You know, I’m not much for pubs, usually. Comes from not liking alcohol without bubbles in it, the kind you find on labels with the word ‘brut’ in fancy gold letters. But there are times when nothing but a certain pub will do.
There’s Duke of Cornwall’s Own in St. Ives, for instance, where the local mead keeps the patrons happy upstairs in the music room as the Tin Miners play ‘Little Eyes’ and ‘Lamorna’. There’s Edinburgh Castle in San Francisco, where you can hear sea shanties sung on the third Sunday of every month and they do you up fish and chips the old-school way, wrapped in newspaper and with a good malt vinegar to hand.
And of course there’s my favourite, when the weather is chancy and the world’s bearing down and I just want a quiet corner where I can listen and talk and sit by a crackling fire, and just be. That’s the Green Man.
It’s not a pub I tell too many people about; after all, you let enough people in on a secret and it’s not a secret for long. But I did let two people very dear to me know about this place. They’re both guitarists, and I thought it was high time they met. This was the obvious place for that meeting, on a misty night where everything seemed muffled and without edges.
Ringan Laine, known to some of you as the founder, vocalist and guitarist for Broomfield Hill, got there first. No surprise there – he’s a youngish bloke, not yet forty, and he comes from Edinburgh. He doesn’t mind hurrying, especially when he’s been told there’s a good cider at the finish line.
By the time JP Kinkaid wandered in, Ringan was already settled in a corner booth just far enough from the fire for warmth and comfort, one hand round a glass of Blackthorn. JP stopped in the doorway, having a word with someone on the way out. It looked like Farris ‘Bulldog’ Moody, that fine old session player from the days of Trumpet Records and Chess. JP saw me waving, and headed over.
‘Right.’ He settled in. ‘Nice pub. What have they got for a bloke who can’t touch liquor? Oh, Volvic…?’
Now, I hadn’t forgotten that JP quit boozing back in 1982. And for most ex-drinkers, I’d never suggest a pub. But his band, Blacklight, is right up there with the Stones and U2, and have been for thirty years. I’ve been backstage at their shows, and the dressing room and craft services table always have plenty of drink for those who want.
So I’d counted on this not being a problem, and I’d been right. JP was fine around the liquor, he just wasn’t having any.
‘Glad you both made it — it’s very chancy out there, in the mist.’ I was drinking hot tea, and the fire was making me warm and a bit drowsy. ‘I know you both so well, and love you both — it seemed ridiculous that you hadn’t met. So, JP Kinkaid, this is Ringan Laine. Ringan Laine, JP Kinkaid. JP, was that Bulldog Moody you were talking to, at the door?’
‘Yeah, it was. He said Sonny Boy Williamson and Robert Johnson might come by later — he’s coming back after he takes a nap. He’s nearly ninety, you know? Gets knackered easily.’ JP was looking really relaxed. That was a good thing, since he’s not in very good health; multiple sclerosis and a few other things. ‘Ringan Laine — cheers, mate, pleasure to meet you. I’ve got a couple of your CDs. Which album’s got that fantastic cover of The Mermaid? Was that ‘Frost on the Vine’?’
Ringan nodded. ‘Second CD, that’s the one. It’s very weird — The Mermaid is the one song off that one that only gets noticed by musicians.’
I leaned back, trying for invisibility. This was what I’d come for — get two of my favourite guitarists acquainted and talking, while I got to listen. Nice.
They were well into the conversation now, and I decided to make an exception to my usual drinking rules. I caught the barmaid’s eye and mouthed my order at her — pint of Guinness, please. Might as well do it right…
‘…memory playing tricks, or did you once play a solo gig at the Hope & Anchor?’ Ringan sounded mellow. ‘Because I swear I saw an old poster on the wall in the public there, with your name on it.’
‘What, in Islington? Yeah, I did.’ JP was grinning at the memory. ’1977 that was, right after New Years. I was still drinking in those days, and Blacklight was taking a break between tours. I booked a gig there, and turned up pissed as a rat’s nightmare. Worked out perfectly — the pub was full of Sex Pistol-style yobbos, me onstage ducking flying bottles and all that. Brilliant show, sort of solo anarchic-blues fusion.’
I opened my mouth, and closed it again. I hadn’t known about that. What else didn’t I know about these people?
‘You know Luke Hedley, Blacklight’s other guitarist?’ JP was sticking with his favourite mineral water. I’d had the sense to let them know he was coming, and what he drinks. JP’s no diva — in his head, he’s a session bloke, and always will be, superstar or not. He’d never make a fuss. But I like making sure both he and Ringan get what they need. ‘Luke’s got a farm at Draycote, down in Kent. I caught a gig you did down there, at Timber Batts, in Bodsham. You’ve got a fantastic touch on that Martin. I’ve got one of those — a couple of different models, actually. Yours is, what, a D45? And your flautist is brilliant. Smashing vocalist, too.’
‘My God, you saw the Timber Batts show?’ The barmaid came by and swapped out Ringan’s empty glass for a fresh one. He was so animated, he barely noticed. I did, though, and I noticed something else — both he and JP had guitar cases under the table. Funny, they hadn’t been carrying anything when they got here… ‘How did I miss recognising you, mate? There couldn’t have been more than forty people in there that night! But you’ll have to tell Jane Castle you think she’s brilliant. She’ll like that.’
I had a good pull at my Guinness, and let myself relax. They were well into it, swapping stories, talking music, getting technical about guitars. I was drinking it in faster than I could drink the Guinness.
‘…pub in Edinburgh, on the Royal Mile, called the Ladder and Maiden. I know what you mean, about never playing what’s right under your nose – you could walk to the Ladder from my mam’s house, and do you know, I’ve never yet played there? Maybe someday…’
A thin draft of chilly air woke me all the way up again. Someone had come in out of the dark. He looked familiar, someone I knew, even though I knew in my blood that I’d never seen him before. He was holding a harmonica.
There was someone at his back, a small, pretty blonde woman. The door swung shut behind her, cutting off the cold wind, and I found myself smiling. Sonny Boy Williamson, greatest blues harmonica player who ever lived, and Jane Castle, superb traditional flautist. This ought to be a nice confused jam session, especially since right behind them was Bulldog Moody…
It came together quickly and easily, that jam. It was completely organic. I don’t know why I expected confusion; hell, I’ve found myself in the middle of jams with jazz bassists, and thrash metal guitarists playing Flying Vs, and concertina players who specialise in ballads. And it always works out, in the end. You find the line that runs through the music, you grab on and hold tight, you tune up whatever your instrument is, and you ride it.
That’s just what happened that night. We had JP and Ringan, JP with a beautiful Martin, playing the kind of slide that made him famous in the first place — full of those weird rhythmic chucks that distilled down from clave, the Cuban style that came from Yoruban bata drumming. JP learned his from listening to those old sessions Bulldog had recorded. Bulldog didn’t play, not that night. He was watching JP, and listening to Ringan, who was playing his grand guitar, Lord Randall.
Sonny Boy wasn’t playing, not yet — just waiting.
And then Jane lifted her flute and found a perfect talkative plaintive little melody. It was trad, it was American, it was universal — the perfect run. Sonny Boy gave her a look, pure appreciation, and came in high and hard and sweet, on the harmonica.
And the core of the jam, what they were playing, it all became blues — from Galway to Graceland, as another brilliant guitarist might put it. Blues across the water. Perfect.
I don’t know how long that jam went on. Time suspended itself, turned itself off, put itself away for a while that night. Maybe Time just wanted to groove to the music; who knows?
Sometime later, much later, there was that chilly wind from the outside world again, pulling me back. There were two women in the doorway, a few years apart in age — a tall fading redhead and a slightly younger woman with a cloud of dark hair, spangled with droplets of mist.
‘Right — here’s my ride. Bree, love, with you in a moment.’ JP set the Martin down in its case, and tucked the slide in his shirt pocket. ‘Ringan, mate, it’s been a pleasure. See you again?’
‘Absolutely.’ Ringan waved toward the two women, and the brunette waved back. ‘My ride’s here, as well. Jane, love, try and remember that line you played — we can use that on the next CD. I was thinking we might go for an American spiritual or something…’
The fire was down to embers and ash, and the publican was calling time. Sonny Boy and Bulldog had gone, without my seeing them go. Time to call it a night.
Maybe next time, we’d get a couple of the boys from Blacklight in here, and the rest of Broomfield Hill. We’d get Bulldog to play, and maybe Robert Johnson would make it next time.
That’s the nice thing about this particular pub — you just never know who’s going to come in out of the evening mist.
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