2. Berties Bar, underneath The Prince of Wales in Wimbledon.

I couldn’t get there last night until ten-thirty, just in time to catch Sam Sallon play the final three songs of his set.

I stood in front of the little corner stage in a sparsely attended, yet noisy bar room and gave him my full attention.

I watched as he soldiered on seemingly regardless of the noise and minimal attendance. This guy is currently being played on radio.

Sam is a dear friend and a wonderful player, forever smiling and talking ninety to the dozen.

He will be appearing at a couple more dates on the tour.

I then go to the bar and ask the barman if it’s true that the musicians don’t even get a drink for playing here.

He confidently assures me that yes it’s true.

I order a pint of Guinness and go out for a smoke, thinking it’s time to have a word with Bertie.

Hidden Away Music is the title adopted by David who organizes this weekly / monthly event.  He hadn’t even bothered to post up anywhere that we were playing that night, nor would it have made a great deal of difference.

However crummy a joint this is, it occupies an important place in these tales.

This is the second time I’ve played here, even though after the first I decided I wouldn’t come again and both times I have had an unexpectedly good time.

The first time round I was having a miserable time in my life.

I remember staring at a brick pillar while I went through my set.

Afterwards a lovely girl called Catherine came up to say how wonderful my music was and our fingers lingered slightly when we shook hands. I spent the rest of the evening chatting with her and her sister.

The pillar of brick is still there.

I barely even bother to tune the guitar properly.

Clearly there is no reason to express anything other than what I feel and I feel like making a raucous racket.

Without a word, no! Tell a lie, I say something like “I should have gone for a piss rather than a smoke”

I tear through ‘Waiting For The Cavalry’ and then hammer out ‘Feet on The Ground’

I observe a slight tinge of violence in my playing, traces of anger perhaps and, yes there is no getting away from nerves.

Ah, okay, right, I’m human.

‘These Scars’ is, a little more gentle.

Then….

‘Woman Of The High Plains’

This is its second time around.

There’s something about this song. Power. It feels like it could shake a mountain.

It’s the rhythm. it’s the blues after all…

I discovered something Last year.

I was playing at The Wheelbarrow in Camden.

I watched a young kid before me play to an oblivious noisy Pub; he may as well not have been there.

I went on, expecting to have the same experience.

I started playing a song called ‘Big Girl Now’ but in a way I had never played it before. The rhythm came, just came, from somewhere much deeper, I played it for a long, long time before I started singing.  The whole place gradually shut up.

There was no way you’d be able to maintain a conversation while that rhythm persisted.

So Yes, ‘Woman Of The High Plains’

It goes on and on mercilessly until finally folding.

By this time I have almost everyone’s attention, so I say:

“Do you know the musicians playing here don’t even get a drink?”

And quickly inform them that it’s not the barman’s decision, adding that there are areas in Ireland where, if I had said that, they’d take the place apart.

I once played a gig in a remote pub near Sligo on the West Coast of Ireland.

A woman was bringing me pints of Guinness (no I don't have any affiliation with a brewery) while I played for about three hours. Afterwards she said she felt sorry for me for having to play this gig, that her husband, a musician in a well-known band, only comes and plays this one when he’s “at a loose end”

And this gig was paying fifty pounds and I was being fed and watered.

‘Woman Of The High Plains’ is done and I’m wondering what to finish with.

I’m looking around shrugging my shoulders.

Sam Pipes up:

“How about ‘China Ship’”

“You coming to join me?”

It’s great to sing together. I wish he wasn’t so concerned about spoiling it and would sing straight into the mic we’re sharing.

The gig is over.

I unexpectedly sell a couple of CDs (one to the barman) and swap one for a joint.

M.A


Ps.  hope the message gets through to Bertie