It's a long queue for one who is barely famous
Soho. A weekday night. A crowd snakes through the rain
Folk, some in their fifties, wait patiently for you – us
Inside, the ambience, part concert hall, part pub
Is a fitting space for your soaring Les Paul
With its intimate tables – a New Orleans club
Sweat, fear and sorrow, in the dark, gave us these songs
Danger is part of the contract we all have
The crowd, restive and drunk, wills you to go on
Scowling, as if pride was not a mortal sin
You hack through a familiar repertoire
From the Bluesbreakers, a band you were never in
Soho. A weekday night. A crowd snakes through the rain
Folk, some in their fifties, wait patiently for you – us
Inside, the ambience, part concert hall, part pub
Is a fitting space for your soaring Les Paul
With its intimate tables – a New Orleans club
Sweat, fear and sorrow, in the dark, gave us these songs
Danger is part of the contract we all have
The crowd, restive and drunk, wills you to go on
Scowling, as if pride was not a mortal sin
You hack through a familiar repertoire
From the Bluesbreakers, a band you were never in
A camera flashes, a snarl crosses your face
Offended you lash out – like a wounded animal
To show generosity is to be truly great
Your last song is a cliche, painted on velvet
With its lurid colours and predictable lines
Are you a blues immortal? Not really – not yet
Your face distorts to the tortured howl of your guitar
To show generosity is to be truly great
Your last song is a cliche, painted on velvet
With its lurid colours and predictable lines
Are you a blues immortal? Not really – not yet
Your face distorts to the tortured howl of your guitar
The last riff in your book of tricks – not doing an encore
I turn away puzzled. The crowd calls for more
NB: Poor chap died shortly after this poem was written, in a hotel in Spain, leaving a tiny footnote in the history of popular music. Maybe he read it? He was not a happy bunny when I saw him.
NB: Poor chap died shortly after this poem was written, in a hotel in Spain, leaving a tiny footnote in the history of popular music. Maybe he read it? He was not a happy bunny when I saw him.
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