Saw Passenger, my favourite current singer-songwriter at the Newcastle O² Academy last night and was not disappointed – well not by him, though the venue left much to be desired (more later). Both Mike and members of The  Once, his support act, sported full beards for some unknown reason – just fashion or, as he said in an interview on BBC Breakfast, to hide his face. Don’t know what the other’s excuse was – to look older? more rugged? folkie image? keep warm? My advice – get rid of them.

Anyway, according to the Newcastle Evening Chronicle; ‘The floor of the O2 Academy shook under the weight of thousands of feet stamping and hands clapping along with Passenger. Mike Rosenberg, the man behind the name, was frank with his audience from the start: “Passenger may sound like a band, but I have got a bombshell for you tonight Newcastle, it’s just me and a guitar”. But the one man band had his audience just as captivated as they would have been with a five-piece band with his songs that told so many stories. With moments where it felt like he was pouring his heart out to times where he brought everyone to laughter, this set had it all. The star didn’t hold back from sharing his inspiration for the song lyrics. The song Riding to New York was made even more poignant by his tale of a terminally ill man, on a journey to visit his grand-daughter one last time, who touched his life and inspired him to give up smoking. His chart topping single Let Her Go was an easy crowd pleaser with a sea of hands filling the air. The crowd laughed when he joked that as the song was his only hit single he had just planned on playing it six or seven times.’   I go along with all of that – and more.

Though Mike’s musicianship is OK he’s no guitar virtuoso but his brilliant songs and passionate voice more than make up for that. Like Paul Simon, who he has admitted is a major influence (he sang Sounds of Silence last night), he has a gift for catchy tunes along with thought-provoking lyrics. He’s also got quite a theatrical delivery, not afraid of quiet passages, along with some longish explanations (as mentioned above) which at one point I feared would lose him the raucous Geordie crowd.

Yes, the crowd. It wasn’t their fault – they were treated like cattle in a venue more accustomed to rock bands. The Academy is an old cinema converted to host live music by the simple expedient of stripping out the seating and installing several large bars (but no bins to put plastic glasses which covered the floor by the end). I got there just before 7.00pm (when doors were supposed to open) and had to queue for about twenty minutes and then hang around an hour for the support band (The Once, a lively folk-orientated three piece). Unfortunately at least half the crowd ignored them and carried on talking, but there was nowhere else for them to go so those who did want to hear had to contend with a constant babble. Amazingly, many people still didn’t stop yapping when the main guy appeared (after another half hour wait). This was despite ‘I Hate’ a song explicitly saying he hated people who ‘pay good money to see gigs and talk through every fucking song.’ How true, but it didn’t stop the yappers. Nevertheless, the vast majority obviously really enjoyed the gig and sang, clapped and waved in all the right places.   The audience itself, though mainly in their twenties, included people of all ages along with a few geriatrics like me.

It was good to see acoustic music getting a positive response from such a diverse crowd. I think this is partly due to Mike’s likeable personality, his directness and honesty, but also, maybe, the recent popularity of stand-ups who can fill huge stadiums with no back-up band or anything but themselves. In a world of increasing technology, noise and electronic wizardry it’s refreshing to see someone with just a guitar (if they’re any good). As Mike sings in Whispers, the tour title:

Everyone’s filling me up with noise – I don’t know what they’re talking about.
You see all I need’s a whisper in a world that only shouts.

Saw the recent BBC doc about Nashville – described on their website as; ‘‘Whispering’ Bob Harris journeys to America’s country music capital and reveals why Nashville became Music City USA. From the beginnings of the Grand Ole Opry on commercial radio, through the threatening onset of rock ‘n’ roll in the 1950s, right up to the modern mainstream hits of Music Row, this is the story of how music has shaped Nashville and why today it’s a place of pilgrimage for musicians from all over the world.’

Bob Harris is an easy-going and knowledgeable host and gave a good over-view of Nashville’s history along with the leading stars who made it so important. However, most of the recent singers and their songs seemed bland despite Bob’s assertion to the contrary (and the girl who sang about gay rights and smoking pot? New? Phew!) probably wouldn’t have got away with it without her old-fashioned good looks. The main trouble, to my mind, is that though country music artists make a point of mentioning their humble origins (and their audience’s) but ignore much of that in their lyrics. Instead they mostly sing about the same thing – love (or lack of it). One of the main reasons, I guess, is commercial – the same as for pop.

When I went to Oklahoma a few years ago (for Woody Fest, the Woody Guthrie* annual festival) we flew from Canada over the Mid West and I was amazed to see a seemingly endless patchwork of giant fields. Brought up on old cowboy films which portrayed America as wild, rugged and mostly mountainous I was somewhat disappointed to see this tame chequerboard. I later watched a documentary about factory farming – how most farms now keep thousands of animals penned up indoors – and my disillusionment was complete. America still peddles the old cowboy image of itself, especially through country music, but it’s long ceased to be true. Anyway, I wrote ‘Ghost of an Apache’ in response.

*Woody Guthrie could never have been accused of ignoring ‘real’ issues in his writing. Maybe that was because he cared far more about people and their problems than commercial success.

Just finished reading ‘Some People Are Crazy: The John Martyn Story’, a biography by John Neil Munro. According to one reviewer, ‘Munro does a good of job of weaving together the twin threads of Martyn’s remarkable musical career and the old rock-and-roll cliché of his self-destructive personal life. The book’s great strength is that he has access to many of the key sources: not just Martyn himself but musical collaborators – and great musicians in their own right – such as Ralph McTell, Dave Pegg and the incomparable Danny Thompson.’

All that’s true. I read the book over the weekend, mostly on the train to and back from London, and it certainly helped the time pass quickly. I was also delighted to get a brief mention at the end of the book where his early gigs in London folk clubs are listed. Many of the venues he played in, the Folk Barge (Kingston upon Thames), Cousins and Bunjies (Soho), Ewell Folk Club (which I MCd), Richmond Hanging Lamp Club, Putney Half Moon, Troubadour, Teddington New Anglers (which I also MCd briefly) and lots more around the area were ones I also played in. It was an exciting time when singer-songwriters were really on the up and many acoustic performers, like Paul Simon, Cat Stevens, Elvis Costello, etc, were to became famous.

At the time I was going under the name Steve Baker (embarrassingly I even tried out Steve Candy for a while). Obviously I was not in John Martyn’s league as a guitar player but he was a nice friendly guy then (not always later on according to many accounts) and very approachable. However, in 1968 I got out of the scene – sold my guitar, put my song books in the fire (really) and sought pastures new. I didn’t have half his talent, never mind stamina or capacity for drink and drugs. Of course, that was not the end and I’ve continued in music in other ways.

The last time I saw him was around the mid Eighties, playing at a riverside Art Centre venue in West London. The crowd loved him and, musically, he was very good. However it only confirmed my feeling that I made the right decision to get out while I could and become a teacher. The book only reinforced this. Had I continued in the music business back then it’d undoubtedly have ended badly (I’d be prematurely dead like him). Martyn may say he had no regrets but I don’t believe it – just look at the difference between his young and older self. He may have been a tremendous musician but he hammered his mind and body, as well as testing many of the friends and especially women in his life.