Gold Crwn Magazine ISSUE 31 / Karen Harding & Sabryna | Page 35

Hey there! It’s Natalia again.

In today’s issue, I’ll be introducing musician, poet, and visual artist Keaton Henson.

A soft looking London native with shoulder length brown hair and a bushy beard to match; His Wikipedia page claims he’s 29 years old but he doesn’t celebrate birthdays, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

His day revolves around making art: painting, drawing, writing or recording music within the walls of his bedroom-- a space he rarely leaves, due to an overbearing anxiety.

A merge of mostly downtempo beats, melancholic vocals and earnest lyrics that aim directly to the feels is what complies this musician’s creations, which as he has mentioned before, defines his listeners as ‘brave’, because they’re unafraid to face the emotions that come along with it.

His first album Dear… was released in 2010 by Motive Sounds Recordings, and after Zane Lowe played You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are -a song from the record- on BBC Radio 1, he initiated his own record company Oak Ten Records and re-released the album in 2012.

To this day, Small Hands, where his poetry roots stand out effortlessly, is one of the most outstanding pieces of art I have witnessed during my lifetime.

His second release, Birthdays, provided three poignant singles: You, You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are and Sweetheart, What Have You Done to Us, apart from featuring my favorite lyric “Darling, you ache for my love and it shows” from the song Milk Teeth.

The albums Romantic Works, a collaboration with cellist Ren Ford, and the more electronic inclined album Behave, act as side projects following his previous works.

Furthermore, some highlights from Henson’s latest album, Kindly Now, include the first single Alright, and its succeeding The Pugilist-- a synonym for the word ‘fighter’, where he realizes a profound analysis to his compulsion towards making music in an incessant or constant manner, as he repeats the sentence “don’t forget me” in a loop.

However, his newest song, Epilogue, emits the sensation of what seems like a heartbreaking goodbye to his career. Here,

Keaton acknowledges a variety of aspects from his life that he might have taken for granted, but have built him up to who he is today.

Moreover, a habit of his, smoking, fills up his windowsill-- leaving traces of cigarette butts after he spends his time observing a world he infrequently visits; perhaps in either romanticism or comfort for his privacy.

He performs irregularly and randomly as a way to give back to his supporters, however, the act spurs a terrible stage fright with an almost regretful after-taste.

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