After the events the night before at The Old Bookshop, the last thing I feel like is a two hour drive to Exeter for yet another battle. I could do with sleeping into the afternoon but the gig starts at three. When I get there, however, the scene is of a gentle Sunday afternoon on the very picturesque quayside. It is the beer festival and morris dancers prance gaily at the waters edge. I am offered a pint and there is a hog roast. The music is taking place just inside where nobody is and the volume barely reaches where the people are sitting out in the Sun. It's perfect and when the time comes I sit and while away the hour playing gentle guitar tunes, tuning up and singing the easiest of songs and the least taxing on my voice. Hardly anyone notices except a small child who contorts theatrically and eloquently to what I'm playing and the hour passes as a Sunday afternoon should. I get paid and go to drive home. The phone rings, it's Rick. He's wondering what time I'm playing. We meet up for some coffee and a chat, it's been a while and there's stuff to talk about. we spent about four years on an album that didn't get finished. I was thinking that it was strange to have come all this way for a hog roast.
The Old Bookshop is a tastefully decorated and quirky venue with lots of interesting and unusual details for example a row of fifties typewriters on the wall and a chandelier above the bar made of brass instruments. Ben, the proprietor, tells me he trusted his instincts when designing the place and as the night progresses its popularity is a testimony that he was right in doing so. The band and I converge from our various directions and share a table with Lydia, Richard, her Dad and his Wife. It is a warm and friendly gathering and the mood is excitedly good with lots of laughter. Genie brings in a huge rolled up scroll, looking like
parchment on which she has lovingly written the chorus for 'Waiting For The Cavalry', the idea being that at the right moment we will have the audience singing along. We are served plate upon plate of different dishes of deliciously prepared food which include mussels with squid ink, piri piri chicken, salt cod mash and many other wonderful things.
An old acquaintance form Goring on Thames, where I played years ago, turns up with a friend and his wife from nearby. It's a good feeling that people have come to hear the music. By the time we go on the place is pretty well packed and very noisy. Fabs and I have some tuning issues but Jim seems to be really on it tonight bringing startling fills I have not heard him play before. though it is a struggle to play in front of such a noisy crowd I am aware that a large proportion of them are trying to follow the music and as we progress, many turn and gather in front of the stage to watch and listen, some of them dancing.
It is a completely different experience to play with the band and something I enjoy very much. We all come from strikingly different walks of life and bring something which, as a sum, is strong and lively. When the moment comes, half way into the second half, Genie reminds me about 'Waiting For The Cavalry'. it is very good timing on her part, for the audience have warmed to us. As the parchment is rolled out I explain what is going to happen. Amazingly I hear the chorus of this song echoing around The Old Bookshop, a new experience for me, It is riotous, I love it. At the end of our set there are shouts for more, I decide to do a solo 'Something 'Bout You' but it's a quiet one and I'm feeling the need for silence. Something happens, I start saying in the microphone .. "What you saying?" I'm genuinely asking everyone what they are saying. They all stop talking. It's a very striking moment after several hours of non stop noise. Someone in front who has not been listening to the music, his attention being understandably on a pretty oriental girl asks what I am saying. I say "I'm saying what you saying, what you saying?" This brings tension in the room and the interest increases, there is potential conflict. He repeats "What you saying?" The Room is absolutely silent I say "How about I sing you a song?" And so I start 'Somethin' 'Bout You' The notes hang in the air like slowly moving bubbles. For three minutes we are all in silent slow motion. As the last note dies the place explodes and Mr. 'what you saying' gives me a nod.
Friday afternoon. By this stage I'm starting to feel quite tired. Lydia prepares a fantastic lunch with the pies from Bromsgrove with mash and peas with a bottle of cider from Pete at the Hop Pole. Then I try to sleep for an hour or so before leaving for Yeovil. The weather is miserable, just rain, rain. It's dark by the time I get to woods wine bar. Chris greets me and we do a quick sound check. the PA seems quite good but neither of us know how to use it very well. We get something of a sound. The acoustics of the venue are such that even just two or three people talking is enough to create a substantial noise. This will be a tough gig and I prepare myself for an hour and a half of playing to a wall of sound. A couple of people on the table in front of me turn their heads to listen and must like it because they buy a Cd at half time. I get talking to Charlie who has come down to see me play, he writes about music in several journals. During our conversation it turns out he graduated as a sound engineer; needless to say the second half sounds a lot better, he likes the music, buys a Cd and takes several more to give to venues in New York where he is going soon. At the end I pick up my fee and Kenny asks if I will come back to play again. At first I am reluctant but he convinces me that another Friday would be worth a go. On the way home I consider that it might be a better gig with the band. Charlie writes a lovely review of this gig, He should have been at The Hop Pole.
I
awake to a pristine morning in Gloucester. Spring Sun and clear blue
sky. I find breakfast in the Oasis Cafe which I was told about the night
before by the girl on the Hotel desk. I take it away to sit in a quiet
spot outside St. Mary's just off Southgate St. The morning light on
the stone of the church, the proximity of the yew trees and the
perfectly situated bench, all reflected in the picture window of a
modern recruitment centre opposite make it a memorable moment. Though
considerably messed up by the insensitive hand of progress there are
reminders everywhere of one of the most beautiful cities that must have
been. At the centre what is called 'The Cross' where north, south, east
and west gate streets meet. Off from these, narrow alleys with mediaeval
stone archways leading to yet another place of worship.
In awe I approach the Sun drenched Cathedral which beckons above where
the throng busy themselves before the facades of the shop chains. On
entering I am warmly and excitedly accosted by a man who says "Sorry,
I'm not a tour guide but you must go and see St Andrew's chapel which
was painted by Thomas Gambier Parry. It's the most beautiful thing you will see." I thank him and continue slowly, savouring each moment, being touched by magnificence. There
is a service going on, a ladies voice speaking quietly from the pulpit,
yet I see only one person sitting in a congregation of over a hundred
empty chairs and there is something in her voice.... she is not selling anything. As
I walk along the aisle through the centre of the chairs she begins the
Lords Prayer. I come to a stop, standing just where I am. St. Andrews chapel is stunning, though not the most beautiful thing here. As I leave I meet the lady who was giving the service. I say "good morning" and "nice place you've got here" she say's "Yes it's very peaceful" I say "You can hear it in your voice" she thanks me. We smile and part. I
go then to The Lady Chapel, I perceive something subtle there I can't
put my finger on it, something in the silence. I sit down on one of the
chairs. The space is vast. I am alone there. After a while of
listening I sneeze. It sets off layer upon layer of harmonics, the sound
is incredible. I start to sing, long improvised notes and the stone
sings back. Walking
through the cloister, the impression is one of being inside something
organic and living. The relief work in the stone, executed with such
love and care and I have to say devotion, is like veins and capillaries
in an internal membrane.The sunlight, entering through
carefully chosen subtle shades of green and yellow glass, blends with,
and reflects from, the pale stone in this space whose dimensions are
ordered by some old knowledge of sacred geometry. I am transported to another state. I am also struck by a paradox. That what we learn about history, from historians and at school concerns events such as conflicts and suffering, of people rising to power and people usurping other people, of land being lost and won and of cities built and destroyed. Yet here, the stones speak quietly of another, quite different history. I
spend the afternoon upstairs in 'Peppers Cafe' sipping tea, secretly
eating a rock cake that I bought at the Cathedral Cafe and writing the
blog of the day before. Lydia texts me that she will join me in Gloucester for the drive up to Bromsgrove. We leave early evening taking the A38 all the way. We stop in Worcester to see the Cathedral. Once again today, just as I set foot inside, it's the end of a service and I hear The Lords Prayer being said. Such
a feeling of contrast, to enter this vast, silent space from the busy
road, for there to be a service with a congregation of three. We are warmly and enthusiastically greeted by Pete at The Hop Pole Inn, which is a well established music venue for the town. The musicians who play here are treated very well. The crowd listen appreciatively and I give a good performance of an hour and a half with a break, feeling very at home. Many people come up after to buy CDs and tell me how much they enjoyed the music. It's
a warm and happy atmosphere with several strong characters, one of whom
cannot go without mention, a certain 'Pie Man' , an ex-traveller, a
force of nature and certainly not someone to get on the wrong side of,
who has settled here, and makes the most delicious pies, served here on
'Pie Nights'; two of which I swap for a Cd that go to make a perfect
lunch the following day. He is a harmonica player and wants to join me next time I'm playing up here. We
stay into the small hours after the pub has closed, chatting with Pete
and the pie man, leaving to arrive back in Somerset around three-thirty friday morning.
parchment on which she has lovingly written the chorus for 'Waiting For The Cavalry', the idea being that at the right moment we will have the audience singing along.
