Sunday Night in Green Lane. Could be a film title. I dropped into The Sty Folk club last night to see Rob Oakey and The Gang. The club is so named, not because the venue is untidy, or full of porcine grunting, but because "Sty" is short for Styvechale, the posh area in Coventry. Beanfield Avenue scrapes into this area. Just. (It's a long road).
The "gang" proved to be a little thin on the ground, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in eclecticism and enthusiasm. A broad swathe of music and Performance Art, from recited poetry to Hoagy Carmichael. From The Faces to Bob Dylan. From The Cuckoo Is a Pretty Bird to The Everley Brothers. On guitars, keyboards, harmonica, word of mouth and acapella.
The Sty provided a canvas for me to experiment with a few solo projects. I tried out three songs in public there for the first time: "On Raglan Road," "Between The Wars," and "Sorry Feeling Blues." By Luke Kelly, Billy Bragg and Bo Carter respectively. Three songs spanning several generations.The first two I was pleased with.
The Bo Carter one got a bit messy, as the guitarists present decided to accompany me, and that proved to be a little traumatic for all concerned. We used to do a much filthier Bo Carter song when we were a six piece. Couldn't do it now. He was a dirty boy, was Bo, and this is one of the cleaner Blues he recorded. I also performed "Midlands Lullaby" -a BPS semi-original, beloved of BBC Local radio. "Bring It On Home" " Need Your Love So Bad," and "The Old Triangle." overall, I think I got away with.
All of this was accompanied by a riotous, shouted dialogue from The Cast of Shameless in the adjacent room. TOWIC. As one particular lady, supping JDs in the other bar got louder and louder, her language got saltier-drowning the acoustic music at times. She should have come round and had a go. Her voice projection was astronomical.
As she bellowed on, I fell to reminiscing about what a very diverse experience playing to, or listening to ," Live " music can be. Sometimes absolutely euphoric. Mesmeric, even. The first time I saw Warwickshire's finest, the Edgar Broughton Band, at "Mothers" in Birmingham, for example. Rasping guitar, rasping vocals and lyrics which I still regularly listen to and admire. The first time I saw Stan Webb actually crying, in The Leofric Jazz Club, as he sang "The First Time I Met The Blues." And actually meeting John Lee Hooker. In South London. I bought him a coffee, before he tore the whole place up, accompanied by The Groundhogs. Sometimes an occasion like that, when an artiste or an audience rise to the occasion creates a shared experience that is memorable.
And then, as a performer-there are other times. Not quite so enjoyable. In Rock format we had very good days at Nottingham University,Hitchin Poly and Warwick University, to name but a few. Elsewhere, we played support to The Darts and East of Eden-memorable. Our gigs at The Golden Cross were always a gas. But The Smithfield Hotel, was a bummer. We got told never to come back by Ver Management , because we'd played a reggae song. The place is long demolished now, and good riddance to it. That kind of endemic racism shite would get them closed down today. Barred too, from The Ryton Bridge Hotel. For swearing. We said "Bugger." Paid off and escorted out through the back for our own safety at a Working Men's Club in Stoney Stanton Road. Because we refused to play Quo or Elvis. Chucked out of Elizabethan Days in Brum, for making disparaging remarks about Villa over the P.A. system.
Folk-wise it's been generally, a lot better. God knows we've had enough practice. Not too long ago we turned up for an open session in a Warwickshire pub, forgetting it was St Patrick's night. All psyched up to do our own stuff and a few sleazy Blues. Dunno how many times we did Black Velvet Band-but it brought the house down whenever we did! And the archetypal man and a dog-only audience? We've done it. Tamworth Arts Centre. They both fell asleep. I don't blame them. We went back there to fulfil another Agency booking there and it was closed. Says it all.
Anyway, last night wasn't anything like that-just a tiny bit disturbing in places. I went out into the car park afterwards with the Loud Lady now reduced to sobbing over the snooker table and threatening to fight someone. I hoped to find my car still intact and not jacked up on bricks. I was not disappointed. The journey home proved as interesting as the evening's entertainment. I took a wrong turn and ended up counting the Speed Bumps in Coat Of Arms Bridge Road. Just round the corner, police were attending to an RTA. Surely there's a song in all this somewhere?
