Hullo folks! I do hope you’re wrapped up warm, I can see some snow falling outside of my cave.
The other night, Glasgow was lucky enough to enjoy a brief respite from the increasingly unreasonable weather and in turn, a visit from Frank Turner. As for me, I was lucky enough to attend his gig at the ABC, albeit as a bit of a lone ranger, as the only person I knew there, Last Year’s Girl was stationed firmly at the barrier, even forsaking Gin, of all things, whilst I lingered at the back. All writers, be they blog or newspaper, should get hats with a little card in that say “press”. Then instead of other nearby gig-goers looking on and wondering “who is that creepy loner?“, they could wonder “who does that creepy loner write for?” Much better.
Pint by pint however, I moved a little further forward, until my movements through the crowd caused some chagrin in a fellow reveller. What can only be described as young blonde bint tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that “there’s moving to the front so that you can see and there’s moving so that you stop other people from seeing, which is what you’re doing!” I immediately bemoaned my rarely superior genetics for making me so tall. It can be a real curse being able to see at gigs, reach things on high shelves and be treated like an adult, thanks to my appropriate height. I can only assume her poor choice of winter attire was making her grumpy. That tiny headband might have held her ridiculous fringe in place, but it clearly didn’t do much to stop the cold reaching her brain.
I pointed out that I didn’t deliberately be so tall, nor endeavour to hinder her viewing pleasure. She huffed and puffed until I gestured in front of me, to the open space, which she immediately filled, half-muttering something about not meaning to be rude, in the same way that
oxygen thieves some people state things like, “I’m not being rude, but you look a bit fat in that“, or “not to be rude, but why are you even at this gig, you creepy loner?”
The statement “i’m not being rude” doesn’t ACTUALLY serve to nullify your blatant rudeness. You do understand what rudeness IS, don’t you?
Mild bintitude aside, the gig was fantastic. (Expect a proper review shortly) I felt inspired and invigorated; hopeful and just plain joyous. When Frank mentioned that since his last visit to Glasgow, he’d been made an honourary lifetime member of the Queen Margaret Union, I was reminded of his excellent gig there last year. I wrote about it at the time and still tell the Beans on Toast beatboxing story all too often, because nights like that don’t come along too regularly. If you weren’t reading my blog around that time, Frank ended up coming upstairs with us to join in the open mic night, along with various members of his band and fellow English folkie Beans on Toast. The atmosphere was something really special and a few folk captured some of his performances, which I thought I’d share with you now. Here’s Frank and co. performing “Dancing Queen”:
Eagle-eyed viewers might spot me and my compatriot Andrew Lindsay, drunkenly gesticulating and swaying at the side, and my missus taking some photies, I believe. Equally atmospheric, perhaps more so for its ramshacklosity, was one of my all-time favourites, Love, Ire and Song:
It really was a braw night and of course, a story about it wouldn’t be complete without the inclusion of my
incredible lack of beatboxing skills. Beatboxing-drunk is a special level of drunkenness, I believe. That one where you’re convinced that you can do something despite having no knowledge of it whatsoever, at least no further than “boots and cats”. So if you fancy seeing the video, here’s a link that’s had one too many lemonades. Enjoy! Or laugh. Same thing, really.
Well, there you go folks. I hope I’ve helped waste a few minutes of your otherwise currently snow-filled days. Back to the cave I go. Til next time folks!