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Scottish songwriter Stephen McAll, of Constant Follower, is our latest ‘Off the Shelf’ guest. In this series, we ask artists to present objects from a shelf or shelves in their homes and talk about them.
Constant Follower’s latest album, The Smile You Send Out Returns To You, is due for release on 28th February 2025 via Last Night From Glasgow (pre-order here). In his early review of the album, Thomas Blake described McAll as: a rare kind of songwriter: an artist inspired by trauma, personal loss and grief whose songs deal honestly with those emotions but are never afraid to offer up a little hope. This was true of last year’s collaboration with Scott William Urquhart, Even Days Dissolve, and it’s even more apparent on The Smile You Send Out Returns To You, his second solo album, where the songs often drift through liminal states before focussing on a bright musical passage or a sharp lyrical phrase.
As was the case on the Urquhart collab, McAll’s songs take inspiration from the literature of landscapes, and in particular, the poetry of Norman MacCaig, with whom he shares a certain kind of heartbroken optimism and a tangible affinity for the topography of his native Scotland. In fact, McAll credits MacCaig’s poetry for helping his recovery after a violent attack two decades ago left him with serious head injuries and long-lasting issues with memory and cognition.
The short lines and plain-spoken vocabulary of MacCaig’s poetry mask hidden emotional and philosophical depths, and the same can be said for McAll’s songs.
He concludes: It may have taken McAll two decades to realise his musical ambitions in the face of personal hardship, but that long gestation period has resulted in a handful of releases that are characterised by maturity, perfectionism and an unmatched emotional depth. It feels as if the songs on The Smile You Send Out Returns To You have been nurtured, perhaps subconsciously, over that whole twenty-year period, resulting in an incredibly moving and distinctive album.
Off the Shelf with Stephen McAll
1. Ryann
I love car boot sales and flea markets, but more often than not, I come home empty-handed. I usually hunt for records and potato mashers – Prestige brand only: metal masher, wooden handle. I’ve got a bunch at home and hand them out to visitors. Everyone seemed to ditch these incredible mashers for plastic ones, probably when (toxic) non-stick pans became popular. The plastic mashers break or melt, but the Prestige ones will outlive us all. I found Ryann at our favourite car boot sale in Falkirk, a town near where we live. He’s some sort of plaster modelling dummy – someone told me for fashion students to mock up outfits before going full-size, but I’m not so sure. All I know is I love him, and my daughters are terrified of him. Someone knocked him off the shelf, cracking his face, which makes him even better – equal parts charm and horror.
2. The Duck
I picked up this rock on the beach at Tighnabruaich, on Scotland’s west coast, where my parents live. I spent a lot of time there writing my first album – I attribute the space on the album to those days on the wild, empty beaches. I found the rock on a particularly wet, blustery day out walking. I thought it looked like a porpoise and meant to paint it, but never got round to it. A couple of weeks ago, my daughters painted it, and now it’s The Duck.
3. Lightning Glass Tube
I love crystals, stones, fossils—things like that. We live in the shadow of the Ochil Hills, known for some of the finest agate—the Scottish Crown Jewels contain Ochil agate. Sometimes we head up there to collect bits, maybe some citrine too.
This piece is something I think is very special. It’s a fulgurite, a natural glass structure formed when lightning strikes sandy ground. The extreme heat melts the silica and creates these glass tubes. A literal imprint of lightning in the earth.
4. Space Cats
This painting is by my late grandmother. She made it when my sister and I were kids. We always called it Space Cats and would laugh ourselves breathless looking at it. It’s meant to be our cats, Basil and Beano, but my grannie (by her own admission) wasn’t much of a painter of animals.
She was an amazing woman, though. She would’ve turned 100 this week. She and I were pals and would have these great conversations. I once asked if she was musical, and she told me about singing in front of her family as a child – only to be told not to do it again. And so, she didn’t. I thought that was a bit heartbreaking. It doesn’t take much to knock a child’s confidence, for good. Words can’t be unsaid. My grannie, in contrast, was careful with her words. That gentle diplomacy led me to the Stoics, who are a big part of my life these days.
The stone and wood creation in front of Space Cats sat on her mantlepiece in Tighnabruaich for as long as I can remember. She must’ve picked the stick and stone up off the beach and glued them together. To me, it always looked like a pterodactyl. Our flat sat high up on the hill overlooking the bay. That’s what Tighnabruaich means – house on the hill.
5. Moai
I’m obsessed with ancient history, and the story of Rapa Nui (Easter Island) has always fascinated me. We were taught that the islanders overused their resources and collapsed their own society, but we now know that’s not the full story.
My favourite podcast, Fall of Civilizations by Paul Cooper, did an excellent episode on it. But even his research is up for debate, with theories suggesting the Moai statues might be much older than we thought. That mystery keeps unfolding as minds seem to open more as the old guard depart.
6. Talk Talk – Life’s What You Make It / It’s Getting Late in the Evening
Talk Talk/Mark Hollis are my most enduring musical influence. This 7” record has one of my favourite songs (It’s Getting Late in the Evening) and one of my least favourite (Life’s What You Make It). It perfectly shows the two sides of Talk Talk: the early glossy ’80s pop I’m not so keen on and the deep, thoughtful songwriting and production that I love Hollis for.
Spirit of Eden is my favourite album by any band, and you can hear the beginnings of that sound on the B-side. There’s a Hammond organ that comes in halfway through that gives me chills. Then there’s this instrumental break, and then—that Hammond! It’s incredible. It just drifts off with no real ending. I love that.
7. Norman MacCaig
This book started everything for me. It was the first thing I could read again after a bad head injury. My English teacher, Mrs Tatarkowski, quietly passed it to me years earlier. I fell in love with MacCaig’s simply worded worlds. His poetry is profoundly beautiful, weaving the fine details of the natural world with a quiet, cosmic awareness. It makes the vastness of existence feel grounded in the simplicity of everyday life.
I was lucky enough to work with recordings of his voice on a collaborative album with Scott William Urquhart. His rich, resonant tone carried the weight of his words with quiet authority, bringing his reflections on nature to life in such an intimate way. Listening to him on headphones felt overwhelming at times – having him right there in my head.
I wish I’d had the chance to meet him and chat. I owe everything I’ve written to him.
8. Songbooks
I’m not a particularly prolific songwriter. I’m not certain why that is? Some would probably say lack of work ethic, but I think it’s more because I don’t like to push the songs too hard. I feel like the harder I push, the farther away the good songs get. So I let them come on their own. I make myself available when I need some songs for something. And then, they come. It’s a kind of magic. But it only comes easy because I put in the work, I think. And part of that is regular writing – even if it’s not writing songs. So most of the books you see here are not full of songs, but rather just stream-of-consciousness scribblings. I learned that from a book called The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. She lays out some tools for artists to use to help with creativity. One thing is called the ‘morning pages’. It’s just sitting down first thing before you do anything else (coffee permitted) and writing three pages of whatever’s in your head – no filter, no pressure to make sense. Most of it’s rubbish, but that’s the point. It clears out the noise, the anxiety, all the stuff that would otherwise get in the way. Some days it feels pointless, but other days it’s like unlocking a door to something I didn’t know was there. It’s not about writing well, it’s about getting out of your own way. When I worked with Kramer (producer and boss of legendary New York label Shimmy Disc, with whom I released my first album), he would share nuggets of wisdom. He told me that your main consideration when making music should be in getting out of the way of the Art. I live by that. Doing my morning pages is just another way for me to stay sharp and get myself out of the way of the Art.
9. Oops
This is what happened while I was occupied taking the other pictures! It’s certainly a busy life. Busy, but very fulfilling… and I’m extremely grateful.
A huge thanks to Stephen for sharing his memories and shelves.
The Smile You Send Out Returns To You is out on 28th February 2025 via Last Night From Glasgow.
Pre-Order (Vinyl LP / CD / Lossless DL):https://shop.lastnightfromglasgow.com/products/constant-followe-new-vinyl-lp-cd-lossless-dl-exclusive
The album launch takes place at Cottiers Theatre, Glasgow on Thursday 27 February 2025 (Tickets).
More links: https://linktr.ee/ConstantFollower
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