Playing in the shadows.

The guitarist in the picture, with Bonnie Raitt, is George Marinelli. He has been Bonnie's gunslinger for 20 years. A veteran session player and producer, he is one of my favourite guitar players. Spare, uncomplicated, unflashy and bluesy down to his toes, he's also great to watch. He wanders around his side of the stage, in the shadows, always thinking about making the song better, always looking for a note, a chord that will enhance the song and punctuate what Bonnie is singing. This makes him one of a special breed which the music biz calls 'sideman.' The hugely talented instrumentalist who is happy to let the star take the limelight, as long as he can make the musical experience richer for both of them. George has his own band, records and life in Nashville but he knows that life in Bonnie's band is going to mean bigger audiences, bigger fun and, let's face it, bigger pay-checks. The other night, at The Albert Hall, George was fantastic. The whole band are wonderfully seasoned pros, supporting the best female blues singer in the business. But it's George that calls the shots, the nods of appreciation, the grins of encouragement. Sometimes, not being the centre of attention makes for a better life. The spotlight doesn't suit everyone. Some of us like the shadows, thinking about the right note, the gorgeous chord that will enhance everyone's experience. Some of us like being a sideman.

Home from home.

When Twitter alerted us to an explosion at the Boston Marathon we turned on CNN and sat in silence as bars and restaurants we love kept coming into shot. My wife and I were due to fly into our favourite City, staying at a hotel not 500 yards from the Finish line, in just 40 days. After half an hour of speculation and rumour, bombs were confirmed by the police. We looked at each other and said, together, "We're going." Boston has been our favourite place since we first went 14 years ago. My love of baseball, more specifically, the Boston Red Sox, had been absorbed by my wife when we met and so a trip with our baseball loving best friends was arranged. We fell in love. The city, the parks, the T (their underground rail system), The Sox, the bars, it was all of that. Most of all, though, it was the people. Polite, happy, funny, pleased to see us, they were kindness to a fault, every single one. So we have kept going back, every few years, for a few ball-games, great seafood and lovely hotels. And the people. A few days ago, we got back from our latest trip. We didn't do anything we hadn't done before but we met more wonderful people. At the makeshift memorial to those killed and injured on April 15th we tied a flag we had brought over from home. It's a 6ft flag of the Stars & Stripes and the Union Jack stitched together. We tied it among the running shoes and photos and Red Sox shirts and Bruins caps that cover the barriers that had blocked off Boylston Street in the days after the atrocity. In conversation with a bar man, next day, we told him the story. With tears in his eyes, he thanked us. I feel at home in Boston. I could live in Boston. More importantly, I could live with Boston people.

Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall....

When you get to your mid-fifties you start to think about all sorts of things that, over the years, you may have taken for granted. Good health. The ability to get out of bed, pain-free. The meaning of life. The joy of a good pint. And friends. I have 2 good friends. One is married, one is not. There is a third couple who would be there if I was in trouble but, in terms of history, scrapes, holidays, gigs and laughs, it is 2 close, male friends. Friend B I've known for 22 years. Friend A, for nearly 40. Incredibly, they have only met once, at my second wedding, 13 years ago. Friend B is 9 years older than me. Friend A, the same age as me. In the last 10 days the wheels fell off one of them. I won't go into any detail. It's private. My wife and I have hardly slept, had phone calls, long chats, lots and lots of tears, both with him, and on our own. We simply cannot imagine life without him. So this blog is a warning to all. Take a look at your closest friends, the ones you have laughed with, cried with, poured beer over, avoided the police with, played in bands with, bunked into gigs with, sat outside pubs all day with.....held so close you can feel their heart beat and hear their sobs and tell them you love them. Fuck embarrassment. Fuck British reserve. Tell them you love them. Do it now.

I love that dirty water.......

The Standells were a band from L.A in the early 60's, who'd had no success, when they were signed to a new contract by Capitol Records. They were put to work with Producer Ed Cobb. Cobb had recently been to Boston and been mugged on the Charles River Bridge. He wrote a song celebrating the famously polluted river and the City of Boston and presented it to The Standells. None of the group had ever been to Boston but they liked the song. The recording was exactly what Cobb wanted from the band. The Stonesish riff, the spoken intro and the lean, sinuous sound were more of the 'garage' tone he wanted, rather than the poppier sound they had been known for. Dirty Water reached no.11 in the Top 100 and was a huge radio hit. The Standells never troubled the charts again. The story might have ended there if it hadn't been for the sports-mad City of Boston. The Patriots football team started playing it over the p.a in the 80's, the Bruins ice-hockey team followd suit but it was when the Red Sox baseball team started using it after every home victory that Boston fans took the song as their own. With 81 home games in every season, there was plenty of chance for Red Sox Nation to sing the line that ends the chorus, "Boston, you're my home."
This week, after the terrible events at Monday's marathon, the City was waiting for the Sox to come home from a very successful road trip. They were due back at Fenway Park on Friday night but the curfew and lockdown of the entire City meant that the return was delayed until Saturday when, with the suspects caught or killed, Boston could relax a bit. Fenway Park became the focal point for an outpouring of emotion and remembrance that the Americans do so well. The hard fought Red Sox victory was met with a roar from 40,000 fans that said more about the City and the week's tragic events than any words could. Then, almost unnoticed, that guitar riff rang out over the p.a and fans hugged and sang and cried. When the little song got to the last line of that first chorus, 40,000 tired, emotional, happy voices yelled out "Boston, you're my home." And, for the first time in 5 days, It really did feel like home. Bostonians are a famously gritty, hard-working, hard-playing bunch. On several trips from the U.K we've spent many happy hours at Fenway and in the bars and restaurants along Boylston Street. We love the place, the people and the Red Sox. 5 weeks from today, we'll be back at Fenway. Can't wait. In a way, Boston feels like our home, too.

You know they say...

you should never meet your heroes? I have loved Steve Lukather for 35 years, since his band, Toto, burst onto the American charts with Hold The Line. My wife & I have seen the band umpteen times and followed the careers and lives of the various members, through tragedy, crippling illness and some wonderful music. Luke was the session player of choice for every producer going in the 80's. I guarantee you have an album that he is on. Thriller? It's all Toto. So 'Luke' is out on the road in Europe, where he and Toto are still a big draw, promoting his 6th solo album, Transition. There are only 2 UK dates so I splashed out on the VIP package for the 2nd one, at The Robin 2, Bilston. The package was for a meet & greet and the sound check. We arrived at the venue in plenty of time and were shown through to the stage area, given a laminate each, a t-shirt and poster. Within a few minutes, Luke arrived. He looks fit & healthy, after years of burning the candle at both ends, snorting it up his nose and writing the book on rock excess. We're almost the same age but he looks a WHOLE lot better than I do. He is instantly jokey and funny, putting all of our nerves at ease. There are 25 of these VIP tickets at each show so it is intimate enough. When it is our turn to have stuff signed he is lovely, engaged and interested. He carefully signs Jan's t-shirt that she's wearing, making sure I'm watching, then signs my rare Toto 25 shirt from their 25th anniversary tour. He comments that you don't see many of them. I get him to sign my poster to my brother, Phil. He lives in Perth, Oz and is a stunning guitarist himself. Luke is his hero and inspiration. We tell Luke that Phil missed the recent show in Perth by Ringo's All Starr Band, which Luke was in, because he was in South Africa on business. "Oh, bummer, man. Tell him I said 'hi.'" was the reply. We get our picture taken and he moves on to the next person. Everyone gets a hug, a firm handshake and questions about how far they've come. He is constantly thanking people for coming. Finally he gathers us round and answers questions for what seems like ages. Then it is sound check time. His band consists of Steve Weingart on keyboards, Mrs Weingart, Renee Jones on bass, and Eric Valentine on drums. They are tight, well drilled but relaxed. They are all unbelieveable musicians. Luke laughs and jokes his way through the whole thing, taking off other guitarists, Sammy Davis Jnr and generally acting the clown. After an hour and a half, he says farewell and thanks us all, again. The gig is stunning and he is genuinely stunned by the wall of noise that greets the end of the first song. The band are so good and he is really enjoying himself. Remember, this is the guy that Jeff Beck calls the Best On The Planet. After 2 hours, he's gone and we're hot, sweaty and happy. It has been a fantastic experience and we're both floating as we leave. So, they say you should never meet your heroes. Well, sometimes, 'they' have no idea what they're talking about. Apart from the photo with him, the other photos are by Jan, from our vantage point right at the front. Sound check

So many memories.....

I grew up in Guildford. We moved out of Twickenham when I was 6 years old and I left home at 22, so all of my early memories are in the comfortable, middle class, Surrey town. The Civic Hall was, by the time I was 14, the Holy Grail. It was where I saw my first live band (Peace, with Paul Rodgers, supporting Mott The Hoople, 1970.) It was where I spent so many happy, sad, fantastic, memorable and funny nights. We went to anything and everything. I saw big acts, bands I'd never heard of, bands I didn't like, bands I have now loved for over 40 years and bands, so many bands, I don't remember. Last weekend, I went to my first gig at the new venue, built on the site of The Civic. It was lovely. Great sound, intimate, much more leg-room, loads of bar staff, friendly, wonderful. I have absolutely no problem with G Live (except the name). But it ain't The Civic. The windows above the entrance, on the right of the picture below were in the upstairs bar. Famously, a couple of us created a diversion one night while a mate was let in through those windows. How he'd climbed up, I have no clue. I can't ask him as he was killed in a mugging in South Africa, a few years ago. He was the bass player in our band in the early 70's and, somehow, I stole his girlfriend. See? It was that kind of world, and The Civic was the centre of it. I threw up in The Civic. I kissed in The Civic. I cried laughing in The Civic and I fell head over heels, arse over tit in love with the best music I've ever heard in The Civic. I will probably never do any of these things in G Live. That's okay. I will probably never be 17 again. So, I raised a glass to The Guildford Civic Hall. I love you, like an old, old friend.

Keep your friends close...*

40 years ago I taught myself to play drums and joined my brother's band. For 4 or 5 years we rehearsed, played some local gigs, changed a few members and had the time of our lives. Over the years we've spread to the 4 corners but have kept in touch, with a couple of reunions for a long, drunken meal and much laughter. My brother is still an incredibly talented guitarist and lives in Perth, Oz. Chris, the second guitarist, lives in California, collects guitars and has sons who are both semi-pro players. His brother, bassist Steve, was killed in a mugging in South Africa and my keyboard-playing other brother, Marty, is a professional composer and songwriter. He has had multiple number one records here and in Europe, as well as a top ten single in the U.S. Last week, Chris got in touch, saying that he and his wife would be in the U.K for a 3 day flying visit and could I organise a beer. So, at almost no notice last night, a hotel in Sussex played host to dinner for 8 of us, including wives. 7 of us had met up over the years but the 8th, the wife of our good friend Mark Bader, a fantastic pro-photographer, was a bit overwhelmed by the speed and volume of the stories and tales from the 70's. My wife marvels at how it appears that conversations from 40 years ago just get picked up where they left off. I have no voice left from laughing. I got to bed around 2 this morning. Phil couldn't make it from Perth and he was gutted that he was missing out. Likewise, guitarist Des was double-booked but was there in spirit. Greetings and goodbyes were bound together by huge hugs and genuine claims of how much we miss each other. The point of the story is that I am as guilty as most of not paying enough attention to good friendships. Hold your friends close to you. You might be surprised at how much they value your friendship. *Bollocks to the second half of the quote. Here is the evidence. It was 1.30am.