Tuesday

It took me two hours to get to Clapton yesterday, hampered by some young guys in a car in front who stopped in the middle of Holloway Road in a traffic jam to nip to the newsagents (the red bus reported them and police screeched up ten minutes later) and the Balls Pond Road diversion (doesn't that sound like a 60s band name- could it be the association with Clapton?)
Biddle Brothers had it's usual atmosphere of a junk shop crossed with a funky New York bar, and Neville was there, the Tom Waits of East London (except his songs have an unmistakable Liverpudlian catchiness to them). There was a pianist accompanying him this time.
On the doorstep, a bored Scottie dog lay, its nose resting on its paws, waiting for Lower Clapton Road to turn into a wild Northumbrian shore, replete with gulls to chase, sea water to splash in, and exciting lady dogs a mere scamper away.
I asked to go on early as I had only 3 hours sleep last night, and that coupled with the drive almost finished me off- I did enjoy it though, and told them about my proposed F*** Sh** P** song, an idea I had after a review of one of my live gigs that said my music sounded like cocktail bar music! I'd missed out my livelier and more sarcastic songs that particular night due to a more than average percentage of old ladies in the audience, but still, I found myself stung, as a former (and everlasting) punk. So the plan is to write a gentle song with a nice bland bossa rhythm, and a totally swearing lyric.
Watch this space, watch this space.
I liked it last night because the barman stopped working and came to listen. Soundmen and barmen- if they like your stuff, you've had a good night. Just think how much music they listen through.
There was a very good girl singer on after me called Sarah something from Northampton. I'll find out her name and tell you.

I'm waiting for the Dusty in Memphis CD to turn up from Amazon; there's something that I feel WIndmills of my Mind can offer me at this time, and I'm not sure what until I hear it.