Obviously, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of great guitarists across the world and down the years, playing their different styles and all the rest of it.
We’ve all got our favourites…rock, classical, jazz, blues, electric, hillbilly or acoustic. Genres galore, and no doubt some of the greatest go missing very early on for one reason or another, drink, drugs or run over by a bus.
Anything like that; you can never tell.
Me, I’ve never been the least bit musical. If they got me to play the triangle in a band I’d hit the wrong bit, and I’d cock up the tambourine too. But that hasn’t stopped me loving various guitarists, the latest being Charlie Sexton (look him up). But I’ll stick a pin in Charlie for the moment, if you don’t mind.
Instead, I’ll take you all the way back to the Sixties and tell you about a strange little encounter. It didn’t amount to much at all really but you’ll get the point in spades by the end, like you do with all my little efforts.
I’d gone up to Soho from Catford to see some arty thing or other, a play or whatever it was. I don’t know, maybe a concert. I was 17 or 18, going on 11 or 12, and I was due to meet a German girl called Astrid Schulz (there might have to be a ‘t’ in there somewhere; I’m not sure), who was 19 or 20, going on 29 or 30.
She used to hitch-hike everywhere across Europe with a ‘gas gun’ to put off drivers with their minds not only on the roads. She was an attractive young woman, Astrid; lovely eyes, hair in a bob. A pretty little snub nose.
Anyway, Astrid – who I’d met at some other arty show at Waterloo or wherever it was – never showed. I never saw her again for ages. So, not for the first or last time, I parked myself in a shadowy pub and read the Evening Standard over a strong pint of lager, 1674 or whatever that number is/was (I’m off it at the moment; bladder playing up).
By the way, I think you’re gonna love the end bit, a musical recommendation. I love recommendations, don’t you? Especially when they come from people who know what they’re talking about. I’m a bit all over the place, as you can probably tell, but I DO know what I’m talking about in certain areas, certainly this one.
It wasn’t yet 7pm but I tried to look as sanguine as possible. The roomy pub, The Nellie Dean, had been there since 1748 (I like to make conversation with bar staff) but only recently as The Nellie Dean. There was only me and this other lonely bloke, twice my age, spread out like two England fielders at The Oval, until another wispy young character sidled in with a guitar…obviously.
He joined the other lonely bloke at square leg, who got straight up and bought him a beer, very possibly a pint of 1764. That left only one lonely young bloke in The Nellie Dean, who tried to continue looking as sanguine as poss. What helped was that the new bloke, the third one, got out his guitar and started tuning it, as far as I could tell as a non-musician from where I was at third man.
His friend, or whoever he was – his manager maybe – was smiling and obviously encouraging him to actually play something. Maybe the guitarist had told him he had a new tune or whatever, or the start of a song.
(You getting excited? I always am. Not long now, I promise.)
I had no idea (about the song) but I would have given anything to join them and buy 1774s all round. That’s what loneliness does to you. I would have included the barman as well, who had obviously been at a similar scene before, if his body language and smiley face were anything to go by.
The guitarist – in his early 20s but probably going on early thirties – was now playing and singing ever so quietly. There was a diffidence about him you could tell from a distance, but also a confidence. I’d loved to have joined in. But you can’t, can you, when you’re going on 11 or 12? Years later I would have forward-rolled into the centre of things in a policeman’s helmet, as extrovert as you like, but it wasn’t years later, was it?
It was then.
Plan B, pitifully, was to go for a pee and get within a few feet of what was beginning to feel like a throng, as a fourth person drifted in and the barman brought over his own 1864 and stood there joining in, not singing but obviously relevant to the scene.
As I passed the three of them towards the Gents, I went into this smiling/nodding routine, Holden Caulfield-style, demonstrating my approval for the song and the playing, and peeked from the Gents door for a minute or so before returning across the room to the Evening Standard and total obscurity.
As I passed the three of them I joined in the appreciation of the music for about 11 seconds and even said: ‘Lovely song.’ It was too. The diffident singer, who had a hunched style of playing guitar but played beautifully, looked up and smiled and said: ‘Thank you.’
You know the ending. None of that actually happened, except inside my head, but it could also happen inside yours. (I hitch-hiked to Berlin with Astrid the following spring if that makes you feel any better). One clue: the wonderful singer/guitarist was christened…Herbert.
Google Running From Home right now, this instant, and listen to the beauty of the song yourself. Come on! Don’t just sit there! Find the song!
DoubleSpeak 