Liverpool. Friday 11th February.
8.00pm.
There was a Welshman, a Scotsman and an Irishman at this gig in England. No, no, you are going to love this one…. believe me…. no honestly….
It’s got a certain something to it though, don’t you think ?
It could catch on.
Freewheeling through the evening rain in the big city. Oh the anticipation of heading to town. To Liverpool…. ‘The Pool of Life’….
My love affair with Teenage Fanclub and Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci is well known amongst my friends. Indeed, even amongst their friends and even their friends friends. I am forever trying to slip a memory, or a melody at least to everyone I commonly encounter.
My love affair with Liverpool of course goes back much further than that.
Did you know that I shook the hand of the man who shook the hand of…. well…. of …. McGinley, Love, O’Hare and ……
Where are you Paul Cunningham ? You would have known. These nights are meant for you and your chuckling laughter and your knee deep well of memories.
Heading out of Wrexham on the A483 on a dank, rainy Friday, the traffic backs itself up at the end of the by-pass, linking the road on into Chester. The blue flashes of the obstructing police traffic cars in the distance, give their overt warnings to the drivers and passengers who carefully check the level of the radio, double check their seatbelts, purr down the side windows and open the ashtray, ready for that stray joint.
No-one bothers to stop; staring room only, as a low-loader winches aboard another casualty of POETS day, and an officer, beckons his charge to compare notes.
After a careful shimmy, we are back on the A55 and heading for the M53. A quick visit to see the folks, borrow a few quid and after an overpriced but welcome truck stop, I am easing onto the A41, bound for the old tunnel and the safe parking space that I know will be waiting on the other side of the river. The occasional glimpses of the Pier Head waterfront, that appear and disappear behind the shops, pubs and take-aways of New Chester Road, guide me past the shipyards and on through into the expectant mouth of the Kingsway.
Nice hairpin, slip back onto Dale Street and tuck into the corporation car park, just in time for a free bay and an easy exit. Brendan Behan was held in Dale St nick, while awaiting passage on to borstal. His was a voice that would have carried it’s own weight and strength, on a rotten drunk around the wine lodges and pubs of downtown Liverpool. It would have carried a certain poignancy too, that rich tenor, should anyone have overheard it as they soberly readied themselves for the morning assizes.
And as I said…. 8.00pm.
Across to Whitechapel, avoiding The Grapes for once, up Church Street and a quick check on the door of The Caernarvon. There’s only one place to find a decent Guinness when you are on your way somewhere else. The best pint in town. I first knew it as a ‘late-traffic’ bar, closing its doors at 8.00pm and catering for the shoppers, strays and stay-behinds of the parallel twilight. There were a few of us back then. The Excelsior I remember and…. well …. you know.
There is something about the staff in the Caernarvon. They always look as if they popped in for a drink and stayed on awhile anyway, to gossip and pour the elixirs and make sure to give you your change. They thank me as I leave and pottering on up towards Bold Street, I set my sights on the ‘bombed out church’.
Firstly, there are the Tijuana buskers to negotiate and then secondly, the decision to trouble ‘The Hanover’, my favourite hotel, or probably more wisely, to just keep going.
I kept going.
Wood Street, past the Baa Bar, Fleet Street, right and left past the early casualties of the evenings excesses and via a diversion in Back Colquitt Street, on to the Mojo Club, where three burly doorstaff are exchanging pleasantries like Nick Cave trading murder ballads. Sporting the last flush of his black eye, the biggest questions an invisible box office clerk as I ask what time the bands are on. The support are already playing and Jonny should be ready for about 10.00pm. I am delighted with this, as I was expecting it to be much more likely to be the early hours and as I am expecting to drive back home later, there is no room for error when mentally totting up the units I can drink. Already had that Guinness remember.
It’s £9 on the door, which compared to and including the regular booking fee, puts me £1 ahead on the deal.
I’ve brought my camera but not my mobile.
” Is there a phone-box anywhere near here fella ….? ” He chokes on his tangled laughter….
“….What….round here….you’re fuckin’ jokin’ aren’t yer….”
Classic…. Ady you would have loved that one on the landings…. Eh, Taff…. What are you doing back here again…. Another breach, another collar….another day and another dollar…. Bethesda days now. Safe.
A quick dart past The Cabin and at last, there, well spotted just outside the old K…. No, my mistake, ATM machines. Over the road near the old public toilets on the corner of Leece Street and Rodney Street. Job done…. got here safe…. will call again when I am on my way back…. Later.
I found myself at the back end of the bar, keeping the toilets behind me but ideally allowed a full, if distant view of the stage. Without my reading glasses there are at least 3 people who look like Norman Blake, one in a Canadian lumberjack shirt who has just got to be him. I think about saying a casual hello, clutching my glass of red as I glide by but no, it’s not him. Thank god. What do you say to a man when you are wearing wet black pumps, jeans, a dark grey cotton zipper, topped off with a Russian hat. Exactly. Nothing. Even my mum asked me did I think I would get in like that.
There didn’t seem to be anyone about who I knew. The last Fannies gig I got to, on the ‘Man Made’ tour at The Academy, I bumped into some old work colleagues from Chester. But no Brian tonight, no Steve J and no Maz, although I had seen the latter at a funeral for Pete C….. God rest him.
The last Gorky’s bash had been at NEWI Student Union and the last Euros Childs during the ‘Bore Da’ shows. He was very kind that night with his own time, and happily posed for some photographs. He was as always, quirkily funny and playfully self effacing.
After a concerted effort to scout the available space nearer to the side of the stage, I returned to my original pitch and asked a barman if it was cool to take some photographs. He was warm and friendly and with the help of one of bouncers, made the effort to canvass the opinion of the promoter. He in turn, duly gave me the green light. Ok…. Go.
“….could be in Fishguard with another man….”
They are using a Dr. Rhythm back beat, a couple of keyboards (one of them an old Casio I think), and a pair of guitars. Just the two of them. For fucks sake. It’s like having them both in my bedroom. The booths at stage-side, just in front of the curtain, are still full of no-one and I squeeze past, sorry, thanks and take my chance. Made it.
They stun through three numbers before I remember the camera. I’m in deep now. Gloria follows and on through the rest of the new album, via delightful mistakes, re-runs, laughter and the expected occasional choker. The voices. Oh man those two voices.
I cheer on my gratitude between tunes and they realise I am as close as can be, both of them nodding to me with approval and heavy smiles. Oh man.
“….I, I, I, want to give you the good night….”
A couple from the back catalogue and a shout out to encourage the hopeful merchandise sales. It’s nearly over. Norman calls for a Guinness to slake Euros’ thirst, before a stunning version of ‘Let it be Me’.
Done. I shout to Norman and I am so close he extends a handshake. Gotcha. Thank you, thank you. Euros is already packing and I leave him to his work and his well earned pint.
It was a good time to stay but it was a great time to leave.
I am feeling a bit spaced, pulling deeply on a first cigarette and forgetting the words as I jumble through all that I can remember of the songs. It’s still only 11.00pm and after a quick phone call home, I pour myself into the car, heading for the Welsh hills.
On the outside of a glass of red and a Guinness. The best in town.
Perfect. We will both remember that one.