Liverpool

I remember Quiggins pretty well having lived in The Pool for what feels like only the briefest moment in time [it was actually four years]. I once got my hair cut here in a retro 50’s salon and the barber caked me in so much brylcream it set off a good three weeks worth of acne to the forehead. I never quite recovered. In those days I was sporting a Terry Hall miniature hair do and clobbered up in Café Society black. Bold Street was a shambles and Trading Places was a rehearsal room. Twas in another lifetime for sure; now here we are again, in the City of Corporate Culture, playing in Quiggins esteemed boho-centric café bar which is about to relocate to the old George Henry Lee Building [it’ll never be the same of course]. The Eighth day Café in Manchester lost it’s soul in a similar way. It’s Craigs first gig and some of my oldest friends have come along, many of whom have shared a stage with me, or the corner of a pub in times gone by. Later on they request songs I’d forgotten I’ve ever written. It’s good to catch up but rushed in a pre gig confusion kind of way. Several people who work alongside me in my other life, my mental health life, are also here so it’s best behaviour time all round [apart from Jenny who’s been at the red wine since three in the afternoon…not that you could tell of course]. First on tonight is Mark Wilson, a Liverpool based singer songwriter who’s playing is incredibly rhythmic and infectious in that John Martin percussive right hand style; when he started his set I was convinced it was some tribal fusion CD such was enormity of the sound scape. Next up are The Late Developers, from the rock n psychedelic roll school, they sounded not unlike The Grateful Dead in their wig-out and jam free era. Then we’re on and living with the sound. Always the sound…the more you play the more you obsess about it. So I’m not going to here. Towards the end of the set a girl limbo dances across the monitors in that girl abandoned at free festival kind of way. Attractive yet a little unhinged, we keep our cool and so does she. She did seem pretty chuffed with the stuff, which is always nice. Later on I’m reminded of the girl who took her clothes off at The Zanzibar gig Tim and I did in ‘98 or something. People remember stuff like that; I do too but I won’t go there just now. After the gig we catch up and call it a day later than we planned to swapping stories with the Liverpool’s esteemed raconteur Jenny the Confessor. Terry the Turnip also shows up in his big leather coat. I can’t quite work out why I feel so drunk, I swear I’ve only had 3 pints of lager shandy. VPx........................Jenny the Confessor tells it like it is...................