Tuesday, November 01, 2022

In The Midst Of Awfulness A Flower Blooms: Rachel Love At The Lexington

So this is what it feels like to live in a fascist country: free speech equated with hate speech. My head has been buzzing with disappointment, fear, and anger. Time out in Whitby helped, but the Nazi memorabilia in too many of the antique shops didn't. What happened to ethical trading? Verily, the love of money is the root of all evil, as Geoffrey Chaucer pointed out in the Canterbury Tales.

Circling in a grey mood, I received a message from Kenji. Was I going to any of the Chickfactor gigs at the weekend? The whole festival had passed me by: I've been living in a world of organising gigs, stopping the weather from joining me on the sofa in front of the TV or getting into bed with me, and days of drawing. The band I most wanted to see was Rachel Love, and thankfully I was able to get a ticket.

After surviving masks-make-me-cough syndrome (I think it's the hypo-allergenic washing powder), I was able to chat to Kenji and Till a bit before the gig. How great to see them! Then I went upstairs to see the last part of Artsick's set. They are fronted by a duo of women who sing very tightly-arranged vocals, which gives them a distinctive sound of their own; their songs are short and punchy, and they pleased their many fans in the audience.

Before Rachel played, we had a very quick chat. She has her sons in the band, one playing bass and one playing guitar. We remembered that the last time I'd met her eldest son, he was a baby in the dressing room at the LSE where his dad, Captain Sensible was doing something for the City Road Drugs project benefit. So was Robbie Coltrane, and so was I. So much water has gone under the bridge, much of it very dark and turbulent, though some more tranquil and beautiful.

Speaking of beauty, Rachel has become more beautiful as she has got older. She has an elegance to her that is all the more poignant because it isn't artificial. Flanked by her sons plus two of their friends, they embarked on a set of delicately crafted songs, a mixture (sic) of Dollies songs, a couple of covers (Velvets and Margo Guryan) and a handful of songs from more recent recordings, which were simply wonderful. Her song writing has only got better. How can I love someone else's songs so much and not be jealous? Because I could not have written them myself, and I'm so glad they exist. 

This was joyous music to listen to, yet I stood and cried through almost the whole set. Why? Because I know Rachel as one of the sweetest women alive and a great mum and because fate has been too cruel to her. Yet here she is, playing her songs surrounded by the love of her sons and their friends, and embedded in a loving audience who are with her every second of her performance as she fights back against it all gently and persuasively. Yes, life is worth living despite it throwing poisonous spears to disrupt our contentment. Not only a great songwriter, Rachel is an inspiration, and I'm so glad to have seen her play. Props to Kenji and Dita, who encouraged her to play live at the Glasgow Popfest this year, leading her sons to understand that she has an audience wherever she chooses to travel.

Debsey joined her for a couple of songs at the end and the affection between the two of them was palpable. Apparently Hester was around at the sound check and I'm sorry to have missed her, and also Debsey's gig with Birdie the following night.

Oh those times: The Chefs were offered a residency at The Moonlight Club and we chose the Dolly Mixture to be our support act. we did a lot of gigs with them, and those friendships forged back in the day don't evaporate. They run through our memory bloodstreams, because they help to forge our personalities. This was a very moving evening, a cathartic gig that realigned my jumbled cells and made me feel strong again. Swimming against what seems like a tide of sewage, you need an island to rest on and take stock: yes, I remember who I am now! Thank you Kenji and Till, Rachel and Chickfactor too for a great evening.


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