‘Haven’t you got to go do your random thing tonight?’ asked my colleague Debbie, just as we were paying for our meal. Debbie seemed to be enjoying regular updates about all the crazy nonsense I was getting up to.
‘What have you got planned?’
I had chosen an event before we sat down at the restaurant by applying the half hour rule once I had estimated how long it would take us to eat and chat.
‘A country music night in Islington’.
I don’t like American country music. I don’t like the twanging of steel guitars, the wacky clothing (which invariably includes a cowboy hat), and lyrics about open plains. The reason why I struggle with country and western music is the same reason why I struggle to understand cowboy films; I find it difficult to relate to them: I’m a city boy.
This said, I love the blues. I ‘get’ blues in a way that I don’t ‘get’ happy chirpy country music about horses and girls that live in the next village. The more miserable a blues song is, the more I like it. My ideal blues song would begin with a story about how my wife left me, taking the kids, how I then lost my job, how my house burnt down because of smoking a cigarette whilst I was drunk on whisky, how I then gambled all my money away at a casino in New Orleans, and then how I got arrested after trying to steal a gun to shoot myself. I want a blues singer to end up crying on stage, and then end by saying, ‘if you thing that’s bad… stick around for my next song’.
The gig was in a pub in Islington. I figured the easiest way would be to take an Overground train from Camden to Highbury and walk, but it turned out to be a circuitous route. This journey was yet another of those mild adventures that would tell me a little more about the London transport network. I walked past busy high street shops, and onto a quieter street that were lined by imposing Georgian terraces, separated from the road by formal iron railings; houses owned by well-to-do professionals. Within minutes I rediscovered a pub where I once had a disastrous date with a medical doctor, and went around a corner and found the pub, which I remember from a night out about a year earlier.
I ordered a pint, found a table and checked my phone. Five people (including myself) had signed up for this event. I was worried about whether I would be able to find anybody; the smaller the meetup, the more difficult they are to find people. I left a quick message announcing that ‘I am here’. When I was just about to close my phone I saw a message sent by the organiser, Mark. Mark had written a note saying that he had also arrived. He also said that he was wearing a black and white two tone jersey. I looked around.
‘Excuse me, are you Mark?’ I asked the man who was sitting on the next table. Mark looked up, smiled, and offered his hand. I had found the host of the event.
Mark turned out to live in a town twenty miles outside of London, and he had driven down after work to come to this gig. Mark was really easy to talk to. It turned out that Mark had been married for over thirty years and had two kids. Although he was over fifty, he was sporting a full head of hair that was only beginning to show the odd spec of grey. I was jealous. I was ten years younger than Mark, I have hardly any hair, and what little I have has gone shockingly grey. Mark’s ‘thing’ was going to music gigs, which he did regularly. His great love, I was told, was Bruce Springsteen.
Mark looked at his watch, and then over his shoulder. ‘They’ve opened the doors. We should go in’.
Mark wandered straight into the performance room but I had to buy a ticket. ‘You’ve got the last one’, the attendant said, recording my purchase as a tally mark. My ‘ticket’, it turned out, was a heart shape that was roughly doodled onto my wrist with a black pen. I could see sheets of paper with names of people who had already paid for their tickets. It was starting to occur to me that this was a gig of substance; this wasn’t an event that you would just ‘drop into’, but an event that you would deliberately seek out.
The performance room was intimate and crowded; it was standing room only. There was a wide stage which was surrounded by blood red pleated curtains that ran from ceiling to floor. To the right of the stage there was a technician who controlled a mixing desk for the sound and the lighting.
‘Tina! How are you doing?’
Out of the five people on the Meetup list, I recognised the names of two of them. One of those was an acquaintance of mine called Tina. Tina, who was in her early sixties, had done the same thing that I had done: she wanted to do something on a quiet Tuesday night, so she looked at the Meetup site; the only difference was, of course, that her choice was a little less random than mine. The second name that I recognised belonged to a chap called Charlie, but by the looks of it, he wasn’t able to make it.
The warm up act was a three piece: a drummer, a lead guitarist, and a rhythm guitarist, who was also the singer. The drummer and lead guitarist both sported voluminous moustaches and checked shirts. The charismatic lead singer wore a blue denim jacket, blue jeans and a cowboy hat. After a few words to the audience, the band started their first song. The rhythm, tone and lilting voice had a country texture, but it was good: the band was tight, and they clearly enjoyed being there. The audience clapped appreciatively.
It suddenly struck me: this wasn’t the country music that I despised. Although there was a cowboy hat, there were no ridiculous costumes; it was all pretty simple and the songs all had a strong flavour of the blues. The lead singer told us that he lived in Nashville, but he was originally from Dallas; he was real deal. For some reason, I was expecting a singer from Norwich. It didn’t cross my mind that I would be paying real money to see some real Americans.
One song took inspiration from gospel music. It contained a chorus that contained the lyrics, ‘the road to Jesus’, which was sung in close harmony by all three musicians. It was a nice song, but it left me worried: were these guys big amongst the Bible belt? Were other songs going to be like this? Had I stumbled into a night of Christian music? Thankfully, I had nothing to fear. A later song had the glorious title: ‘too stoned to cry’, which mentioned cocaine and suggested that ‘Jesus would save me, but that was a lie’: a welcome counterpoint to the harmonies; a touch of acid to neutralise a distant taste of saccharine.
The lead guitarist was awesome. The notes and rhythms enraptured me with the beginnings of misery. Fingers moved up and down the fret board, notes were picked from the blues scale, complementing the rhythm guitar that seemed to be, miraculously, providing the bass, as well as a magnifying accompaniment. Gentle applause had given way to cheers.
After a short interval it was the time for the headline act: it was just a man with a guitar. The room was now filled to capacity with around one hundred and twenty people. It was starting to get hot. Everyone stepped forward to make room for people at the back who were trying to get in.
This second act was very different. There was less strumming, more finger picking; astonishingly fast finger picking. The guitar was tuned and re-tuned for different songs. There was no mention of Jesus, but there was a respectable amount of misery: we were sung stories of lies, about a death of a motorcycle rider, and how a wife left a husband whilst also taking the kids. I loved it.
‘Houston!’ shouted an audience member.
‘I would love to do your request, but I’m all tuned up in a certain way, so I can’t do it right now…’
The guitarist started a new song, and a good proportion of the audience started to clap and cheer. It was one of those moments where you realise that they know things that you don’t know about. Guitar strings were broken, cheesy jokes were told, and Houston was finally played.
‘Okay, this is the final song, and I’m not doing any more, so pretend this is an encore!’ The audience played along and immediately started to cheer for more. The final song was played at a phenomenal speed and with great gusto; it was almost as if the singer, Robert Ellis, was playing more than one guitar at the same time. When the song came to the end, the crowd erupted.
‘That was better than yoga, wasn’t it!’ said Mark, as we shook hands and said goodbye. He had to leave quickly because of his long journey home. I found Tina, and said goodbye to her too. She too was on her way to find her car.
The air outside of the pub was cool; a great contrast to the hot and sticky atmosphere of the pub. It had been a great night. I had seen and heard something I had not expected to see and had thoroughly enjoyed it. I was also very relieved that I had not heard the sound of a steel guitar. I smiled at the thought of ‘the blues’ as I walked towards Angel underground station to catch my tube train towards London Bridge.
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