I Know What Makes Me Happy

I know what makes me happy. The whistle of the Red Kites in the tree behind my house. Fenway Park, Boston, on a warm, June evening as the Red Sox snatch victory from the yawning jaws of defeat. A glass of Amarone. The Hand & Flowers Pub in Marlow. A tiny hotel in Kerry, Ireland, with it's lake and Magic Mountain. A pint of Tribute Ale in the Custom House, Padstow. All of these things, and a handful more, make me very happy. The thing that makes me happiest though, is music. Live music. Especially when I can share it with the person who makes me happiest, my wife. The other night, at the beautiful Union Chapel in London, we saw one of our very favourite bands, Dawes, from Los Angeles. Part-way through the gig there was a power-cut. After a few moments of confusion the band went off and came back with an acoustic guitar. Taylor, his brother Griffin and keyboard player, Tay Strathairn sat on the edge of the stage and sang, the delicate sound reaching up into the church roof for amplification. So, I count myself very lucky that I know what makes me happy. Not everyone does. They waste their short lives looking for something just out of reach, something that will make them happier than they think they are. When actually, quite often, it is right there, in front of them. They just can't see it. They just don't hear it.
Three nervous Americans sitting on the stage of a London Chapel and singing because it makes them happy made me and my wife very, very happy indeed.

No Way To Be.

I have a Black Dog. It's not a canine. It's a bastard. The last few weeks have been tough. Some of it documented on here, some of it not. I've been good for a few years, now. Some great help, a loving wife and lots of resolute determination have helped me through. But the Dog came back whilst we were helping my friend. I'm not blaming my friend but.... Then, almost imperceptibly, this weekend felt like a turning point in the current overcast conditions. We had just the best day, yesterday. Separately, during the day, then together, last night. Some wonderful food, the best bottle of wine I've ever drunk and some epic Calvados to finish off. During the day I went to a great little exhibition by Morgan Howell, in London. He paints 3D recreations of classic 7” singles. I loved it. It lifted my spirits. I told Morgan on Twitter that it was thrilling, and it really was. After that it was off to The Intercontinental Hotel on Park Lane to meet up with Jan. she was at a Cookery Masterclass with Theo Randall at his gorgeous restaurant in the hotel. It overran so I nursed a £9 glass of wine for an hour and a half. She had a wonderful time and I couldn't have been more pleased. Then it was a cab back to our hotel, shower and change for dinner and a cab back for dinner in Theo's restaurant. It was fantastic, as usual. The bottle of wine, recommended by Jan as one of the ones they had tasted during the day, was sensational. After the main course, Theo came out of the kitchen and headed straight for Jan. He stayed chatting for 10 minutes and it completely made her day. This morning I saw her off on the train to Newport for a couple of days at one of our fave hotels with her oldest friend. I drove home, tired but happy. A lazy afternoon with the Test Match on the tv, the Sunday papers over the floor and copious mugs of tea made for a peaceful, restful day. So? What does it all mean? I have no idea. I've had this Black Dog, sniffing round my ankles, all my life. I'm terrified of dogs and I'm sure there is some deep-rooted significance in that link. So all I can say is that, tonight, I feel a million dollars. I feel on top of the world. Tomorrow? It's another day. There's a fantastic song by The Blue Nile called Everybody Else. It's singer and writer, Paul Buchanan has famously had his own Black Dog. The opening lines are " I woke up good this morning. And nothin' in my way." Sometimes, that's what it feels like. If you 'wake up good' it's fantastic. This song by Teddy Thompson has been my companion during the latest episode. I adore it. It was born out of a divorce but it speaks to my Black Dog and makes him a bit less terrifying.

A journey, in more ways than one.

What a day! I've taken my mate's stuff over to his new digs, in Guildford. You'll remember that he's not been too good, lately (understatement of the century). Anyway, Mrs. B was in London for the day so I borrowed her car and loaded his worldly possessions in the back. We've had them for a couple of months. They've been on our spare bed. I suppose it says a lot when you're 56 years old and your worldly possessions fit on a bed. Someone else's bed, at that. That says just as much. He's lodging with a lady in Merrow, a few miles east of Guildford. It's where I grew up, where he and I met and where he has been the happiest in his life. To him, going back has been like finding a harbour in a storm. A sanctuary. My journey to Guildford from Twyford, Berks, should take an hour. No. 2 1/4 hours, thanks. I had cut across country, to avoid the motorways. So, Ascot, Sunningdale Chobham, past Fairoaks Airport, into Addlestone, Byfleet and then pick up the A3 to Guildford. As I crossed over the M25 at Addlestone it was static and I had a smug smile to myself. 5 minutes later I was stationery and didn't get out of first or second gear for nearly an hour. Finally, crossed over the A3 before getting on it....and it was static. Back round the roundabout, through West Byfleet, Old Woking and Send before picking the A3 back up. Having arranged to be there for 11.30am it was actually 12.45pm when I pulled up. We hugged, unloaded his stuff, had a quick chat, and I had to go. He says he's happier than he was, is looking for work and is settled. I'm pleased. I got back in the car, headed off (a different route, I might add,) and stopped near where I used to live. And sobbed. I need a break from everything that has gone on for the last 3 months. I thought I'd lost him. I realise that I'm exhausted from helping him, from holding it all together when I'm actually falling apart as much as he is. As I drove home, something struck me. Addlestone, West Byfleet, Merrow and Twyford. That's 4 out of the 5 places I've ever lived. Throw in Twickenham, where I was born, and lived until I was 6, and you'd have a full set. I realsied that I'd been yards from almost every front door I've ever lived behind. I don't know why but the realisation cheered me up. I'm pleased my friend is better, however fleeting it may be. But I need a break. I need some time not thinking about Social Services, Council Offices, Mental Health Centres, the Samaritans and the police. I need some time for me. If that sounds selfish, I won't apologise. I know what I need. This wonderful, gorgeous song came on the ipod on the way home. It's Paul Brady's Hawana Way, the story of a trip to Cuba with his friend, Bonnie Raitt. It makes me smile. I turned it way up to 11 and sang my head off.

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.