A Departure


From time to time I am fortunate enough to stumble on opportunities to play gigs with other artists whose music I admire. A couple of weeks ago I was privileged to share a stage with two of my most favourite London-based female singer-songwriters; Eiks and Kirsty Merryn. Unfortunately due to a vicious cocktail of slovenliness and busy-ness I did not get round to documenting said gig, but rest assured it was a beautiful night with some fabulous music from both Eiks and Kirsty.

This Friday gone I was delighted to accept an invite to play at Departure in Limehouse. It’s a café-come-arts-centre-come-community-centre run by the charity London City Mission which is also responsible for lots of other wonderful community projects sprawling around England’s capital. The gig was a fund raiser for Webber Street, its Homeless Drop-In Centre near Waterloo. Both Departure and Webber Street happen to be directed by my flatmate and all round legend of a human bean Duncan (owner of the Che Guevara coasters). There was also some spectacular art being exhibited by a few Berlin based artists who had recently stayed at our flat (the super talented Deborah Harder amongst others) and so I felt quite a personal connection with the whole setup.

The night consisted of 4 cracking acoustic acts, one splendiferous poet, and an extensive visit to a nearby public house. Kicking off the gig was none other than my good friend David Logan (formerly of The ColourCode) who now sings under the moniker ‘Officer’. I can quite honestly say that this man has heavenly pipes, and songs that can melt you down and tear you up all at once. It’s verging on a crime against humanity that he’s been off the gigging circuit for such a long time, but I’m delighted that he’s back on the scene and am confident that this won’t be the last gig I share with him.

The only annoyance about Officer’s brilliance was that I was left to follow up with a 25 minute set of my own; a somewhat daunting and challenging task. Thankfully the heaving and lively crowd was nonetheless gracious and attentive, and appeared to enjoy my smattering of angsty acoustica. I debuted my latest offering; a song tentatively titled Deus ex Machina. On reflection, I feel that the only factor that has thus far been holding me back from gratuitous global commercial success is the notable absence of both obtuse Latin phraseology and direct references to the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche in my songs. I am fairly confident that this new number will redress that unsteady balance. Or not.

We were then treated to a spoken word interval courtesy of the effortlessly stylish and sockless Wayne Holloway-Smith. His three powerful poems were framed by a comedic and rambling narrative, all of which entranced the audience with raw power and lyricism. Hot on his naked heels was Jack Cleverly (he of Cymbals fame), whose carefully crafted song-smithery was framed by a plaintive violin accompaniment. For his final track he was also joined by Neil Gillespie of the magnificent band Grand Forever. The combination of picked guitar, pizzicato violin, kick drum and tight harmonies was at once potent, heady and delicious.

The final headline act was fellow Australian Daniel Peterson who smashed it up with his insane electric guitar chops, gorgeous vocals and immediately catchy songs. Joined by Mark Evans on cajon and subtle BVs, the set coruscated with punchy riffs and an enthralling energy, belying the fact that it was simply the two of them on stage. Daniel has a full band gig coming up at the Borderline on the 13th April supporting Chaser. It will be an insanely good night- you have my guarantee on that one- so make sure you carve it in the diary.

After 2 hours of the finest (and incidentally free) acoustic music that one could hope to hear on a Friday night in London, a massively throbbing £527 was raised for Webber Street to assist the fantastic work it does in supporting and befriending the marginalised and homeless in London. To celebrate this fact, we all piled into the nearest pub and consumed a responsible quantity of alcohol. And then some more. Cheers to all the beautiful peeps who attended, listened, donated and drank. It was a real pleasure to share the night with you. (PS. For some super skilled photos that capture a flavour of the night, check out Roy’s photostream on Flicker here.)

March 28, 2012

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Snowy Songs (& Secretary)

I played a gig on Thursday night. That in itself is not a massively unusual piece of reportage. However, the evening itself presented an array of delightfully unexpected and even eccentric occurrences that make this self indulgent review all the more of a treat; both in the writing and hopefully the reading also.

The evening was ‘promoted’ by Dead or Alive in a grimy little corner of Kentish Town. Officially the venue is called Heroes although this is in fact the reincarnation of the now deceased Flowerpot Bar which in itself was the spluttering and somewhat gaunt phoenix that had arisen from the metaphorical flames of the once famed Bullet Bar. Which is a roundabout way of saying that this is a building plagued by identity anxieties. That also means it is not a venue blessed with a regular crowd of loyal local attendees. Given that Thursday night saw temperatures plunging into the sort of sub-zero figures that makes the Metro dizzy with breathless ‘Bird-Bath Freeze Threatens Local Sparrow Population!’ headlines, it was a fair bet that numbers would be thin on the ground.

With my already cautious expectations held in check, I was still somewhat surprised to find that the snow-flecked arrival of my sister Jennie and I marked us out as the sole attendees thus far. I was even more disenchanted to note that the venue was apparently aspiring for the sort of meat locker ambience that tends to suit arctic explorers and polar mammals. Also, the only real ale on tap was tragically unavailable, presumably due to frozen pipes. Undeterred, Jen and I warmed (yes warmed) our hands around chilled pints of anaemic larger and awaited the thronging crowds.

Half an hour later, and it transpired that the initial bill of five acts had been whittled down to an elite core of three; myself, the lovely Sophie Yau and the charming Cameron J. Niven. The other two promised artists presumably perished en route in the wild white blizzards of North London. Before being informed of this earth-shattering news, my sister and I had been entertained by a bizarre smorgasbord of songs on the in house pa (presumably randomly shuffled on the barman’s iPod). This provided a suitably surreal soundtrack for the film that was silently projected onto the wall next to the stage; Steven Shainberg’s ‘Secretary’. Yes, that’s the somewhat notorious movie featuring scenes of intense spanking and Maggie Gyllenhaal in suspenders. Seeing as it was apparently on loop all evening, I knew it was going to be an uphill battle to hold the crowd’s attention. Or my own for that matter.

By 9pm with the audience suitably buoyed by a select crew of Harlesden’s most delightful community, Sophie kicked off the night’s entertainment, ably accompanied by her fellow guitarist Kevin who switched between luscious electric guitars and deftly picked banjo to frame Sophie’s graceful melodies. Their cover of Gillian Welch’s ‘Hard Times’ was truly breathtaking. It is in such moments, when the air holds still for a minute with nothing but simple music of beautiful clarity and snow slowly drifting past the window, that one remembers life is good. Cold, but good.

I followed up with 30 minutes of my trusty back catalogue, delighted to be providing a whimsical musical backdrop to Robert California’s silent but vigorous on-screen escapades. That left Cameron J Niven to close out the night with a nicely honed set of his original folksy material, concluding with a Bob Dylan cover that was perhaps unwisely opened up for some crowd participation. My Bostonian friend Joel- never backwards in coming forward- leapt up onto the stage with alarming alacrity and provided some hearty Dylan-esque vocals alongside Niven’s silky guitar skills and more subtly handsome voice. I don’t think Cameron quite knew what hit him. A bit like Maggie really.

So with the blitzkrieg of Joel’s on-stage cameo still resonating in our ears and Maggie’s contortions burning in our retinas, we wandered back out into the frosty night skies and made our weary ways back home. All in all it was a grand evening, with the threat of cold nihilistic emptiness overcome by friendship, laughter, genuinely wonderful music and BDSM. Certainly one to remember.

 

February 18, 2012

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That Big Old Lady

It’s Saturday afternoon and the sun is threatening to shine its way through the greys of South London. In a burst of near-reckless hedonism I am drinking freshly ground coffee (of the French Vanilla variety), eating unsustainable amounts of Chocolate Orange and listening to the National’s e.p. ‘Cherry Tree’ at an irresponsibly un-neighbourly volume. In short, I am living like a king.

Last weekend I enjoyed the privilege of playing Tunbridge Wells’ The Grey Lady (variously referred to by my father as ‘The Big Lady’, ‘The Grey Granny’ and ‘That Old Thing.’ Incidentally, this is the same man who once called ‘the Gherkin’ ‘the Pumpkin.’ He is also a medical doctor. Go figure.) The venue is a delightful music lounge nestling in The Pantiles; a beautiful and historic Georgian colonnade sadly lacking in pants, but positively abounding in tiles. There is also a well- a Royal Well no less- where one can drink water that is allegedly restorative and teeming with delicious iron. I have never partaken of the well’s rusty ablutions myself, but am reliably informed that the taste is truly medicinal in the cripplingly nausea-inducing-so-bad-it-must-be-good sort of way.

The audience at the Grey Lady makes a refreshing change from many London venues, given that there is a pretty strict listening etiquette that is respected by all. I reckon a pin drop could literally be heard, which makes performing a rare treat, if not a touch surreal. It does have the unsettling side effect of making my mid-set banter sound decidedly unhinged given the lack of punter interaction, but I can happily take the rough with the smooth. After my opening salvo of melancholic acoustica, the well mannered crowd were able to enjoy a set from the passionate and impressively dreadlocked Paul Cheese, whose vocals had an inflection of Brian Molko about them. Next up the newly formed Drifting Embers gave a rough round the edges performance with some truly beautiful melodies and harmonies shining through. Steve McCormack wrapped up the night with his effortlessly impressive guitar skills proving to be as bewitching as always.

It’s actually one of the really great things about being an unknown hack of a gigging musician, that I am nearly always sharing a stage with other acts who I can be inspired by and learn from. I made the decision a long while ago to not bother being jealous of other people’s superior skills. Constantly holding up one’s own chops, pipes or song-writing abilities up against those of others is ultimately exhausting and soul destroying. After all, there is always someone better than you. Always. As such, inspiration wins against jealousy every time. Gigging also gives me the opportunity to meet plenty of other outlandishly talented people. This time round for example, I had the pleasure of meeting Miriam Kendrick, who creates lovely art and writes cartoons every day, which is pretty bloody impressive in my book. Stuff like this, which makes me chuckle every time.

All in all, it was a decent gig, graciously hosted by all round top banana Paul Dunton. Unless something unexpectedly pops up in the coming fortnight, I’ll next be playing on the 9th February at Heroes in Camden, so why not come along and say hi? Until then, be well, do good work and keep in touch.

January 21, 2012

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