Well, Brixton. What can I say?
Firstly, the venue was great. Big and grand and a great view even from the gods. Have vague memories of having seen Soul II Soul there back in the day but was quite stoned at the time so the delights of south London were somehow lost on me.
H and the band were fantastic last night. Musically, I’m a bit of a funk, soul sister so the rockier new stuff has taken me a while to get my head round. But, shock horror, liked the new stuff best of all. Leave Your Body Behind You was beautiful, as was Down in the Woods (which would’ve gone down very well in my old stoner days as the band were well out there on the psychedelic highway to magical enlightenment), loved loved Don’t Stare at the Sun and Before (which is my new, new favourite) and Open Up the Door. And I just love The Streets, just because it reminds me of dancing in the bathroom.
H told a lovely story about his granddad and a steelworkers strike where Paul Robeson came and did a benefit concert and the band played Waterboy. It was lovely and charming and moving and heartening. Beautiful. The set was finished off by The Ocean and Arne was right, it was the best I’ve heard it played.
However, have made a decision not to listen to Soldier On anymore – should’ve gone to the toilet at that point because I find it almost unbearable to listen to. Not because I don’t think it’s great, but I just find it too, too sad. Too sad for a gin-drinking, middle-aged lush like myself. It’s going into a collection of songs that disproportionately effect me, in the maudlin department, alongside Frank Sinatra’s Wee Small Hours and Rod’s Hangbags and Gladrags. No more now.
H was witty and charming as usual. Think my friend was smitten with his general northern leftishness and liberal use of the f word. The comments about the Coalition government went down well on our row – comparing the cabinet reshuffle as someone trying to “shit on a shit to pretend it’s not a shit” was nothing short of arse word poetry. And I resisted the urge to should come on your Spurs when one of the band was described as a Villa boy. I mean, if the lad comes from Birmingham, he’s had his fair share of disadvantage already without adding to his woes.
Other things that weren’t so good. Got there too late to get a good seat so chatted up the lovely chappie policing the reserved guest list seats to let us have four with a view if the nobs didn’t turn up. After the first song, he came and got us from the back and sat us at the front, which was jolly lovely of the young wee thing.
The only trouble was, H was right about people who hadn’t paid to get in generally talking and getting on everyone’s nerves. Debs and I were sat in front of the pub cunt, who had his arm around a slightly drunk woman each side, with his oversized arse hanging out of the back of his trousers (hope it wasn’t a relative, H). He was generally being an exhibitionist wanker all the way though, shouting and talking and popping out to the toilet, I suspect to pay a quick visit to Charlie.
And there were a pair of screeching women sitting the other side of Debs. But we couldn’t really complain because we’d been upgraded to sit with the guest nobs, otherwise I would’ve had to have all of them outside, East End stylee.
Lastly, the company was pretty top draw too. It was great to see lovely Debs again and catch up. Going to go out out before Christmas to have a chinwag and drink gin in a glass that’s not plastic. Lovely lady. And bumped in to Josie in the street, who I’d met before. She was looking for a pub to get some afters, with little success. Going to PM you honey and we’ll meet for a jar. And when we got on the Tube, a charming man asked if I would like his seat. And I said there are two responses to that, I could either say thanks for your chivalry kind sir or I’m not that fucking old that I have to sit down on the Tube, mate! Anyway, then his missus says Are you Helen? How she knew I don’t know, a bit freaky, but it was Marie, who it turns out lives quite near me and had ‘recognised’ me before at a Gregory Porter gig in Bloomsbury. Mad, mad weird. Lovely, lovely to meet you both, lovely lady and her charming young man, what a sweetheart! And would be nice to chat on sometime, maybe in the bar down the road!!
This is the kind of world that my granny thinks still exists, one where you bump into people you know everywhere. Great end to the evening. If anybody wants to stow me away to accompany said band to Bordeaux, I know French for beer and fags, and make startlingly good fishfinger sandwiches.
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