heartfelt. I miss you, but for now I have this. Yours, The Poacher