Martin Stephenson at the Half Moon Putney, 18th November 2009

I hadn't seen Martin Stephenson in years, the last time was at The Borderline in London maybe 10 years ago.

That night I had failed to book the tickets in advance and of course, it was sold out. My sister and her friend were not happy when I told them, her friend had come a long way to be there. My name was MUD. Then a vision appeared, a man walking purposefully towards us in the shadows, a combination of George Formby and Clint Eastwood.

"That's him" I said.
"Who" my sister asked angrily.
"Martin Stephenson"

He approached us, smiling and asked what was up, why the sad faces.
I explained what an idiot I had been. My glum face said it all, my sister, a storm, we were storm.
He told us not to worry and to follow him. He took us to the ticket booth and said:

"This is me brother, this is me sister and this is me uncle, can I get them in?"
The man nodded.

We were in!! And, we had a story to tell. I was flavour of the month, we couldn't stop smiling. We had a fabulous night, we grinned up at him for two hours straight, even during the sad songs. We must have looked demented. Loopy gargoyles.

So I went to the Half Moon concerned that I was going to ruin a fond memory and spend the evening glum faced, even during the upbeat songs.

Things didn't get off to a great start, Martin's girlfriend sang a few songs and blushes burst through the skin on my cheeks and spread to my neck, I felt like I was getting shingles. I am sorry Martin (if you ever read this), your strengths, are her weaknesses. She looked like your older sister yet her lyrics sounded 6th form, they were less mature than the words that you wrote twenty years ago. You smiled throughout, but i wonder what you were really thinking of her performance? Your love for her was there for all to see, your grin, as warm as ever but it was all too much for those who loved you in a different way, we had to leave the room. A few others did the same, one woman sticking her fingers down her throat as she left the room.

Jokes galore punctuated a night of the purist, sweetest entertainment in the capital. It was medicine. A delight to witness and hear. Martin sang to us like we were old friends sitting by a campfire in the back garden. I am not a blues fan/bluegrass fan, so when he veered that way, I got a drink in. But my fear of missing a tale plucked form his string pull bag of golden nuggets made me nervous of missing a golden anecdote, so I only had three pints.

Playing an acoustic guitar throughout, he charmed the creaks from the stage. "How many bags of crisps are you going to
have?" he asked his rustling friend in the dark of the audience. The sneezing fat man in the front row brought a song to a halt, Martin said next time he needed some brass he would give him a call. He told the tale of how Colleen was written, it was a song of revenge in which he made his sister a lesbian to get back at her (he was in love/lust with her best friend, something she found funny/preposterous). He chatted about being 13 years on the wagon and meeting Ian McNabb who was still living with his mum and was a big drinker. Stories about his manager asking him to write songs like Paddy McLoon otherwise he risked ending up being a taxi driver when he was 27. About how a lack of success meant success as far as him and the Daintees were concerned. Tales of driving a Vauxhall Chevete to Cork. Of a blues man with a big beard giving him horse tranquilisers to calm his nerves/hangover resulting in partial paralysis of his face. He told a girl in the audience she looked like Etta James and that she should look her up on the internet when she got home (something a few of us noted) and see for herself. Tales of writing songs in Tescos. The creak in the floorboards resulted in a Peter Hook pose, maybe that is why Peter Hook stood like that? A move to the left of the stage, a la Bruce Foxton. References to Jonathan Richman and his love of little noise, then playing a snippet of Roadrunner. The Edge at an airport, ping ping, time to board your flight. Joking of Tom Robinson taking coke in the dressing room. Meeting Lloyd Cole on a golf course, Martin picking mushrooms, Lloyd in a turtleneck, driver in hand. The mention of Garageband, how he uses the mastering effect that makes the recording sound like a scratched record.

I should mention the songs. His voice as warm and kind as ever. He means it. He might be on auto pilot for all I know, but it doesn't come across that way. Unlike Lloyd Cole, Martin plays the songs he knows people have come to hear. He wants to rekindle, to stir. He wants people to enjoy, to smile, to remember, to feel young, to feel good, to feel. He played without seeming bored. Running Water, Colleen, The Crying, We are Storm, Crocodile Cryer......all played for us. After all we had come along to see him, so he gave us what we wanted and we felt he really wanted to.

Everyone left the room with a smile on their faces, no one stuck their fingers down their throats. I was a smiling gargoyle once again.

The Lilac Time ~

How tired must Mr Duffy be of being a referred to as a lost treasure? Neglected? Overlooked? He isn't lost, neglected or overlooked, if you look hard enough you will find his music. If you are curious you will find his music. But be prepared for sadness.

The Lilac Time ~ Stephen Duffy, Nick Duffy, Claire Duffy

Love Lost

On Saturday I visited the Wallace Collection, I was there to see the Damien Hirst hangings. After that I headed for the Anish Kapoor exhibition at the Royal Academy. Not particularly original choices I know, but I wanted to see them both, simple as that. I am not an artist or art reviewer, I was not looking for credibility I was looking for art.

So, Hirst first. I am an admirer of the man, he makes me laugh whenever I read his interviews or hear him on the radio. In the past I have messed about with music and "wrote" (not the right word) a song in which I sampled him and Jay Jopling, I recorded it on a four track and you can find it on : http://www.myspace.com/thequietbusker.

Hirst has a twisted twinkle in his eye and I believe (hope) he has a lot of fun being in such a powerful position in the art world. However, power and the guaranteed pampering that comes with it has its downfalls and one is that Damien was allowed to show so many pieces. If merit was essential, then three or four paintings would have made it into the exhibition, I fear no one dared say no to Damien or the publicity that accompanies him. It's a shame, because three skulls and a vase of flowers seeding butterflies would have left many feeling, well, it's not great, but it was worth the trip. But the cloud of black, white and blue paintings that hover in the first floor of the gallery look, well, a bit studenty (not an adjective I know, but it should be).

As I said I am not qualified to review the "show"(?) so I will move on to what irked me about No Love Lost - the price of the posters. £30.00. The most expensive I have ever seen at an exhibition. Why? The paper looked ordinary, the print quality unremarkable, it wasn't signed or advertised as having being touched, sneezed on or glanced upon by the great man, so why the hike in prices when compared to other exhibition posters? (Newsflash: I just received an e mail from my sister. She wrote to the Wallace Gallery asking why the posters were so expensive - they have confirmed it was Hirst's representatives that set the price).

I felt a deep sense of being let down by Damien. I know he couldn't care less about it but I consider myself a defender of his whenever his name comes up in conversation (when he is usually being slagged off) and this made me feel a little of the bitterness towards him that others have in abundance. I guess the diamond encrusted skull was a sign of the greed that powers him these days. His Leeds accent (which i love, having being brought up just outside the city) wins me over each time I hear him talk about his work, is all that is left of his old self and maybe (like Morrissey) it will get stronger the longer he lives away from the north of England in an effort to appeal to his old followers and seem still real?

I toyed with calling this blog Wallace and Vomit, but that seemed a bit hard, I didn't feel the urge to vomit at the price of the posters, just violently irritated. And for those of you reading this (few do) thinking I am a stingy northerner, you are wrong, I didn't see any southerners splashing out on the posters in the ten minutes I deliberated in the shop about buying the bloody thing.

For your entertainment have a peek at this: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/video/2009/oct/16/damienhirst-banking

Anish review will follow, at some stage.

TQB