Barmy

'This is King Tong Puh Hancras', announced the auto lady garbledly on the Piccadilly Line tube. A kindly tourist misdirected another tourist, who had asked him where Lassel Square was, to Leicester Square. By the time they had communicated properly and realised that he'd meant Russell Square, it was too late. As I changed lines, I sidled past a man on the platform wearing a stetson and carrying a large inflatable plastic shark. He looked embarrassed, as though what had seemed like a good idea indoors had lost it's charm in the cold light of the Northern Line.

The venue had been very Sixties- a small Soho dive under an Italian cafe that served not very nice pizza in a charming way.
We sat at candelit tables, and watched Ben Spooner, energetic, fierce and doomy, playing his guitar percussively; every so often his fingers executed spiderlike moves and he revealed a skill in chordsmanship that made me glad his loopmaster had broken.
An aside on loopmasters: years ago when I was a punk I likened the long Seventies guitar solos we'd been born to eradicate to liking the smell of your own trouser-coughs. Loopmasters are worse- akin to shutting oneself into a vintage telephone kiosk with one's own trouser-cough. Ugh.
I was touched by the fact that the bar staff in this venue seemed to be total music fans- they'd congregated for the soundchecks and in between serving the boozers would come out from behind the bar so they could see and tap along with the music. The promoter, Stephen, was very good- he made absolutely sure everyone was happy with their sound, and was totally devoid of that arrogant cynicism that some promoters display. Again, a total music fan. He'd remembered London from two years ago, that was why he's asked me to play. He used to run the music at the Carnaervon Castle, one of the Camden pubs that burned down (the other was the Hawley Arms, haunt of the haunted Amy Winehouse) which I played that long ago with a group of heavy metal bands, I think.
There was a micro drama as Little Bruv identified the scent of Honey and Lemon washing balm in his beer glass but we decanted it into my coke glass and he was happy again. Lucy and Rowen came along too, and A Man Who Used to Like Helen And The Horns stood at the bar, texting like mad.
I sang, I sang, against painted silhouettes of the London skyline. I only had 4 hours sleep the night before and got a bit wavery here and there but did most of the songs justice, I think.
Last on was James Spankie. He had a large number of school friends in the audience who had peppered the evening with exotic text bleeps. They loved him, and so did he (meow!). Somewhere in his head was a stadium; somewhere in the loops were good songs. Everything was cluttered with noise, and although everyone's instruments go out of tune sometimes, two in one night, guitar and violin, made me wish he'd kept it a bit simpler. I don't normally write reviews of things that are bad, and he wasn't bad, really, especially as he is so young (cue comment about policemen getting younger these days from singer-songwriter getting older these days), so that's enough. I always think that if I rubbish someone my next gig will be crap!
I sort of wish he'd remembered that there were other people in the audience than his group of friends, and communicated to us too, that's all.
That was it; an interesting musical evening with a retro feel, and a surreal journey home. What an interesting book that would be, journeys home on the tube at night! They are always mad... people playing invisible musical instruments as they run though the evening's repertoire on the way back; people having one-person imaginary conversations and making the faces that go along with them; people throwing up, talking about bizarre things, humming along obliviously to their mp3 players... mice at the tube stations. Another city, even barmier than the one above ground.