Three's company - Porcupine Tree return with Closure/Continuation

News that Peter Gabriel is recording what fans hope will become a new album was a painful reminder that the famously dilettante singer hasn’t actually released any new music for 20 years. Given how long it takes to physically manufacture a new album these days, with our new-found love of vinyl, that interval could stretch to 21. 

It’s a point that resonates with Steven Wilson, founder, lead singer, guitarist and latterly bassist of “alternative” band Porcupine Tree. In November they announced their first new album since 2009, but it has taken until now for Closure/Continuation to appear. But what, though, is eight months when the album has actually had a gestation period of an entire decade? 

In the 13 years since that last release, The Incident, Wilson, drummer Gavin Harrison and keyboard player Richard Barbieri have done their own things: Wilson, a series of acclaimed solo albums that have finally achieved for him some mainstream attention; Barbieri has focused on his own solo releases while Harrison has undertaken numerous gigs with various outfits including King Crimson.

The band’s last hurrah came 12 years in October 2010 with the tour for The Incident culminating in a prestigious, sell-out show at the Royal Albert Hall, a milestone for a band that had been used to playing venues a fraction of the size. The Incident was played in its 55-minute conceptual entirety which, Harrison states during a Q&A session on the day of Closure/Continuation's release, was limiting. Barbieri says that he needed a break, particularly from two decades of the album-tour-album-tour cycle. 

Picture: Facebook/Porcupine Tree

Wilson is more forthright: in his excellent recent autobiography, Limited Edition Of One*, he describes the awkward atmosphere as they prepared for the Albert Hall gig, even admitting his own insecurity as a frontman about to perform at the biggest show of his career. However things ended 12 years ago, the trio (original bassist Colin Edwin’s relationship with the band can be classed as ‘estranged’) is open and honest about it, and make that clear during the Q&A (in Kingston-upon-Thames, by chance, Wilson’s birthplace).                              *Full disclosure - yours truly is mentioned in a chapter about David Bowie

It certainly hasn’t proven to be a barrier to reform and record and release an album with as deliciously ambiguous a title as they have. Not surprisingly, they won’t be drawn on whether Closure/Continuation implies future collaboration under the PT brand. Wilson, in particular, felt pressure to justify the redux: “I wanted to make absolutely sure we had a killer record,” he told Music Week. 

“There’s so many precedents for fans putting pressure on bands to get back together, and when they do come back, it’s very mediocre and watered down, with all that intensity and momentum they had in their prime no longer there. We were conscious that we wanted to make one of the best records, if not the best, we’d ever made... Almost by stealth, we’d created one of the strongest albums we’d ever made.” 

With Closure/Continuation going straight to No.1 in the British, German, Dutch and Swiss album charts - a first for either the band or its constituent members - the ‘cult’ of Porcupine Tree may finally be catching up with something many have known for a long time: they deserve greater awareness and greater success. “The legend of the band seems to have grown,” Wilson added to Music Week, “to the point that we have more people interested now than at any other time during our previous lifetime.”

 Of course here I must reluctantly address the room-sized elephant that is the ‘P’ word: prog. For much of his career, Wilson has been tagged - lazily - as some latter-day saviour of progressive rock, the last Jedi keeping alive a flame lit all those years ago by Sgt. Pepper, Bowie, King Crimson, Yes, Genesis, et al. While he is no doubt flattered to be included in such exalted company, I know the prog thing rankles. “We are ‘alternative’,” he explains to the Kingston audience, acknowledging that journalists - mainly - have an inherent need to categorise. “[Porcupine Tree] took this element of complex, conceptual rock,” he recently told Super Deluxe Edition’s Paul Sinclair, “and we fused that with Richard’s sound design and approach to keyboard textures, Gavin’s interest in polyrhythms, my singer-songwriter sensibility, even elements of electronic music, industrial music – even metal music – and we put it all together in a way that was completely intuitive and unselfconscious.”

I know from personal conversations I’ve had with Wilson that his musical heroes, like David Bowie or Kate Bush, managed to be creative, inventive, never derivative – progressive – without having to labour under a label. “I would love to believe that after 30 years doing this, and having made lots of many different kinds of music over the years, that this notion that I’m somehow easily categorisable in one genre shouldn’t apply anymore,” he said in the SDE interview

Despite Wilson’s growing reputation as a solo artist (his last album featured a vocal contribution from Sir Elton John, and Nile Rodgers remixed one of its singles), Porcupine Tree is still very much an entity in its own right. In truth, the post-Albert Hall hiatus didn’t really last all that long: in 2012 Wilson popped over to Harrison’s house for a cup of tea which turned into an impromptu jam session between mates. With Harrison drumming and Wilson riffing away on a borrowed five-string bass guitar, they came up with Harridan, the formidable opening track of Closure/Continuation, which marries Wilson’s funk-like thudding to a distorted electric piano. All reminiscent of the jazz-fusion elements of the singer’s first couple of solo albums as well as PT’s own distant past, perhaps providing a subconscious bridge to the future.

The mood becomes more reflective with On The New Day, a solo Wilson composition, with its gently strummed chords and message of hope wrapped into a soothing (and, under five minutes in length, short) interlude before the “miasma of sound” that cues up the single Rats Return, and its acidic – and contemporary - take on tyrants. Wilson has talked of a more stripped back approach to Closure/Continuation, especially with his own guitar playing. Past PT outings tended to feature a lot of proto-metal riffing, but on Dignity Barbieri and Wilson produce a beautiful, melodic epic, underpinned by a ‘less-is-more’ acoustic guitar with only flourishes of jangly electric to punctuate the verses. Wilson will hate me for saying this, but it is reminiscent of the Genesis era I still enjoy the most, post-Gabriel and pre-MTV, when whimsy met a gentle form of rock with the albums Wind And Wuthering and …And Then There Were Three.

Picture: Porcupine Tree

Wilson’s point about wanting Porcupine Tree to be viewed in a category of their own is best exemplified by Walk The Plank, another Barbieri/Wilson song and one that lends itself more to Depeche Mode than any rock music convention, being sonically sparse, with a cold keyboard breeze floating through it. Similarly, the contemplative Chimera’s Wreck finds Harrison and Wilson confronting ageing in a near-nine minute workout that will no doubt be a highlight of the forthcoming tour for the album, which will bring Porcupine Tree to London’s SEC Arena for the first time.

Whether that gig in November (on my birthday, as it happens) proves to be another final hurrah for PT remains to be seen. The three are coy about whether or not they will do more – there is, Wilson says, a deliberate ambiguity to the title, which just lacks a question mark on the end. Wilson’s next solo album is already being prepared, and given his relentless ethic, with the remixes and side projects, it could be a while before Porcupine Tree meet up again for a lunch, and someone brings up the question, “What if we…?”.

Closure/Continuation may have taken ten years to produce, but that has been largely the result of Wilson, Barbieri and Harrison chipping away at it periodically, like an ambitious model railway layout in the attic, painting a station figure here, or a trackside detail there in the evenings or weekends when there’s nothing else on. It certainly is a work of passion, and one where the songcraft, musicianship and inventiveness is cleverly considered and expertly executed. “I don’t think we would have gone ahead and released the record, if we felt it was simply more of the same,” Wilson told Super Deluxe Edition. “It wasn’t a contrived reinvention,” he adds, “but nevertheless, it was a conscious attempt to reinvent, and I think, a successful one. It’s simply, this is what we do when we get together.”

Still got the blues - Eric Clapton at the Royal Albert Hall

Picture: ericclapton.com

On occasion I am inclined to regale anyone who’ll listen with my affection for and affliction to the area I grew up in, and to where I returned after galavanting around the world for two decades. This stems from the discovery, relatively late in life, that the south-west London suburbs of my origin actually had more going for them than I ever knew or even suspected as a child. I’ll spare you for another post, another time, the myriad musical connections to the area around Kingston-upon-Thames, but the one that always stands out is Eric Clapton.

Time’s mists have increasingly clouded the place Clapton holds in the pantheon of absolute rock legends, and while he is flesh and blood like the rest of us, the famous ‘Clapton is God’ meme, spray-painted onto an Islington wall somewhere in the mid-’60s - which may have been, then, just cheeky hype - was applied to a young man who, arguably, would turn British rock music on its head through sheer virtuosity alone. 

Clapton had barely left Surbiton’s Hollyfield School when he joined The Yardbirds in 1963, signing his contract in a now defunct pub in New Malden (actually, one once located just a mile from the house in which I was born). Having taught himself guitar, sitting alone on the village green of rural Ripley learning blues songs by the likes of Big Bill Broonzy, the teenage Clapton, armed with a Hoyer guitar bought from Bell Music in Surbiton, found an outlet in the riverside pubs of nearby Kingston. South-west London was emerging as the home of the English blues, with districts like Ealing and Richmond becoming a Mecca for young white locals channeling the music of America’s impoverished South. Within this realm, Clapton formed one corner of a triangle of Surrey-born guitar legends, being eventually replaced in The Yardbirds by Carshalton’s Jeff Beck, who in turn introduced another prodigy, Epsom’s Jimmy Page.   

By the summer of 1966 the 21-year-old Clapton had already been in two seminal bands (the other being John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers) when he joined a third, Cream, providing an excoriating platform for him to expand his God-given talent for blues-based rock guitar, becoming the most feted musician of his peer group, a friendly rival to the equally gifted Jimi Hendrix. Cream would last all of two years - the blink of an eye in musical history terms, but just as The Beatles were only an entity for, effectively, ten years, the legacy would last much longer.

That legacy was in effect last night at the Royal Albert Hall, the Victorian wedding cake that has effectively become Clapton’s spiritual home, having first played there in 1964 with The Yardbirds, and then memorably appearing there for Cream’s farewell concert in 1968. This was the fulfilment of a personal ambition of mine: year in, year out, tickets have gone on sale for Clapton’s May ‘proms’ at the venue only to see them snapped up in seconds, not helped by the old drum’s seating capacity of just over 5,000. And, yet, here is the guitarist that I desperately wanted to emulate, especially once I discovered his local origins. I even bought an Eric Clapton-signature Fender Stratocaster in the hope that it would make me play like him. But, strangely, in all my 54 years I’ve never found myself in the same space as the man himself. I wasn’t disappointed.

Opening with a gentle version of Gary Brooker’s Lead Me To The Water in tribute to the Procol Harum frontman, who died in February, Clapton and his now familiar band of supporting players (including singer and organist Paul Carrack, bassist Nathan East and keyboard player Tim Stainton), got straight into the blues with the Chicago standard Key To The Highway. In fact, this was to be, largely, a parade of Clapton’s best known songs - a funked up I Shot The Sheriff, followed by a personal treat for me, Cream’s White Room and, later, Badge and his signature interpretation of Robert Johnson’s Crossroads. 

Indeed, it was quite refreshing for Clapton to use the show - which had, like so many others, been postponed by Covid (and let’s not go near his apparent conservative views on that subject…) - as a run through of what the crowd, which appeared to be largely in the guitarist’s septuagenarian age group, had come for. More contemporary songs, like Pilgrim and River Of Tears provided textured reminders of Clapton’s writing skills (albeit both being co-written with Climie-Fisher’s Simon Climie), as well as his underrated, soulful singing voice, highlighting a point that he isn’t just a raucous blues soloist. Indeed, that became even more apparent with the mid-show acoustic set, drawing on the 1992 MTV Unplugged performance that brought Clapton a new audience (and gave a notable fillip to the acoustic guitar industry), with playful versions of Nobody Knows You When You’re Down And Out, accompanied by Andy Fairweather Low, and the old Charlie Chaplin/Nat King Cole chestnut Smile. Then the two highlights of that MTV special, the shuffle-arrangement of Layla and the still poignant Tears In Heaven.

A quick reset of the stage, and we were back to the electric Clapton, with the aforementioned Badge leading into the tender Wonderful Tonight (references to drunken buffoonery not withstanding, this was a timely rendition for my wife and I to enjoy on our one-month wedding anniversary...) and then back on the heavy pedal for Crossroads and another Johnson song, Little Queen Of Spades. Some in the  venerable Albert Hall crowd must have had advanced warning as to what came next, as from our eerie we sensed something of a stage rush (though clearly slowed by hip replacements, arthritis and other advanced-year hindrances) which heralded a second performance of the night for Layla, played out in its full Derek and the Dominos form, replete with its freewheeling coda. With that, and an encore of the Joe Cocker song High Time We Went - voiced by Carrack (a welcome opportunity for him to demonstrate arguably the UK’s finest vocal cords), the 77-year-old Clapton was off. There was little ceremony and, as had been the case for most of the night, no great interaction with the audience.

That appears to have always been his MO. Apart from the occasional brisk “thank you!”, and shoutouts to individuals in the band, Clapton has, from those teenage performances in the pubs of south-west London, through his legend building to now, mostly let his fingers do the talking. Like many of his other peers still going, here was proof that age is, broadly, just a number. I’ll admit that, as the world came to a halt two years ago, I wondered how many of these legends I would ever get to see again live. Clapton himself had suggested as long ago as 2014 that he might retire, as nerve damage to his fingers as well as other age-related ailments started to make performing less enjoyable. There was nothing, however, in last night’s display to suggest that he’s about to pull the plug on his 60-year career. 

In my last blog post (several weeks and a wedding ago) I came to the conclusion that Genesis had, finally, come to the end of the road, with their visibly aged and ailing lead singer. At the Albert Hall was  a guitarist (and Phil Collins’ former mucker) nearing his eighth decade and showing every bit of the fretboard dexterity that first blew the London music scene away in The Roosters, The Yardbirds, the Bluesbreakers and then Cream before he’d even turned 21. 56 years on, that God-given talent is still there. Last night we cherished it.

Return of the secret singer-songwriter

I don’t know when Peter Bruntnell decided upon Journey To The Sun as the title of his latest album, but it was with some irony, given that none of us are going anywhere right now, in search of sunshine or anything else. Then again, the Kingston-upon-Thames-raised “secret singer-songwriter” now lives in Devon, which I associate with glorious childhood journeys down the A303 for Whitsun half term, dodging torrents of rain on Dartmoor, of course, but also enjoying the splendours of the South Hams and the West Country sunsets streaming in through my aunt and uncle’s Plymouth living room window. 

Bruntnell is, it would appear, something of an intentional enigma. Read any review of his 11 albums to date (including his last, King Of Madrid - my album of 2019) and you’ll see the same phrases repeated: that he is lauded by the music press (Rolling Stone branded him the best-kept secret in “England”), has been endorsed by R.E.M.’s Peter Buck and Richmond Fontaine’s Willy Vlautin (“my favourite singer in the world”), is criminally underappreciated, and so on. It truly is baffling. But, as I noted in my recent review of the Matt Deighton Overshadowed documentary, there is an echelon of, mainly, singer-songwriters who just seem unable to edge - or be led - over the threshold of mainstream recognition, and the widespread success that comes with it.

So, materially, what makes Bruntnell so compelling, and why should you pay him attention? There are plenty of singer-songwriters, of course, and no shortage of guitar strummers - from Ed Sheeran-wannabes earnestly busking outside the local shopping precinct, to those with Neil Young/Nick Drake/John Martyn aspirations in every kind of venue (normally), from pubs up to arenas. Plus, if you dive down the myriad rabbit holes of sub-genres, the label ‘Americana’ will dish up no end of alt-country variants. Given the apparent need to slap a label on everything, it’s here that Bruntnell will probably get filed, but just because his songs might be acoustic guitar-based, with the occasional slither of pedal steel, it shouldn’t automatically mark him out for one genre or another. Indeed, Journey To The Sun, he says, draws on wider influences, including Brian Wilson’s arrangements and even Brian Eno’s ambient work. Other musicians called Brian may have played a part.

That, though, only outlines the form. What about the music itself? Like Deighton, Bruntnell’s is a mix of acoustic-tinged balladry and wry rock songs. To quote, unfortunately, Donny and Marie Osmond, a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll. I don’t mean to be flippant. But this brings us to “Pete’s Basement Studio” at Bruntnell’s Devon bolthole, where Journey To The Sun was recorded. Like so many new albums Where Are We Now? has listened to in recent months, it was produced in lockdown, but while the enforced work-from-home that every musician has been required to adopt has often been influenced by the pandemic, it was always Bruntnell’s intention to work on a solo album during this period. It just happened to coincide with a pandemic. “That meant more acoustic guitar, and I bought a bouzouki in March last year, which really was a catalyst for quite a few songs being written in a very short timeframe,” he recently told Sean Hannam’s Say It With Garage Flowers blog. “Oh, and I got a drum machine and a new synthesiser, too.”

A synth? A bouzouki? On an album by a noted exponent of Americana? Well, yes. Because while the music business does love a label, Journey To The Sun lends itself to a more experimental direction. There is still the luscious, acoustic guitar balladeering that Bruntnell found such strength in on King Of Madrid, but there are also eccentric stabs of electronica, a drum machine and even that staple of prog rock, the Mellotron. While the overall tone might still be plaid-shirted, there is - for all the additional layers - a stripped-back feel, something he does admit was influenced by the vibe of the times without being directly informed by it.

Like so many of these WFH productions, digital technology meant Bruntnell wasn’t working entirely on his own, with several of the tracks featuring New England-based keyboardist Peter Linnane, while Bruntnell’s longtime lyricist collaborator Bill Ritchie contributes words to five of the songs. But, for the most part, this is a largely Bruntnell effort, with the vast majority of instruments played by himself. This is apparent from the outset with the mournful Dandelion, written on the aforementioned Greek mandolin, with the addition of rudimentary piano skills, giving the song a sparse and haunting folkiness. Lucifer Morning Star - performed entirely by Bruntnell - is brighter, made so by a combination of 12-string guitar and subtle synths giving it a sunny dimension. Runaway Car rocks along with the kind of energy that will make it an instant live highlight. It is precisely the sort of expressive, guitar-driven song American television shows love (as we’re still working our way through 15 years’ worth of Greys Anatomy, with its dizzying panoply of singer-songwriters on the soundtrack, I’m amazed its producers haven’t come knocking on Bruntnell’s door…).

Picture: Simon Poulter

The jangliness of Journey To The Sun is occasionally broken up by clear references to Eno, specifically his album Another Green World, finding itself in the intro of You’d Make A Great Widow (a typical piece of macabre Bruntnell humour, resulting from a chance remark by Mrs. B), as well as the instrumentals The Antwerp Effect and Moon Committee. They provide undistracting interludes between the folkier songs, such as Heart Of Straw and a beautiful interpretation of the much-covered Scottish traditional Wild Mountain Thyme - here blessed with a wonderful arrangement, featuring an electric 12-string superbly channelling Jerry Cole’s lead on The Beach Boys’ Sloop John B (fun fact: I have it on good authority that Bruntnell performed this very song at a junior school concert when he was a lad). That same shimmering guitar finds its way, with uplifting effect, onto the reflective closing piece, Mutha, which examines time’s passing with a sense of hope. The hope we probably all want right now.

Mine, amongst many other things, is that Journey To The Sun earns Peter Bruntnell greater recognition. It’s not, to be fair, an album of anthems, or chart hits, or daytime radio blockbusters. Not that everything in popular music should be. It is, though, delightful, earnest and wonderful listening, particularly repeatedly, drawing out Bruntnell’s intimate vocal style and drawing on his exquisite arrangements and self production. Will it be the album that breaks him to a wider audience? Will it end his status as the “secret singer-songwriter”? As I wrote about its predecessor, I wish it would. Because some secrets really are best out in the open for everyone to enjoy.

Journey To The Sun is out now on Domestico Records and can be ordered from here.

London royalty: the Soho Dukes

© Simon Poulter 2019

Living in Greenwich, as I partially still do, I am constantly reminded of the emergence of the so-called New Wave in the late 1970s. All around this corner of south-east London there are venues that played host to legends of pub rock that were a vital part of the New Wave. Squeeze, in particular, loom large in this story, gigging in and around Greenwich and Deptford (Glenn Tillbrook still lives and works from a studio in Charlton), and there are tales from varying ends of the Old Kent Road of bands like Nine Below Zero, Dr Feelgood, Kilburn And The High Roads (and their successors, Ian Dury & The Blockheads) and even Dire Straits plying their trade in the pubs of the area. Dire Straits' debut single, Sultans Of Swing, was even inspired by a jazz band playing a near-deserted pub in Deptford.

Before the term ‘pub rock’ became coined, there was no shortage of back rooms in pubs hosting bands. The Rolling Stones got their break with a residency at the Crawdaddy Club, a back room at The Station Hotel in Richmond-upon-Thames which was a glorified pub itself. A couple of years later, The Yardbirds - featuring the teenage Eric Clapton - built a similar following in the same part of south-west London. Clapton himself had grown his reputation by busking in the pubs of nearby Kingston. It was perhaps fitting, then, that he signed his professional terms to join The Yardbirds in a pub down the road in New Malden. Today, the term 'pub rock' covers a multitude of exponents and it is, perhaps, a lazy term, but does still validly cover that strata of the music industry that can be found on any given night of the week knocking out a combination of standards and their own tunes to an audience of punters getting ever-so-slightly sozzled, and ever-so-slightly deaf. A case in point is the Cavern Freehouse in Raynes Park, a couple of miles up the road from the pub where Clapton turned pro, and typical of the kind of local haunts where, on any given night of the week, an erstwhile act will be pumping out some chugging boogie. Unashamedly named after its more famous Liverpool namesake, thanks to proprietor Noel being a proud Scouser and Beatles fan, the Raynes Park Cavern is typical of venues where you’ll find good quality, honest-to-goodness pub rock. Such as, on this particular Wednesday night, courtesy of the Soho Dukes.

Formed by rhythm guitarist Colin ‘The Duke’ Foster (a New Malden-raised lad himself), together with seasoned pub rockers Johnny Barracuda (vocals), Si Leach (lead guitar), Mark 'Bomber' Randon (bass) and Adrian Blackwell (drums), the Dukes are a lively brew, drawing quite happily on a number of Route 1 influences. Significantly, they write their own songs, rather than rely on an overworked canon of standards. “It’s all about the song for me,” says Foster, the band’s chief songwriter. “Always has been, always will be.” That is always the essence of any good pub rock band. As Bono once said, “All I want is a red guitar, three chords and the truth”. Well, we’re not far off here. No vibey keyboards, no elaborate backing tapes, just a couple of guitars, a bass, drums and a highly charismatic front man.

© Simon Poulter 2019

“The idea behind the Dukes was to take all the influences we love and create a very British band,” Foster says. “One that you could find trawling the streets of Soho, clutching a can of Party Seven in between falling in and out of pubs, bars and venues! It struck me that the musical history and heritage of Soho and its surrounding areas was that of hosting some of the greats in the 1960s, 70s and 80s. So, why not celebrate the area that gave us so much music - places like the Marquee, the St. Moritz Club, the Borderline, Astoria, and so on. Soho is a place where the Dukes had either individually or collectively spent so much time breathing in the sights and sounds. Hence the Soho Dukes: something regal but with dirt under the fingernails”.

And there certainly is plenty of that. This is pub boogie at its best, with songs like Angel Walk, Pablo’s Place, Murdertown and tracks off their recent Three Sheets To The Wind EP drawing on an even wider range of influences to Foster’s writing style. “My influences are many and varied,” he says, “but right at the top of the list are the Stones - Keith’s guitar playing and Mick’s vocal phrasing. But you can add to that Slade lighting up Top Of The Pops [in the 70s] with rabble-rousing anthems; Rod Stewart’s voice and the good-time vibe that The Faces would bring to the bar room table. From across The Pond you’ve got the likes of John Mellencamp and Tom Petty, while back in Blighty, Tyla from the Dogs D'Amour , who is a huge influence on my song writing. Tyla’s lyrics and melodies set to a backdrop of simple, three or four open chords.”

The influences don’t end there: “I love both electric and acoustic compositions,” says Foster. “Take the Black Crowes: Rich Robinson’s guitar on Shake Your Moneymaker and Chris Robinson’s voice, but also the songs overall on that album. Then you’ve got The Quireboys, with their Mott The Hoople/Faces-influenced rock n roll and Spike’s voice; Phil Mogg from UFO’s vocals and lyrics; Blondie with their delicious pop songs and Clem Burke’s Keith Moon-style drums; early Police, Aerosmith, Hanoi Rocks, Zep, ELO and Jeff Lynne’s eloquent songwriting. Cheap Trick’s zany songs and delightful pop melodies. The list goes on…”

It could indeed go on, such is Foster’s unbridled enthusiasm for collating his influences and shoving them into the music blender. All are readily audible in the Dukes’ music, and fronted by the delightfully eccentric Barracuda, one of those lead singers who can transform themselves into something that can’t be ignored with just the addition of an undertaker’s hat and a pair of sunglasses. Married to Foster’s boogietastic compositions, Barracuda draws on Rod Stewart's phrasing, Ian Dury's comic timing and New Wave figures such as Wreckless Eric and Elvis Costello. He’ll even throw in some literary effect: “The wit of Raymond Chandler. The imagery of Ray Bradbury's prose,” he says. “It's all different flavours of genius. And I'd kill for just 1% of it.”

“Weekend Millionaire was the song that, for me, started to properly define the direction the band has taken,” Barracuda explains. “It's become a bit of an anthem for us and was a natural to record for the EP.” Another is Analogue Man: “It’s about an obstinate old boy standing firm against the march of technology, and and possibly more than a little autobiographical! Usually Col and I will develop a song together; guitars and vocal melodies evolving simultaneously. Songs definitely taste better when they're grown organically. ... And we'll generally start with a chorus and work our way outwards. But Analogue Man was an exception. A vocal melody suggested itself as I was writing the words. Col grabbed it, twisted it into shape and then the band took it to another level entirely. This one won't appear on the first album, in the final stages of completion, but it'll definitely feature on the second. I'm already looking forward to recording it.”

With a name evoking that most central area of central London, the Soho Dukes have a distinct Britishness about them. That doesn’t mean Barracuda adopting Steve Marriott’s Itchycoo Park vocal persona, but more of a lyrical geolocation bound with the American roots of their music. No more is this exemplified than Think Of England, which evokes “supposedly better times”, according to Barracuda. “An England gone forever. An England of fizzy bitter, Marc Bolan and Randall and Hopkirk. It's the Dukes' national anthem. 'Lie back, think of Eng-er-lannnnd!' One for the teenagers…,” he giggles. The song makes references to “back seats at the Odeon”, taking the “last bus home and change out of a shilling”. Resolutely old imagery, but imagery that takes a welcome baseball bat to the latent neanderthal tendency in Britain today that views a return to the 1970s of The Sweeney as being a healthy one. Don’t, however, see this as a Richard Digence-style reminiss about Spangles, Bazookas and Knock-down Ginger. Or see the Dukes as any kind of revivalists. In fact, there’s more going forward for them than going back.

The Soho Dukes will play the 'Camden Rocks' all-day event at Club Kolis (The Lounge 666), 1 Archway Road, London N19, on 29 February - Leap Day. Their three-track EP Three Sheets To The Wind can be downloaded from www.sohodukes.com.  

Get me to the church on time!

© Simon Poulter 2019

As I was compelled to mention in my recent post about Sarah-Jane Morris's John Martyn project, I hold a fascination - some might say obsession - for the meagre musical connections of the south-west London suburbs in which I grew up. This partly stems from the discovery that Martyn himself was born only a thirty minute walk from the New Malden house where I later sprang to life, a revelation akin to discovering royal blood in my veins.

That discovery gave no indication that there would be more intersections to come. The first - and clearly foremost - came when I met my other half and learned that she not only lived in New Malden (in a house more or less backing on to that in which my grandfather and his siblings were born), but also worked at my first junior school. Bizarrely, too, she grew up in south-east London, where I currently base myself. Then came the revelation that my local Greenwich MP, Matthew Pennycook, also hails from the area and even went to my secondary school, some years behind me, before going up to Oxford (a rare event for Beverley Boys, I can assure you). The next connection in this uncanny sequence, however, was another musical one: via an intimate basement gig one Saturday night in Tufnell Park, over there in that North London, my mate Sean introduced me to the music of singer-songwriter Peter Bruntnell. And, guess what? I discovered that Bruntnell was at Beverley too, albeit a few years ahead of me.

Readers, I will not bore you further (and again) with the other remarkable collection of rock connections to my home area (Clapton, Page, Beck, et al), because Bruntnell is one of two pressing local musical matters to address here. Once described by Rolling Stone, no less, as "one of England's best kept musical secrets", demonstrating customary American understanding of the United Kingdom construct, Bruntnell has, since 1995, delivered a stunning canon of Americana-tinged, bittersweet brilliance. And he's now added to it with a sumptuous new album, King Of Madrid. Incredibly, it's his 13th, which means that the previous 12 have probably passed under your radar over the last 25 years since he released his debut. But if that is so, then you will have missed out on a body of work redolent of one of my favourite periods of musical history, when the canyons of Los Angeles were a vital source of earnest musicianship and hippy ideals, and produced the likes of Jackson Brown, the Eagles, the Flying Burrito Brothers, Gram Parsons and more.

King Of Madrid continues in that rich Americana vein and should, with the right visibility elevate Bruntnell to an entirely different altitude, possessing the kind of hooks, lyrical richness, lusciously strummable guitar work and Bruntnell's gently urgent vocals that wouldn’t be out of place on anything emanating from Laurel Canyon in the late '60s. I’d even go as far as comparing Bruntnell with Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen, perhaps not for their denim earnestness, but more for the subtlety of lyrical observation attached to his rooted music. On this release, Bruntnell targets the utter mess Britain is right now, peaking with National Library taking shots at the legacy left behind by David Cameron (including soundbites from the former prime minister), while Memory Hood, London Hood and the album's title track, take clever potshots at the febrile state of the nation.

We stay in the KT postcodes, sort of, and add a very strong touch of Sheffield for the next musical revelation, also brought to me by the aforementioned Sean, whose appreciation of Americana goes unmatched. One spring Sunday morning, seven years ago, Sean sent me a link to a free stream of Richard Hawley's then new album, Standing At The Sky's Edge. Hawley had, like Bruntnell, hitherto passed me by, despite his early Britpop work in the Longpigs and later collaborations with fellow Sheffielder Jarvis Cocker. And yet here, on this particular lazy Sunday morning, lying in bed in my apartment in Paris, I became engulfed completely by Hawley's collection of songs about three families living in Skye Edge, a housing estate in Sheffield's Park Hill district, one of many Hawley has embraced in song. Sky's Edge subsequently turned out to be a new direction, leaving behind the gentle country croons of its predecessors and instead embracing a reverb and distortion-drenched set of psychedelic epics. I listened to nothing else for what seemed like weeks after hearing it. Two weeks after the awful Bataclan attack in Paris, Hawley was the first gig I went to, itself an emotional rollercoaster for everyone inside the Alhambra theatre, barely a fifteen-minute walk away from the terrorist atrocity in November 2015. Hawley's gentle humour and mellifluous songs were, that night, just what Paris needed. A musical arm around the shoulder. Soothing reassurance.

And so it is with a gentler context that the bequiffed and typically double denim-clad Hawley comes to a church in Kingston-upon-Thames, New Malden's 'parent' town, to launch his delicious new record, Further. Noting the "Holy! Holy! Holy!" banner behind him on the apse wall of St. John The Baptist Church (a change of venue from the All Saints Church, which was recently - and surreally - the location of a gig by Jack Bauer himself, Keifer Sutherland), Hawley is soon riffing in his dry South Yorkshire humour, suggesting "Hawley! Hawley! Hawley" as a more suitable slogan.

Even with one semi-accidental F-bomb, he is never disrespectful of the environment, making ample use of the ecclesiastic ambience to enhance the acoustic guitar work of Hawley and his ever-present sidekick Shez Sheridan, as they make their way through an eight-song set that includes new music such as the Beatle-esque Doors, the dreamily shimmering Emilina Says, Galley Girl and its tale of highwayman derring-do, and the utterly winsome My Little Treasures, a song which took Hawley 12 years to write, about two of his late father's drinking buddies. From previous albums Hawley and Sheridan combine wonderfully to produce all-acoustic versions of Sky's Edge and even the glitterball romance of Tonight The Streets Are Ours, returning after the briefest of discreet beer breaks to end with the absolutely mellifluent For Your Lover Give Some Time from the Truelove's Gutter album, a song that, via its bittersweet lyrics, shines the spotlight on Hawley's delicious barrtione.

The set is short and sweet, a promotional opportunity for Kingston's fine emporium Banquet Records as much as a Richard Hawley Gig, but in the church setting, before a largely white middle aged and middle class congregation - Kingston captured in its essence - Hawley wraps yet another soothing arm around the shoulder. The last time was in the tragic aftermath of Paris, almost four years ago. This time, we're in the innocent, perennially untroubling London suburbs, in a residential parish church. The circumstances and location couldn't be more contrasting.

I guess that's why they call it the blues

Regular visitors to this blog will know my fascination with the south-west suburbs of London that I grew up in and their profound connection with the music Britain exported to the world in the 1960s and 70s. At its root was the Blues and the songs of an impoverished American South, implausibly transported into Surrey bedrooms​ to provide identity to angst-ridden teenagers living in relative affluence on the outskirts of the capital.

Of these adolescents, the individual who, perhaps, channeled the Delta Blues most effectively, both in terms of his playing and his own, personal tragedies, is Eric Clapton, the subject of Lili Fini Zanuck's engaging new documentary, Eric Clapton: Life In 12 Bars. The Clapton-endorsed film doesn't seek to tell anything new about the guitarist - nor does it. Instead, via a lengthy sequence of home movie clips, archive interviews and personal photographs, overlaid with dialogue from characters who've been pivotal - one way or another - in Clapton's 72 years, Zanuck focuses on several periods in his life which have defined him, and via the footage used, adds an extra dimension to much of what Clapton himself wrote about in his 2007 autobiography.

Indeed, Zanuck's film somehow continues the catharsis Clapton has been seeking, it would appear, most of his life and, arguably, for those things most people know about him already: his childhood, growing up believing his grandmother was his mother, and his mother was his sister; his rapid rise from teenage guitar prodigy in 1963 to feited "god" as one third of Cream in 1967 (having passed through The Yardbirds and John Mayall's Bluesbreakers in the process); his descent into drug and alcohol abuse at the turn of the 70s and the addled decade that followed; the tragic death of his first child, son Conor, when he fell from the 53rd floor of a New York apartment building in 1991.

It's always tricky, presenting a multi-millionaire rock star with the Italian-style Surrey mansion, a collection of Ferraris, vintage Rolexes and a penchant for Armani suits, as a tragic figure. But, if A Life In 12 Bars panders selectively towards the melancholy, rather than periods of happiness, contentment and celebration in Clapton's 55 years as a professional performer (not to mention the teenage years busking in the riverside pubs of Kingston-upon-Thames), it is consciously to draw out the sadness as the fuel behind his career. In this respect, Zanuck's film neither calls for pity or scorn.

It does, though, paint a somewhat despondent picture of an artist, not so much tortured as unlucky. Growing up in the peaceful Surrey hamlet of Ripley, he cut a strange and lonely figure: after getting his first guitar (bought from a now defunct shop in Tolworth), he discovered the blues of Big Bill Broonzy, Muddy Waters and BB King, also finding that, with some endeavour, he could emulate their licks on his little acoustic guitar. Learning from his grandmother the truth about his origins (his absentee father was a Canadian serviceman who'd had a wartime one-night stand with his mother), Eric Clapton would spend the rest of his life seeking escape from this conflict, while adding more, all to the soundtrack of music conjured many thousands of miles away.

Later events, such as the death in 1970 of his friend Jimi Hendrix, would build on this trajectory by putting him on a path of self-destruction, confessing - in one of the film's more disturbing scenes - his "deathwish".

As with Asif Kapadia's documentaries about Ayrton Senna and Amy Winehouse, Zanuck's absence of on-camera interviews and use of footage and stills adds the film's tone. Disembodied, we hear Rose Clapp - Clapton's grandmother, his Auntie Sylvia, his onetime girlfriend Charlotte Martin, his wife/muse Patti Boyd, and his late friend and mentor, Ben Palmer, provide the colour. There isn't pity - Rose says Clapton had a mostly idyllic childhood - but there is plenty of undercurrent that doesn't disappear until long after the death of his son.

72 years is a lot to cram into a documentary of any length, so while it seems that large chunks of Clapton's life have been left out, they are probably the chunks that have little to add to the primary story. Indeed, the film ends with a brief montage of private film clips of the elder Clapton and his 'new' family today - wife Melia, daughters Julie, Ella and Sophie. There's no mention of his continued musical output and touring (or his reported health challenges - encroaching deafness, difficulties playing guitar), which have been Clapton's raison d'etre for the better part of six decades. But, weirdly, that's not the point.

A Life In 12 Bars - a title with so much meaning (all things - wink-wink - considered), may not be the perfect editorial study; indeed, Zanuck - who first met Clapton when she was directing the harrowing drug cop film Rush, to which he provided the musical score - doesn't open up anything more than a third, pictorial dimension to the star's life. But it does provide a rich scrapbook to remind ourselves just what the fuss was all about - why a 17-year-old Surbiton schoolboy was invited to join The Roosters in 1963, why he then became a part of British blues history in The Yardbirds, in John Mayall's Bluesbreakers, in Cream, in Blind Faith, with Delaney And Bonnie, and as the frontman of Derek & The Dominoes, and as the rock star's rock star ever since. Because down on that Ripley village green in the mid-1950s, with his blues records and his Hoyer acoustic guitar, was the lonely, troubled misfit, rejected by his birth mother, who embarked on a journey to counter that rejection and apply what can only be described as a God-given talent for making a guitar sing.

Frexit, stage left

© Simon Poulter 2016

So that's it. Seventeen-and-a-half years after I moved to Amsterdam, and embarked on a journey that took me to California, back to the Netherlands and then, since New Year's Day 2011, Paris, I'm back "home". Yeah, London, baby!

Well, I say home, but it really is where the heart is. And mine has been enchanted by Amsterdam's canal-lined streets, the perma-sunshine of the Golden State, the quaint, rural Dutch village where I 'settled' for six years, and then on to Paris. Of course, I've never been that far from the old country: Amsterdam and Paris are barely an hour by plane, five hours by road, and with family and a Chelsea season ticket to return to, not to mention business commitments, it does sometimes feel like I've never been away. But in reality, there’s a big difference to actually living back here again and the frequent commando raids I’ve made over the last 17 years to stock up on Shreddies and deodorant, or to buy suits from Marks & Spencer that properly fit (France doesn’t do suits for someone of my…er…shape - more so short-arsed men who stay stick thin through chain-smoking and thimbles of weapons-grade coffee that renders them nervous energy-burning furnaces).

Returning to Britain after the better part of two decades as an ex-pat brings many new things to get one's head around. When I left in 1999 there was no broadband, no WiFi, and the Internet - which I accessed on a company-provided laptop - was connected to via a tectonically-slow dial-up connection. On top of that, everyone was running around like Chicken Licken predicting that the sky would fall in because of the Millennium Bug. This also reminds me that I left the UK in the 20th century and have now 'returned’ in the 21st. Of itself, this is not a particularly breathtaking fact - as it's been the 21st century everywhere else I've been - but it does shed daylight in on how Britain has changed.

Immigration may have been the extreme sunburn-sensitive topic that dominated the Brexit debate, but it has made for an enriching character shift to many British communities. There's not a café or coffee outlet in London now not exclusively staffed by eastern Europeans (and more power to them - at least they are happy to serve your cappuccino without giving off the sense of the job being beneath them...). A few Christmases ago I took a bus into Kingston-upon-Thames and was struck by the variety of accents and languages being spoken on the top deck. Here, in the area in which I was born and grew up in, were now conversations in Polish or Czech (working in an international community tunes the ears to foreign tongues), as well as Korean, the result of New Malden (my hometown) hosting Europe's largest Korean community, a legacy of Samsung basing its European HQ there a few years ago. And you know what? The Korean supermarkets and street signs, Polish delis, and Lithuanian-run tea shops have brought a new vibrancy to the area.

The other thing I've noticed is how risk-averse Britain has become and how bossy it is as a result. Such is the health and safety culture here that there is barely a trade not required to wear high-visibility attire (including, even, police horses). Viewed from space, I'm fairly sure that the United Kingdom shows up as a fluorescent yellow triangle in the North Sea. In France there is no such paranoia. In fact, health and safety just doesn’t exist. You can walk under construction cranes shifting heavy loads without so much as a “look up” sign to warn you, let alone a 100-metre safety perimeter and mandatory hard hat wearing. As with many things in France, workers are merely an inconvenience to be shrugged at in that inherently insouciant French manner.

Travelling by public transport in Britain is to be subjected to a never-ending babble of reminders and instructions. Actually, orders. Recently I was in a rush to catch the Heathrow Express into London, and I got barked at over the tannoy by the platform guard: “No need to run! Plenty of time!", in a voice not dissimilar to the schoolteacher on Pink Floyd's The Wall ("YOU! Yes, you laddie! Stand STILL!"). This was the same guard who’d shouted at everyone not to board the train until vital security checks were carried out, and then barked at everyone to board quickly. You can’t win.

Once on board a moving train, Bossy Britain subjects you to a running commentary, telling you which station you’ve just left, what station comes up next, what line you’re on, who runs that line, what terminus you’ll end up in. On the London Underground it’s even worse: “The next station is Bank.” “We are now at Bank.” “Mind the gap as you get off.” “Please allow people to get off before you get on.” “Move down inside the carriage please.” “Move RIGHT down inside the carriage please.” “Stand clear of the doors.” “The doors are closing - stand clear of the doors.” “The doors have now closed”. “The next station is Holborn”. I’m sure some public transport workers in Britain are failed wedding DJs - the type who just won’t shut up.

When I left the UK in 1999 I had a mobile phone that made calls and sent text messages. And that was it. Apple was regarded somewhat dismissively as a niche company with overpriced products designed for creative professionals and no one else. I used to drool over Apple Powerbooks in shop windows like Mike Myers drooling over that white Stratocaster in Wayne’s World. And then the original iMac came out, and all of a sudden the idea of an affordable and cool-looking computer at home seemed viable and attractive. I bought one in Amsterdam in 1999, commencing an addiction to the Apple brand as powerful and as financially destructive as an acute crystal-meth habit. Apple cleverly marketed the digital lifestyle, and I have enthusiastically bought into it.

While I'm trawling through the annals of an already-distancing past, let me also mention my football club. In 1999 Chelsea were still flirting with financial near-death, but since Glenn Hoddle had become manager in 1994, and players like Ruud Gullit, Gianfranco Zola, Gianluca Vialli and Frank Leboeuf had been added, the club’s stock had steadily risen.

© Simon Poulter 2016

By the time I set off for Holland, Vialli had replaced Gullit as player-manager, but they were still perennial sixth place contenders. Their 1995 run in the old Cup Winners’ Cup was their only foray into Europe since 1971. I made the decision to keep my season ticket when I moved abroad. Such was the growing popularity of the club, fuelled by the stars now playing in blue, seats for home games at Stamford Bridge were already becoming scarce. Even when I moved to California I decided not to give up the ticket, knowing that a three-year waiting list would be too painful to endure if I had to start all over again. In 2004 the Abramovich era began, bringing with it José Mourinho, and trophies and titles like I’d never seen in my lifetime. It’s going to be nice going to Stamford Bridge more often again, especially midweek games (I’ve only been able to attend one in 17 years), where the jeans-and-sweatshirt uniform of a Saturday afternoon matches is replaced by those who’ve just rushed from the office, wearing a suit and an overcoat, the Evening Standard stuffed in a pocket.

So what have I gained from these years abroad? It’s a chronic cliché to say that travel broadens the mind, but living abroad - especially on "the continent” - has highlighted just how much of an island nation Britain can be. Europeans are different, but not in a physical way. When I first moved to Amsterdam I seemed to be under the impression I was relocating to a developing country lacking supermarkets, flushing toilets or breakfast cereal. I was instantly wrong. The Netherlands is one of the smartest, modern countries in the world, full of people who learn languages in seconds and enjoy a sense of contentment known locally as “gezelligheid”. It’s an almost-impossible word to define, but imagine very tall, healthy-looking people, sitting outside a café with a glass of rosé on a warm summer’s evening, looking smug, and you’ve come close to understanding what gezelligheid means.

© Simon Poulter 2016

And, then, France (I'll skip my two years in the US - a nation you probably know of too well). The opportunity to live and work in Paris was the fulfilment of a romantic ideal I’d coveted over many years, the result of watching too many Alain Delon films and The Day Of The Jackal, and seeing Paris as somewhere stuck resolutely, defiantly, nobly in the 1960s. I dreamed of living in a traditional Paris apartment, like Inspector Clouseau, with a view of the Eiffel Tower from my window. I achieved that, and then some. And the fact is, Paris is still stuck in the 1960s: I recently watched The Day Of The Jackal again and, now familiar with many of the locations (the hotel at the film’s denouement is right opposite a regular meeting point for a friend of mine and I), I saw how the city really doesn’t look any different 45 years on. And I love it for it. When I moved there I wrote a love letter to it (A Paris Love Affair) on my old blog. That love hasn’t dimmed. Yesterday - my last morning as a Parisian - I went out for breakfast and walked part of the way back in brilliant blue-sky sunshine, soaking up the Haussmann architecture near the Sorbonne. A modern, progressive city but one which hasn’t lost touch with its aesthetic charm. Or its passion.

On this I’m conflicted about London. Yes, there’s plenty of ‘the old’ in London to remind you of its history, even its pre-Roman history, but there’s almost too much of the new. 17 years ago I would take the bus to work across Waterloo Bridge and look east to a skyline dominated by St. Paul’s Cathedral. Now, the skyline is dominated by vast monuments to glass and steel, an architect’s wet dream, in which they compete to out-design each other. Over the next few years, it is reported, there will be as many as 250 new skyscrapers going up in central London. On the one hand, it’s a sign of the city’s vibrancy as a place to do business, and even post-Brexit, an indication that things will be fine, after all. But on the other hand, it reminds me of just how architectural conservatism in Paris has ensured the city remains both liveable and effective, but also eye-wateringly attractive every time you step outside the front door.

When I moved to Paris I was warned by lazy British tabloid tropes that my life was going to be blighted by stereotypes. My day would be brought to a crawling pace by slow and indifferent waiters; strikes would impede any form of travel; and I would drown under an ocean of bureaucracy. Well, the last one proved to be fact. France appears to exist purely to provide employment for office workers processing pieces of paper. But the rest? Not really.

© Simon Poulter 2016

There hasn't, even, been much of the legendary French militancy, the spirit of the Bastille and rioting students at the Sorbonne in '68. Apart from aggressive taxi drivers (and outbreaks of riots this summer), I've seen little of this aspect of French expression. With one exception: being a part of the "unity" march on January 11 last year, in the wake of the Charlie Hebdo shootings, was one of the most profound experiences of my life, a tidal wave of more than a million and half people setting off from Place de la Republique. If only it had had the desired effect in warning off those who believe in the Kalashnikov and the suicide vest as the only means of making a statement. Ten months later, I was dealing with the news that two wonderful friends had been caught up in the attack on Le Bataclan. Thankfully, they got out safely. But this was an attack on the freedom you enjoy in Paris. Ultimately, it was an attack on a lifestyle I enjoyed more than anything else in Paris - the cafés and music venues. I won't dwell further on it - there'll be plenty of that from the media next month when the anniversary comes up - but the era of terrorism (including 9/11 - when I was living in California - and indeed July 7, 2005 in London), has become one of the darker undercurrents of the years I've been abroad.

Paris and London are comparable in size and, to some extent, economic influence over the rest of the nation. But while I am overwhelmingly excited to be back in London, there are many things I’ll miss from the last few years in the French capital. Firstly, the people. I’ve made lifelong friends there, but the fact that the city is only two hours away by Eurostar (well, 13 hours, given the number of breakdowns it experiences…) means they will never be far at all. But secondly, the way of living. Small things that make a big difference, like getting to see gigs by Robert Plant, the Stone Roses, Richard Hawley, Johnny Marr, Paul Weller and many others in small, intimate theatres where you’re only a few feet from the stage, as opposed to the cavernous venues these same acts would play on British tours (tip to self: stay tuned to the Paris gig listings, especially given how easy it is to get from London to Paris).

Then there’s the relative ease of getting about. Yes, Paris is still a choked madhouse of drivers riding their car horns, but that’s for those who still insist on driving. Two years ago I sold my car (which had been stuck in a garage, unused, for the previous two years). Owning a car in Paris is an utter waste of time and money. When public transport is subsidised, and your employer pays for your €70, five-zone monthly Navigo card (compare this to the £212 it costs you to travel the same distance each week in London), and there’s a Métro train every two minutes, there’s every incentive to get rid of the wheels. Getting used to this - and things like shopping every couple of days at the local supermarket rather loading up a car once a week at some giant out-of-town aircraft hangar - has brought an enjoyable simplicity to city living, one which I will replicate readily in London by living close to the centre and not going back to car ownership. That sense of simplicity is one of the many things I’ve acquired living abroad. I grew up in London’s suburbs, where car ownership is a near-necessity, but also a status symbol. In the days when a new number plate letter appeared on August 1, net curtains really would rustle avariciously when a shiny new motor appeared on the driveway across the road. I can do without that. Plus, thanks to being a frequent car hire patron over my years abroad, it’s nice to get an upgrade to something fancy on the few occasions I need to rent one.

17 years, out of almost 49, is a large chunk of my life. For example, I’ve spent more time, since passing my driving test, living in countries where you drive on the right as opposed to driving on the left. For 13 years my salary has been paid in Euros, and I’ve loved being able to visit friends in Germany or go on holiday to Italy without having to go near a bureau de change. These are, though, merely material differences.

Over 17 years I’ve seen two nephews grow from children into successful adults, one with a wife and daughter, the other with a self-made career as a personal trainer. A third came along in 2002 and is now a teenager. I’ve seen my brother and sister-in-law become grandparents, and witnessed, periodically, my own parents go from retirees in their late sixties to proud, but increasingly frail pensioners in their mid-eighties, my dad gradually (though slowly) succumbing to that cruellest thief of dignity, Alzheimer’s.

I’ve never been all that far away from my family over the last 17 years, but now I’m going to be even closer. My visits will not be dictated to by the need to get to an airport, phone calls won’t be scheduled around time zones, spare rooms won’t need to be reserved, and Hertz at Heathrow won’t be seeing so much of me. Everything I love about London will be a Tube ride’s away - the museums, the culture, Covent Garden, gigs, HMV in Oxford Street, the theatre, the diversity, an energy matched (or even eclipsed) only by New York. Over the last three years I’ve spent more time for business reasons in London, during which time I came to feel that there was something I was missing out on. Couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it was there. One way or another I knew I’d be back, and through the good fortune of a job move, I am. I’m back. London, baby! Yeah.