James Blunt - Back To Bedlam

Disclaimer: This one’s emotional unloading disguised as a blog post. If you came here for riffs and rage, maybe skip this one. There’s wine. There’s James Blunt. There’s a dishwasher. I make no apologies. You've been warned.

You know me a bit by now, right?

We’ve had a few weirdly confessional articles lately.

There was Zero Genre Loyalty, where I admitted I can’t commit to a single genre like a functioning adult.

Then the one about Ville Valo, where I laid bare my whole gothic teenage phase and casually announced I’m flying to Helsinki for Charon’s reunion, like that’s a normal, emotionally healthy decision.

But this one?

This one goes even further.

This one’s about James. Bloody. Blunt.

Last night, that man hit me out of nowhere.

I’d been listening to Skuggor all day—Finnish atmospheric black metal, thick with mood and frostbite.

 And then, like a brain glitch wrapped in a cardigan:

| "Oh! Wisemen! Let’s do that!"

So I did.

Headphones on.

Track selected.

Barefoot in the kitchen.

Halfway through unloading the dishwasher.

And suddenly—I was twenty again.

Just like that.

James Blunt wasn’t part of my teenage soundtrack.

That era was all black velvet, smeared eyeliner, and notebooks full of melodrama and doom.

Ville Valo ruled those years.

James? He would’ve been eaten alive.

But then I moved out. Got my own place. Bought a dishrack. Pretended I was grown.

And that’s when James walked in.

James Blunt was the stabiliser.

The emotional placeholder between high-drama teenage angst and the exhausted adult I am now, who still falls apart—just more quietly, with wine.

Safe. Predictable.

The kind of emotional collapse you can schedule around.

He was, quite frankly, the musical equivalent of that one boyfriend your mum meets and immediately leans over during dessert to say, "You should marry this one—he’s a keeper."

And I listened to him. A lot.

Because when you’re twenty, living alone, and realising adulthood is mostly unpaid bills and slow-burn panic, you need something steady.

Back to Bedlam was that.

It wasn’t edgy.

It wasn’t cool.

But it worked.

Memory’s a bit blurry here—turns out I’d rewritten history in my own head, as one does.

But I definitely saw James Blunt live. Twice.

And both times are stitched into the weird quilt of my emotional chaos.

The second concert was 4th March, 2014. I remember because I’d just had my first baby.

First night out. Body still not mine. Brain eating itself with guilt and panic.

I went with my sister. We got shushed by a Karen during the opener—

Which, in hindsight, was the moment I realised:

I’m back.

Back in the noise. Back in the mess. Back in the world.

And then came the gremlin triumph.

The first concert? Sat in the wrong seat. Didn’t know James would enter like a polite British tornado, sprinting through the audience.

Missed my chance to high-five him.

But the second time?

Oh, I planned that shit.

Aisle seat. Strategic. Vibes set.

AND IT WORKED.

James Blunt stormed past, hand outstretched—and I, being the chaotic opportunist I am, reached out—

—and he damn near broke my wrist.

It wasn’t magical.

It wasn’t soft.

It bloody hurt.

And that’s why it’s perfect.

Because real memories?

The ones that stick?

They’re messy and stupid and painful and so, so alive.

Billy is one of those songs that gets past my emotional firewall.

I don’t dance.

I overthink. I fold into corners. I audit how much space I’m taking up.

But when Billy plays, something switches off.

And I move. Like I’m not tired of everything. All the time.

Then there’s Wisemen.

Goodbye My Lover.

No Bravery.

Don’t tell me those aren’t heavier than most of the "heavy" metal Spotify keeps trying to recommend me.

That’s proper emotional devastation.

Polite, yes. But brutal nonetheless.

And then it hit—that lyric. The one that always sneaks up soft and lands like a brick to the chest:

| "Gotta ask yourself the question – where are you now?"

I froze.

Mid-step. Mid-thought. Mid-spiral.

Because honestly? 

No idea.

I’d been spiralling for weeks. One of those ugly internal cycles where the teenage chaos version of me grabs the wheel and floors it, and adult me is duct-taped in the back seat screaming something about stability.

And somehow—this was the song that found me.

This weird, slightly unsettling little track about masks and beach shacks and something that’s just—off. Even if I can’t explain why.

 Now you’re probably asking:

| "Girl—what the hell does this have to do with your metal blog?"

Fair. Lemme explain.

Metal—of all flavours—is a massive part of my life now.

That was never planned.
It just —happened.

One riff at a time. One playlist, one band recommendation, one "holy shit what is THIS?" moment at a time.

It was slow, organic. Like slipping into your old skin and realising it still fits, just differently.

Metal made me reach back—not just musically, but emotionally.

It cracked open the box I’d shoved my teenage self into.

Suddenly she was back. Screaming. Scribbling. Throwing things.

Turns out, the current me—Izzy Izbourne, metal blogger, mother, and emotionally unstable adult with good taste in breakdowns (musical and otherwise), and the teenage me—eyeliner, journals, heartbreak, screaming into the void—

are both dramatic as hell.

Just—differently armed.

And sometimes?

James has to step in between us.

Nice shirt. Bottle of perfectly chilled chardonnay. Sighing like he’s refereed this fight before.

| "Alright girls. Let’s not burn the kitchen down. Have a glass. Deep breath. Let’s do some safe unloading for a moment, eh?"

And that moment—between the screaming and the structure—

is why this belongs here.

Because this isn’t just a metal blog.

It’s my blog.

And sometimes, the loudest thing I can do—

is listen to something soft.

And let go.

So yeah.

I put on Wisemen mid-breakdown.

Not metal. Not loud.

Because sometimes I don’t need blast beats.

Sometimes I don’t need catharsis.

Sometimes I just need to stop falling.

Three minutes of soft devastation that doesn't demand anything from me.

Just a melody.

A breath.

A moment of stillness that doesn’t shatter.

These aren’t guilty pleasures.

These are survival tactics.

Because the teenage me is still clawing at the walls.

And the current me?

She’s tired. Bone-deep tired. Holding everything together with duct tape and dry humour.

And James—ridiculous, earnest, lovely James —

he’s the one who steps between us.

Not to save. Not to fix. Just—to hold the line.

He pours the wine, shrugs, and says:

| "Alright, love. Let’s not fall apart just yet."

I don’t know if I’m healing.

Or regressing.

Or just spinning in circles.

But either way—

pass the wine.