Zen and the Art of knowing nothing about Car Repair.

I’ve never had any interest in cars.

I’ve never cared how they look, what their specifications are, or how they work.

I don’t know what type of oil they need or what their tyre pressure should be.

In many ways, I feel a strange kinship with the pre-industrial traveller and his trusty horse.

The inner workings of my car are as opaque and mysterious to me as the inner workings of a horse.

And frankly, I have no desire to get involved with the internal organs of either; as long as I'm carried me in reasonable comfort from point A to point B, I’m content.

I come from a long line of incompetent motorists.

My granddad, a lovable Welshman with a penchant for personal injury, crashed his car a few times a year—when he wasn’t falling off ladders or waging a strange war against magpies.

I still remember hurtling unstoppably down a French hillside as a child, strapped into the front passenger seat of a rented Mercedes that my own father had forgotten to apply the handbrake to, having left it temporarily to go to the toilet amongst some nearby trees.

My first car—a Ford Fiesta with tacky hubcaps and a double exhaust pipe—was notorious among my university friends for being perpetually covered in parking tickets.

I somehow thought that one parking ticket on the windscreen would act as a talisman; preventing more, like some kind of motorists’ double-jeopardy loophole.

So, I’d dump it in a permit holder’s bay, take the initial fine on the chin, and congratulate myself for securing unlimited parking in Oxford for a bargain price.

By the end of term, my car looked like a fluorescent patchwork quilt.

Recently, I borrowed my guitarist’s retro-looking Volkswagen Golf for a photo shoot, thinking it might be useful for my album cover. More on that in a minute.

After driving it home, I called to ask if the sharp smell of burning oil coming from the bonnet was normal. I returned it the next day, only to find out I had completely burned out the clutch.

I still have no idea how.

To me, cars are black boxes; like most things I rely on—my smartphone, my boiler.

And, honestly, I prefer it that way.

I find it liberating, in fact.

When I take the car to the garage for its MOT, service, or repairs, I drop it off, wander into nearby Altrincham, read a book, sip some coffee, and wait for the call to collect it.

They sometimes offer to explain what they've done; I tell them not to bother

Sometimes they insist and tell me anyway; I don’t listen.

I smile, thank them, pay the money, and drive off.

The car works.

That’s all that matters.

I increasingly wish more things in life were like that.

Take, for instance, my current struggle with the album artwork for Stars.

The album is a collection of songs that emerged between 2021 and 2023, a reflection of my post-COVID self, navigating a strange wilderness period after leaving my teaching career.

The title nods to the fact that all the songs are set at night—some about lonely old men in bars, others about quasi-religious dreams. All capture some essence of me, somehow.

I’ve had this idea for the cover in mind for ages.

It’s stolen from The Simpsons—that pinnacle of late-millennial culture.

At the end of the episode where Homer loses his biological mother, there’s this stunning shot of him sitting on the bonnet of his pink car, staring up at a glorious indigo sky as a shooting star streaks across it.

I wanted to recreate something like that.

Except I don’t have a suitable car, the British weather is always terrible on shoot days, photographers cancel or don’t get it, and Photoshop never quite captures the magic of a real night sky.

And of course, when I borrow my guitarist’s car for the job, I manage to instantly render it undriveable.

I’m longing for some magical figure to swoop in and make this cover shot happen, but I know that nobody will.

Building a musical identity from scratch is a strange process—you have to will things into existence; force visions into realities.

It’s a constant grind of chasing down people who have the necessary expertise, hassling them amidst their own busy lives and priorities.

Nobody is ever going to do anything for you; and if the artwork never happens, no one but me will care.

Lorna from reception isn’t going to call me, remind me my album cover needs shooting, book me in for 8:30 a.m., and offer me a courtesy car.

Mike from the garage isn’t going to send me an update video breaking down the details of the cover shoot, complete with pricing and services.

Michelle from repairs won’t hand me a logbook, say something about wheel nuts, and send me on my way with the perfect artwork.

So I’m going back to the drawing board.

I'll have to find another idea.

In the meantime, and in honour of the mystical men and women at the garage who bring some much-needed simplicity to my life, here are my top five songs about cars, in no particular order.

Let me know what I’ve missed!

Baby Driver – Simon and Garfunkel

Bridge Over Troubled Water was the first album I ever loved, and it’s still one of my all-time favourites. My parents played it constantly when I was young, so I know every word. This song is pure Paul Simon, full of great character, layered with inventive harmonies, guitar licks, and poly-rhythms, all while sounding disarmingly simple.

Driving My Life Away – Eddie Rabbit

I’ve always loved Eddie Rabbit—one of those brilliant American songwriters like Steve Forbert or Bob Seger who never gets the credit he deserves over here. Hidden gems. I once played this to Dan, my guitarist, and he became similarly obsessed. Now we sneak it into gigs whenever we can.

Ol’ 55 – Tom Waits
An unbelievable chorus, whether sung by Waits or The Eagles (a version that he famously hated). There’s something about being on the road at dawn that feels magical—maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Waits captures that magic, and Closing Time - the debut album you can find it on - is still his masterpiece, as far as I’m concerned.

Thunder Road – Bruce Springsteen
I have a rule that I don’t think about, talk about, or listen to Thunder Road unless absolutely necessary. I’m afraid that one day I’ll overplay it and the magic will fade—and I couldn’t live with myself if that happened. So that's enough about that.

Drive – The Cars
It was a close call between this and Kathleen by Josh Ritter for the number five spot. Both of them are about being there to drive women home (or not, as the case may be). As an emotionally stunted man I really relate to the idea. Sometimes the offer of a lift home is the only thing we can think to do in order to communicate all those things we can’t find the words to say. Both songs are stunners.

As always, let me know what should’ve made the list.

And, as ever, keep dreaming.

Rob