I can honestly say I've never been billed as a special guest before. Ever. But Special Guest is, seemingly, what I am for this upcoming shindig on Sunday. I think a greatest hits set is called for; so that would be the one about the woman with the dogs, and the one I nicked off Neil Young. I might even do my version (vershion) of I'm Not in Love. There never were such times.
Thursday night's Open Mic was very relaxed; a pre-season friendly for next Sunday, if you like, with just the right amount of beards in the room.
I've got my setlist pretty much worked out: 10 songs - with a bit of chit-chat in between - probably 40 minutes all in all. Perfect; never outstay your welcome.
I say all worked out; I've just decided to drop this one in: Billy Bragg's 'No one Knows Nothing' from his 2013 Tooth and Nail album. Its themes really resonate and, I think, sum up where we're all at in this crazy fucked up maelstrom we call 2019. Just got to work out where in the running order to put it.
Billy Bragg - No One Know Nothing (2013) - with pedal steel
Once again I'm looking forward to combining two of my favourite pastimes - music and beer: I've been added to the bill at Nottingham's Bar 71 on Sunday 25 August. It's a Bank Holiday, so the atmosphere should be quite special.
Bar 71 is a thriving community micro-pub a mile or so from the city centre (and conveniently a mere hop, skip & a jump from where I live). The incomparable Paul Carbuncle is compering the event and headlining too. I think I'm on at 5pm. Promises to be a great day.
I have absolutely no comprehension how it must feel to be in a place where your only source of nourishment is through your local food bank; to reach a point where the rug has been pulled from beneath you, your pride is through the floor and your stomach is painfully empty. Yet in the UK thousands of adults AND CHILDREN most certainly do. What a shameful country we live in right now. And it's only getting worse.
I've joined a club. They wanted me to join a little while ago, but I hesitated; you see I'm wary of clubs. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm not a joiner-inner (if that makes sense?). But, if you're not careful, clubs get taken over by odious little men. Odious little men with chips on their shoulders who turn nice little gatherings into cliques. To say they usually sport beards wouldn't be fair; but it's a truism. And they usually have a northern connection - Leeds, often.
Obtuse
But I digress. the good folk at Carrington Triangle don't do cliquey. They couldn't be any more inclusive if they tried. Just ask the 557 members who signed on the dotted before me. In fact, why don't you have a word with Paul Carbuncle - Paul straddles that line between folk & punk, snarling & sincere, Carrington & Dublin. Like the rest of us, he sings for his supper - a veggie curry during the half time interval when glasses are re-filled and parish notices are read out.
Looking at the who's who in their illustrious guest book reveals a plethora of superb artists who have trod the boards at the Gladstone Hotel - home to the Triangle. I'd be very surprised if Chris Sherburn and Denny Bartley hadn't played there at least once. If they haven't, I may have to put a polite request in to see if we can secure their services in the not too distant. Here they both are together with Emily Sanders - a natural trio, if not a triangle.
