The first one was at Barnaby's Bar in Hastings on Thursday. Clear-skied and anarchic, Hastings is fighting a running battle with gentrification, rescued in part by the slow train and road connections it has. And speaking of connections, it's got melancholy ones: this is where Poly's funeral was, a beautiful occasion attended by a fantastic diversity of people: priests, monks, punks, DFLs, her daughter and ex-husband, her mum, lots of 'ordinary people' and a small dog. Dave Laing's funeral was in the same place, an altogether sadder affair with a step-grandchild in floods of tears: yet there was the same atmosphere of a person much-loved, and the same air of puzzlement that the source of that love can be removed to leave a huge gap that can only be filled with talking and memories.
Sorry to be struck miserable on such a sunny day... I suppose what I'm saying is that life is bittersweet, and actually this gig was definitely on the sweet side of things. The bar is friendly, and much larger than I thought it would be. It hosts talks, gigs, art shows and all sort of things. I got to Hastings a bit early and sat on a bench looking at the flat, calm sea, eating my picnic of nuts, grapes, pitta bread and chocolate.
The sound-check was brief, enough to establish that we both sounded best through the house PA. People started rolling up: Girlschool's Enid Williams, a friend since The Lost Women of Rock Music, now relocated to a house on the hill; Wendy May, ex-Boothill Foot-tapper and now DJ and seamstress extraordinaire. Ed Frith, an ex-student from way back in time... it was a goodly audience.
Jude Montague started the evening off, accompanying herself with a very nice-looking Hofner President guitar. Her songs are quirky, but when she gets serious she can really hit home. Her penultimate song, about unconditional friendship, was really affecting.
My own part felt like talking to friends, which I suppose I was. People listened to the lyrics, and laughed at things that are quite 'buried' in some of the songs. I am getting back into my stride a bit now, after a few setbacks (at leas I thought I was). It felt like a good gig, and there was some good catching-up chat too afterwards. I escaped as the loud men got to the piano. Phew. That was close!
I've just realised that I've doubled up my account of the Hastings gig: shows how tired I became and probably why I got a migraine at the next gig!
The Rams Microbrewery in Rochester is a little world all on its own. On the way down, I got a message from Jack Hayter offering to come along and play, so I had not only Robert but also Jack at one point in the set. It was marred by a tremendous migraine that completely took me by surprise and put me off my stride. In some songs, I forgot the lyrics; at one point I thought it was an hour later than it was, and thought we'd missed the train. In retrospect, it was not nearly as bad as I had gloomily recollected. My guitar-playing was steady, and because of the 'missing hour', me and Robert played some McCookerybook and Rotifer songs. I think I played the best version of Saturday Night with the London Set that I've played for years. Jack joined in with Three Cheers for Toytown, and the whole evening was convivial, with Jude and her partner Matt playing this time. Dave from Outsiders radio show came along, Leigh Goorney, and Robert's son, and various other people.
The third gig was on Sunday afternoon at a pub in Islington called the Island Queen, and afternoon event run by Meg Lee Chin for over-50s who want to congregate and share music, poetry and anecdotes. Fran Isherwood was there to perform, and she really is one of the best and funniest poets around. She talks to an audience as though she's chatting to us on the bus, and takes us by surprise with sudden about-turns and sleeper puns that you get by the time she's moved on to something entirely different. This was a real treat. There was karaoke (not my thing: luckily I missed it because I went to Cass Arts to buy some masking tape to tape the microphone on the to the back of a chair because there was no mic stand). A selection of well-educated gentlemen took to the floor to describe their weekly perambulations; a chap with an acoustic guitar entertained us with self-composed songs.
In the end it was better not to use a microphone; the people in the audience with hearing issues said it was better not sing acoustically. Selfishly, this was wonderful exercise for my recovering lungs. I sang The Ginger Line, Almost There (that one with a microphone, but people voted against it), and Three Cheers for Toytown, which seemed to really get people going.
After some more floor-spots, Anna Pigalle recreated Old Soho through song and poetry, an almost-dream like sequence of words and acapella singing that finished the afternoon off perfectly for me. Boy, was I tired! I missed Mykal Riley, who arrived just as we were leaving, but there was no energy left in the pot. I had to arrange travel for next weekend ( Stockton and Halifax).
Gigs-a-gogo. I have the seeds of new songs gradually germinating in my head at the moment. I wonder what will transpire when the busy is over?
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