I’d already done the equidistant walk to the train station and back, having worked in Birmingham earlier in the day. It had been a week of delayed trains so far. I’d been at court in St. Albans the previous day and arrived late. Our train sat at Kilburn for nearly half an hour, close to our eventual Marylebone destination. The only good thing about this was that the people who choose to leave their seats and stand by the doors ten minutes before arrival stood there for forty minutes. I never know why they do this but wondered if they were experiencing some inner turmoil over whether they should return to their seat or stick it out. So, I arrived at St. Albans magistrate’s court fifty five minutes late and soaked in rainwater despite my use of an umbrella. I wasn’t previously aware they don’t work when you’re running. I found the usher outside of the courtroom who looked me up and down, clearly struggling to comprehend how someone could become so wet. He told me they were intending to adjourn for another day because of my absence and that I should go into the courtroom and alert the defence barrister to my presence. I intended to sneak into the courtroom and cough or mime to let the barrister know I was there but she spotted me and loudly announced “Mr Bodger has arrived” (ELVIS IS IN THE BUILDING!). All was saved and the trial would go ahead. I don’t know why they were making such a fuss about my absence since I didn’t give evidence for another five and a half hours.
It must be my age or that I’m out of practice since normally if a ticket to an event says 7pm I expect something to happen shortly after seven. This was not the case at The Assembly. I got there shortly after seven and sat feeling conspicuous and lemon-like in the bar nursing my orange and lemonade and playing brain training on my phone. After a while I ventured into the auditorium to do the same, but with less bright lights. The performance area was impressive but horribly decorated. The building opened in 1926 as a dance hall and remained as such into the sixties. Then it was a bingo hall in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s and then was abandoned and derelict until being re-designed (appallingly) by Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen and re-opened in August 2008.
Finally, at about 8.20, whilst I was in the toilet, a young lady called Jess Morgan came onto the stage and sang some perfectly pleasant songs whilst jiggling about as if her knees were Velcro’d together. Support acts can be a good opportunity to discover new artists. Some of my current favourites were discovered as support acts; Sarah Slean (supporting Ron Sexsmith in Calgary), Martha Tilston (Supporting Roddy Frame in Milton Keynes), Chris Sheehan (supporting Marti Pellow), Nerina Pallot (Supporting James Blunt in Dublin). However, I saw David Gray as a support act in 1994 and wasn’t at all impressed. Who knew he’d become a megastar. When Jess Morgan had finished her set I went along to buy her CD and get it autographed. This is a habit we’ve developed over recent years. I’m not sure why. I think Marianna likes me to practice conversations with people that don’t involve phrases like “For how many days after you’d killed your sister did you continue having sex with the body?”. I had a little chat and got a signature from the petite and lovely Karine Polwart last year. The strategy should be to say hello, request an autograph, say thank you and move on. Nothing more. Especially not in my case. We all have an inner dialogue, private thoughts that we keep to ourselves or share after an editing process has taken place but sometimes, at times of anxiety, I forget to edit. Last year I approached Richard John Thompson (supporting Midge Ure) with the three CD’s of his I’d just bought. When he’d signed them he handed them back to me with a wink, a smile and the word “priceless”. Unfortunately, the words “Well, only on Ebay” then left my mouth. He looked less than impressed. It was meant as a joke although I can’t see what sort right now but he clearly took it as an evaluation of how poorly his career was going at that point and that a signed or unsigned cd would be fetching bugger all on ebay. These incidents often haunt me. When I was nineteen I was introduced to someone called Laurie and the words “I’ve never met anyone named after the vehicle they were conceived in” left my mouth. I remember to edit sometimes or in appropriate situations. About a decade ago when working in a prison a disturbed and emotional (and married) prisoner disclosed that he’d had a homosexual experience with another prisoner. It occurred to me to say “One Swallow doesn’t make a Summer” but I didn’t.
I was hoping, as my normal bedtime approached, that Ben Taylor would be next on stage but there was a second support act. Why open the doors at seven and start so much later, especially with an audience of people in their forties and beyond? Support number two was called Roddy Hart and opened by saying “It’s okay, I’ve never heard of me either”. His songs were very good, memorable and he was accompanied by a very accomplished guitarist. I like people who engage with the audience rather than just play one song after another and he was very good at this. You won’t be surprised that I bought his CD later and he signed it for me. The CD is excellent, a nice mix of Dylan, Harrison and CSNY but also very unique and well produced.
Then, after a little interval, a man walked onto the stage, took off his rucksack and took two bottles from it, took off an overcoat, turned around and revealed himself to be Ben Taylor, sat down, picked up the guitar, waved at the sound man to turn off the background music and began his first song. He was worth the wait. His guitar playing was intricate and precise and his voice was as smooth as honey falling onto flesh. For every three minute song there was a five minute story about the song so we learnt about his parents, sister, his mother nagging him for a song about her, a song about finding that his live-in girlfriend had moved out when he returned home from touring and lots of other things. He had a drawling accent I wouldn’t normally associate with the area of the US he grew up in but you need that accent to use the word ‘man’ as often as he does, to call people ‘cats’ and to refer to the audience as “y’all”. He was cool. Marianna later commented that his father’s sperm was still full of heroin when he was conceived in 1977 so that may explain why he was so laid back. For most of the gig David Saw accompanied him. I didn’t take to him. This was almost purely because of the hat he was wearing. Well, it wasn’t the hat it was the jaunty angle he wore it at and the necktie and t-shirt combo. That’s just wrong and silly. Rather than be traditional and play his well known songs from his CD’s Ben played lots of new songs, since he promised three new CD releases over the next 12 to 18 months. He said he’d be around after the show to meet people and that his most recent CD was for sale at the merchandise stall and we were welcome to pay whatever we wished for it. Making his departure as unique as his arrival he ended with a poem.
I noticed that I was a little older than most of the people queuing to meet him at the end and a lot more male than all of them. Also, typically of Leamington Spa, everyone was handing over ten pounds for his CD's. When I asked for an autograph he asked for my name and then asked “Is that Patrick with a C and a K?”. With a lack of internal editing I said “Yes, but it only works if you put them at the very end”. Fortunately he laughed. I’ve no idea what he wrote on my CD. It appears t say “Thanks – Prail – Patrick – Ben”. I’ve had worse advice.
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