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The Dance

by Becky Becky

  • Digital Album
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  • The Dance postcard delivered to your door, with a download code for the 4-track Dance EP
    ships out within 5 days

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  • Becky Becky’s long awaited 2nd album Maraca will be released by Woodland Recordings over the summer holidays.
    It’s available as a series of 5 postcards with download codes & a SPECIAL EDITION book / CD:

    Order the SPECIAL EDITION album and receive:

    25th June - Hey, Santiago! - single (postcard + download)
    9th July - The Mountain - EP (postcard + download)
    6th August - The Dance - EP (postcard + download)
    3rd September- Symmetry - EP (postcard + download)

    Late September - Maraca - album (SPECIAL EDITION book / CD + postcard + download)

    Postcard art: Brigitte Rose
    Lino cuts: Lunar Fields Design
    ... more
    ships out within 5 days
    edition of 17 

      £25 GBP or more 

    You own this  


  • Becky Becky’s long awaited 2nd album Maraca will be released on Woodland Recordings over the summer holidays.
    It’s available as a series of 5 postcards with download codes:

    Subscribe to the postcards and receive:

    25th June - Hey, Santiago! - single
    9th July - The Mountain - EP
    6th August - The Dance - EP
    3rd September - Symmetry - EP
    Late September - Maraca - album

    A Special Edition Book / CD of Maraca is also available to pre-order from our website.

    Art: Brigitte Rose
    ... more
    ships out within 5 days

      £15 GBP or more 

    You own this  


m a r a c a 04:07
His face fascinates me, mischievous yet kind, but with a softness I hadn't expected to find. His soft eyes are soft lashed, his soft fingers softly holding mass. Soft body, soft eyes, soft hands - but the tongue, as rough as sand, a pebble pushed into my mouth, a peppermint from a million miles south. Single letters spelling out a single word, a message from the other side of the world: m a r a c a maraca This is enough to take me away. That she could know is insane. As insane as chirruping cicadas, as insane as hissing maracas. Maracas humming like a rash. Is this espionage or witchcraft? How could she possibly know? A message from the other side of the world. Single letters spelling out a single world. Maracas wound up too tight and crackling. Bone and droppings inside a taut skin. All is still now. He says, I know this number. It is my wife. He has a wife.
Coffee 04:36
I wonder? Did he feel something too, the other one? Did something in him know? They told me he pounded a frantic salsa beat into an amp unprovoked. Did flares shoot from our convulsing abdomens and touch them at the very same moment? He, in a basement bar below a station and she across the globe and waiting, black hair damp with sweat, the kids at school, mother in an adjacent room, coffee pot hissing ignored. She's licking her lips, waiting, waiting. It will be soon. The maracas are beginning to play. He's moving his hips cooing as a dove. The moment she's been waiting for, for a lifetime, since before they fell in love, when a boy at school curled shouted insults that she had a moustache. Pear blossom was falling. The sun was high and other girls laughed. She had a graze on her knee that prickled with the salt of the sweat. Other girls laughed and now she knew: all men would be bastards and all girls coquettes; jiggling, giggling maracas. And now the coffee pot is erupting onto the stove top and he is erupting into the embrace of a braceleted figure with a soft-focus face.
You're asking me to dance, but I don't know how to answer. You're asking me to say no, to say I'm no dancer. But we came here to dance. I flew here to dance with you. More than anything, anything, I want to dance with you. You flirted with me. You wanted to show me your culture, your spirit, your music, the dance to dance with me. I'm wearing my sandals. I've dressed carefully. I've made myself elegant, wearing the beads that you gave me. Echoing footsteps left over from the exotic dancers ending their show, a salsa is playing and I have been practising salsa at home, willing myself forward into the moment when you will take my hand and lead me from the table to the floor in front of the band. Adrenaline and fear will flood me and my cheeks will flush and in my neck keeping the beat, I will feel my pulse. You'll smile and step with the music and I'll follow you. And you'll be happy that I'm answering, happy I came to see you. Dance! Dance! Dance! Bailame! Bailamos! Dance! Dance! Dance! Love! Love! Love! But now you're mouthing words to songs I'll never know, bobbing your head side to side, raising an eyebrow. But I can see the weariness that you keep underneath. You don't have it in you to bother with me. You'll remember this evening as when we did something fun but then I just sat there, sad and silent and sullen. You in your smart jacket and me just sat in my seat, a half pineapple and melted ice cream that I just couldn't eat.
Fruit 03:08
In the rain in the airport car park, steam rising from the concrete floor, I cried to my sister for half an hour, my voice choked and small. I finished the fruit he'd left. I rarely eat fruit. Then again, I rarely wear things on my wrists or fuck in the afternoon. I rarely eat galettes of French chocolate, naked in bed and rarely do I smoke but I lit up a thin, menthol cigarette. I open all the windows. Let some new air in. Everything is new now. I think I love him.


released August 6, 2021

Gemma L Williams: music, words & voice.
Peter J D Mason: music, words, & production.

Brigitte Rose: art.


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Becky Becky

Literary-inspired electro-synth-pop duo Gemma L Williams & Peter J D Mason.

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