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.