Little Obsessions and Pleasant Pleases
A personal account of live music.
How do we find the good times? How do we discover true greatness and enjoyment? How is it that one moment we can feel ready to die then the next so grateful for it all? I feel the answer to these questions is simple, we roll. We just roll. Like stones and moist tobacco, we roll.
Two girls were sitting slightly drunk on a posh puffy bed in Elephant and Castle. They were talking, gossiping and as always they had so much to say. Meggy and Peggy. Two friends who weren’t always comfortable in their own skin but each reminded the other that they should be. ‘It’s okay to be you.’ Suddenly the background noise cut them off. BBC 6 music was playing and until that moment they hadn’t really taken notice. ‘Who is that?’ A genderless voice so sweet and piercing caught them and that was it.
‘No idea! lets shizzam it.’
As Meggy reached to cradle her device the other listened closely, lyrics singing how she felt. ‘I aint fit to be tied, I keep drifting down without security’. What a surprising release. On later listens she realised how the lyrics were really nothing about how she felt, she had projected them onto the song: got what she wanted.
‘I can’t find it, it doesn’t pick up their voice.’ Shizzam: another contraption working towards making the human brain lazier and yet satisfying curiosity. Without Shizzam they had to work to find the voice, wait.
So they waited for Cerys Matthews to tell them who they were listening to. Its nice to lie on beds with familiar people just listening to great music, especially if you are wearing a onesie (they weren’t wearing onesies but they could have, should have.)Tom Brosseau, a charming chap from North Dakota. That was he.
‘He’s playing on Friday in London’
They had scheduled a girl date. ‘Lets go and watch Bridget Jones has a baby!’ But movies can be rented and streamed unlike one-off intimate performances. So since dear Thomas had found their ears, they would go and find his face.
Friday arrived with a surprise. Peggy slept through her alarm and after being late for work she was sick in a sink. She went home and did nothing but puke and sleep puke and sleep. Meggie was worried, she didn’t want to go to the gig alone. No No No.
Texts sent through out the day.
But as the clouds peeled to orange and the sun dropped down it’s head, Peggy finally replied. ‘Mate I’m on my way, feeling fragile but I’ll be there!’ It was a mild evening, tiny bits of rain forgot to keep on falling and there they were, two friends arm in arm walking to the quirky pop up: Moka East.
It was a fantastic building. A bright yellow prism rising up into the happening above with a curious family skyline view: The West Ham football ground, empty from no game and The Orbit Tower , the red fairy light, tangled around the tree.
Inside there was the sweet smell of coffee, cake, food and wine. Una mezcla of rich rich tastes. There was no stage just a space with used books falling out of every crack, home made decorations filling in the gaps. They found two free seats, wooden near the front, there was nothing worse then having another head in the way when you are trying to enjoy music, there was nothing worse than the fate that, that head will move its head by chance every time you move it to see through the gap. As the night moved through the support acts, Meggy would hit Peggy: ‘stop wriggling!’ ‘I can’t help it I have a numb bum!’ And in between songs, those short few moments ,they stole the chance to babble. The music stopped them unlike the river.
When Tom coursed into the space, both girls looked at each other, it was inspiring to see how comfortable he was in his own skin. Holding silence up to the light and showing the room how taking your time and sipping your drink doesn’t have to be awkward. Time waits. Tom Waits.
He reached out to the crowd and expressed his willingness to play what ever the audience wanted. ‘This is for you and well I like them all.’ And he gave us stories. Telling the audience about the times he played in retirement homes, it was sweet and gentle and lovely. His lyrics were warm and cherished. His voice was shiny and still. Peggy picked her favourite moment as he finished singing Landlord Jacqui. It was the first time she has heard it and it would not be the last. What a great, exuberant woman and they laugh when he tells the crowd she called him ‘Tooooommy Salaaaami.’
As he finished for the first time the promoter, red wine lips popping through the window, wouldn’t let him leave the stage. Peggy and Meggy cringed. ‘Oh no! He’s a bit to much isn’t he?’ They cowered yet were thankful that he did because they got to hear three more fantastic songs with an extra special cover of Lead Belly’s Goodnight Irene. As he stepped into the crowd he brought the song to gentle abandon willing the audience to sing along. We were all so timid, and not so gentle as him.
Peggy broke a silence by singing at the wrong time. While she made a face swallowing her own lips and raising her shoulders like a kid, Meggy laughed. But Tom looked over at her and she read his eyes: no, you’re right carry on. So they did. And the evening closed out with a lovely union of song. Goodnight Irene, Goodnight Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams.
They ordered some wine and sat outside. They were hoping to have a quick chat with the man himself but he was the focus for all the lingering audience members so they caught up with all the unopened tabs of conversation they had. As the glasses emptied he walked past them, alone. Peggy piped up as the wine willed her ‘Thank you for the music.’ She didn’t have a chance to cringe at her own choice of Abba lyrics because he has already reached for a chair and joined them.
‘Well ladies. Might I say what lovely voices you both have’.
Up close there were no lines on his face, he was still writing his life from within. His blonde hair skimmed back and shaven with a long top piece of blonde hair waving over to one side. He was a wave and a breath of fresh air. So there they were, Peggy and Meggy, talking with a man so complete. He spoke of his comfort with folk music and how there was never any room to be nervous. And Peggy wrote a reminder in a fold of her brain: to remember that, what he said, every time she feels embarrassed about having the feelings she has. Singing such intimate thoughts should be relaxing but for her it was somehow stressful. And how charming he was, open without pretentious.
Sometimes in London you can get lost in the crowd, too busy to stop and watch a charming busker as the grey suits of the London commute barge past you. This gig punctuated all that pre tense. No pushing, no talking, just music, the person behind it and of course the occasional numb bum. Gigs like that were rare which made them more special. On a poster she stole from the wall Peggy asked him to scribble across it. He says ‘Peggy thank you’. A moment had and a connection made.
Finding the good in everything is much nicer than seeing the bad: Tom ever gracious and wonderful watched his support bands and talked to his fans.
They hugged to say goodbye. Six arms, three chests. And they made promises that next time he was in England they would join him for that final song, his sweet and girlie chorus.
Goodnight Irene, Goodnight Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams.
