I think I have reconciled my love/hate relationship with musicians. All my teenage years, I had thought that it would be awesome (yes, boys and girls, that word did exist even back in my time) to have a boyfriend who was a musicians. Many a musings about how romantic he’d be, and the love ditties that would be penned with me in mind, not to mention the long flowing locks because a musician just simply wasn’t a proper musician in the 15 year old Sponge’s mind unless he had long flowing locks.
So I reckon I thought I’d struck it lucky when I met Slaveboy. He was tall, big, thirteen years older with long blond hair and swaggered in cowboy boots. And let’s not forget the beard.
And my friends adored him. He cleaned the kitchen for us. Drove us places. Fixed things and was relatively amusing. And he would play his guitar as I slept.
And sixteen years on, he would play guitar as I watched the tellybox, tried to listen to music, struggled to hear my phone conversation with my friend and even when I was trying to have serious discussions with him.
And of course, being a big man, he made big noises with his guitars.
And I have lost several toe nails from stubbing them on big, not necessarily all the time black boxes otherwise known as amplifiers.
But last night, I was reminded of just how awesome musicians are. Slaveboy, by some lucky chance, discovered that a favourite musician of his, Chuck Prophet was going to be playing in London. It was a series of only 12 gigs and the review so far had been tremendous. Together with The Spanish Bombs, they were going to be playing The Clash’s entire London Calling album.
It took all of Slaveboy’s might not to explode with excitement. Beads of sweat were dotted on his forehead as we made the online ticket purchase for gig at the Relentless Garage in Holloway.
And off to London we went, Slaveboy and I, leaving the children at home armed with pasta bake and trays of butterscotch banana cake.
And this is why, SniffSnorters, this isn’t a cake related blog post. I have been far too busy pretending to be Bonnie & Clyde with Slaveboy. We did eat some cake, as an afterthought and I might remember to tell you about it. You won’t be missing much if I don’t though.
Like all road trips with Slaveboy, it was peppered with Slaveboy avoiding telling me not to be such a backseat driver (I don’t know how cos I sorely deserved it), me peeling sandwich wrappers off for him and us debating as to whether executive relief is a medically valid alternative to anti-hypertensive treatment (Slaveboy has been avoiding his medication for a week now).
It didn’t take me long before I meekly demanded that we turned back and went home as I was missing the Seventh Wonder. In my mind, she was miserable, at home, looking like this.
The reality was a bit more like this though.
And off to London we went, until we reached Brick Lane, where I made Slaveboy stop because I had spotted a street vendor selling satay.
I had some Japanese Katsu with sticky rice which was incredibly yummy but I did wonder if it was actually pork, rather than chicken as I had assumed. It didn’t even cross my mind to ask before ordering and having never knowingly had pork in my life, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.
There was a little bit of a kerfuffle as three security guards felt it necessary to pin down to the ground a man because he had stolen some food. Noone in this day and age should go hungry.
We had a wee wonder into The Old Truman Brewery, which was interesting as the last time I was there was for the London Tattoo Convention before it moved venue to the Tobacco Docks. We naively, in the giddiness of our Bonnie & Clyde persona, had some artisan cakes. I chose a slice of ‘traditional’ Strawberry Cake and gambled on a slice of vegan chocolate cake. It was £5.20 that I wish I hadn’t spent. I didn’t bother taking any photos as they were neither food porn or artisan status worthy.
The gig was immensely enjoyable. Slaveboy ushered me to the front of the stage, right up against the barrier. Throughout the performance, the Edward Scissorhand lookalike behind me kept catching his ring on my bird’s nest barnet and he was thoroughly apologetic each time but I didn’t mind because he was beautiful. Halfway through the set, I was mildly at risk of being swept into a middle aged men collective mosh pit but Slaveboy shielded me with his measure of Dad Dance. The sound engineering was naff, just like when we saw William Elliot Whitmore at the same venue and again, I successfully refrained myself from telling the sound engineer to step aside and let Slaveboy do the job properly.
All in all, it was a great night. I had chicken and chips in a cardboard box on the way home and I didn’t even mind so much missing out on some Krispy Kreme doughnuts. The ride home was a bit like the last few pages of Where The Wild Things Are. You know when Max got tired and cold and he could smell good things to eat from far, far away? It was a bit like that. The wild rumpus was shelved for another time and Bonnie & Clyde get to live another day and home in time to walk the dog and breastfeed the baby.