I took up my drink, and raised a toast to him. 'Pogue ma hone,' I said, which of course, means kiss my arse in Gaelic.

        I got back to the table without any blood or beer being spilt. Jason was tucking into his burger. He was saying, ' I don't know if I can finish this burger.'
         I looked at it.
         ' Yeah. It looks great on the outside, but not so attractive from the inside,' I observed.
         'A bit like people,' he said, then put it to one side. He picked at his potato wedges and then pushed them away too. He wasn't impressed. 'If I'd have known they would be potato wedges and not chips, I wouldn't have bothered with them. These just aren't chips, are they. I mean... these are just thick and potatoey,' he grumbled.
         'A bit like the Irish,' I said, looking over at my mate from the bar.
         Jason asked, 'who have we come to see?'
         I had drafted Jason and 'Nik'  in at the last minute to come with me to the gig. Due to the unexpected success of the site, I find I have to walk around with a couple of bouncers. Mind you, if I wear tight trousers they hardly move at all.
         But, I digress
         Kevin is the name of the guy we've come to see; Kevin Duffy.
        Duffy is an Irish name. I don't know if Kevin is Irish, but I do know 'potatoey' isn't a word you would associate with him. Nor does the word, 'thick'. At least, not to his face anyway. Not unless you also wanted to associate the words 'Accident' and 'Emergency' with him too, because Kevin is a big guy.

He's also quite the songwriter and has the tightest little band this side of the water. It's Kevin that I've come to see tonight. I'd heard him doing an acoustic night a while ago, and looked forward to hearing him with the whole band.

Jason, 'Nic' and myself, having finished with taking the piss out of Jason's chips (or was that vinegar) left the bar upstairs and went down to where Kevin and the boys would be playing. As we stood at the downstairs bar, I noticed the guitarist, Steve. The last time I had seen him, playing down here as a matter of fact, I had thought he resembled a young Donovan. He had been sitting that time, playing acoustic. Now that he was standing he reminded me of Donovan standing on a stool. Steve is quite tall and rangy and a very, very good guitarist.

We had a quick chat, and then he excused himself and went to join the rest of the band who are collectively known as 'Duffy'.
Jason got the beers in.

My motley group grabbed ourselves a table as the lights were going down and the pre-gig ambience stepped up. I was rather intrigued to see one of the staff come up to our table to light a candle in a glass. Very nice, except it wouldn't light, no matter how many matches he used on it. He kept burning his fingers. It got painful to watch and went on so long I started to wonder if this was part of the night's entertainment. He could have been some kind of masochistic novelty act, burning his fingers for our table. It made a change from having a violinist come up and play for you in those French restaurants I can't quite afford. Cursing, he stalked off without waiting for any applause. I wondered if he'd come back for an encore and punch himself in the nuts, but I never saw him again.

No matter. I settled back to watch a band called...

DUFFY

Out they came, four blokes intent on doing their thing. The stocky drummer settling behind the kit made a few adjustments; loosening the snare; the guitarists on either side of Kevin kneeling on the wooden floor in supplication to the God of Tuning as they made sure they were still spot on. Kevin himself checked his pedals, which makes him sound like a car, but he isn't. If he was, he'd be the car that was ahead of you in the traffic. There would be no fingers in the air as he passed you by, because as I say, he's a nice guy. He stood up straight, relaxed, smiling, confident and in good form for a front man. I expect he'd enjoyed the finger burning act too.

The first song began, as would the others, with some melodic, rhythmic acoustic, a nice full bodied sound that suited his low key vocal.

The words 'Let it all fall down...'
A touch of regret, an introspective mood...
All the band coming in with an upward slide of the bass player's chunky fingers
The song is incessantly melodic with a feeling of restraint. It establishes itself quietly, slipping into the part of the subconscious mind that stores a tune to be hummed when you least expect it. That done, the chorus is lifted into the air by Steve on guitar with a burst of Edge like electricity, bright shining chords of hypnotic repetition.
A very simple song.
The perfect opener for the evening.

And Jason got the beers in.

It continued in like this, and there wasn't a single song I didn't enjoy. In particular 'It's Better You Know' was one of those songs that you felt you already know, but only in the sense that it's such a natural song. It had some of the ease of composition that the Gallagher brothers are associated with. This was just one of several nuggets in a tight set with a great set of musicians. I loved all of it, and so did my companions. It was great to hear something that gives you a little more with each listen.

Harmony, laid lightly to give a subtle colour to Kevin's vocal sung by Darren on bass whilst he underpinned the songs with some solid playing. It takes confidence in the overall sound of a band and your own ability, not to throw too much into bass and Darren did it. And Tony on drums was giving the set little interludes of intricate detail with the sweetest rolls, bottoming out on the floor tom, and kicking it home with the bass drum. Lovely stuff. And if God is in the detail, as they say, then Steve on guitar should have had a halo. He was slipping in a little blues slide, and picking at one place; bright and shimmering licks up the neck of the guitar; wiry, single notes cutting through on the lower registers with a Nashville twang; a deft crunch of chord to emphasise; he seemed to do it all.

 When ''It's Better You Know' ended, with some blistering guitar by Steve, Kevin turned to him, in acknowledgement of the response from the crowd and said, 'I wish I could play like that. I practice but just can't get there.' There were big grins from a band obviously enjoying itself. Kevin turned back to the audience and laughed, 'pisses me off no end.'

I wrote down what he said, while Jason got the beers in.

He began another song, an acoustic number, with just himself and Steve playing. The song was 'There's No Coming Back From You' Tony and Darren sat it out. Darren sat on his amp, which reminded me of myself. I was often in that position when I played around in a band. What do you do with yourself? Being before an audience with no role was something I always found awkward. What do you do with yourself? If it was a whole song, I'd get off stage, but quite often it would just be for half a song. Long enough for you to start feeling like a twat but not long enough for you to be able to disappear to the bar.

Darren and Tony didn't have to wait too long before they were belting it out again, but all too soon it was over. Great band. Great Gig. Kevin and the boys left the stage area, leaving us with just the website address which you can get HERE

And that was it. Time to go with my notes, my pictures and my companions for the evening. All that was left was to say goodbye to...

THE END...sort of

Something made us stop.

A musical instrument.

Sort of...

It looked like a mandolin. The next band was setting up, and one of them had the said piece of kit.  Now, normally, the only way you can stop me with a mandolin is to hit me in the face with it, but I was intrigued.  After hearing Duffy and being so impressed, I wondered how the next band could follow them with...a mandolin.

A percussionist turned up with what looked like a large bird nesting box; literally a box with a round hole in the front. I'd heard there was going to be a Country and Western band on and, as eclectic as my tastes are, I didn't want to listen to somebody singing about their problems, so I'd dismissed it out of hand.

I also liked the look of the lady who came out and picked up the lovely black Gibson and started to tune up. Her name was...


PAULA DARWISH

She reminded me of someone. I realised it was a woman I occasionally encounter who just happens to be a lesbian. I'd had a very vivid dream about her one night where she was chasing me around a warehouse full of natural cosmetics, trying to convince me I was a lesbian too. I woke up that morning convinced that I was a man trapped in a man's body; my own of course. And as long as I've got breath left in me that's the way it'll stay, just in case you get any funny ideas.

Her name was Paula Darwish, and as I said, I liked the look of her, so Jason got the beers in and we settled back down at our table.

The rest of the band looked quite interesting too.

The percussionist had a bit of the Hare Krishna about him, and the bass player had the kind of face, that looked like Charles Bronson had held up an off-licence and the police issued a photo-fit.

Don't get me wrong. He didn't look like a robber, but he did look like Charles Bronson, but not quite. He also had a great chunky, well weathered fender bass; not Charles Bronson, the bass player had one.

The mandolin player looked Turkish and nearly took Jason's eye out with the end of it when she was tuning up. She apologised gracefully with a great big smile and then carried on. I couldn't see the drummer because Paula was in the way. I spent the rest of the evening with the interesting optical illusion of seeing the drummer's arms coming out of her hips, like she was some kind of Indian Goddess.

They started playing and...

Well, you see...

It was...

I had no idea. Not a clue. Nada. It sounded...

Persian.

I looked at Jason, baffled, and he mouthed, 'what the funk?'

I shrugged and listened; baffled. It sounded like the Hare Krishna movement had gone electric; bless them. Fuck all that rice and lentil cooking. You can keep the robe and the bowl and the dancing, just give me a black Gibson and some hair.

My hearing also seemed to have gone to pot as well. I couldn't understand a word she was singing though the voice was lovely. I thought my ears must be blocked. I held my nose, trapping the air and blew hoping to clear my hearing. No. It still sounded like she was singing in Turkish or something. Then the song slipped into reggae. Hare Krishna flashing the weed! What the hell was going on?

The song finished and I was still sitting there with my pen not knowing where to start. 'Nic' took the pen off me, and wrote 'she's got a lovely voice' & 'it's Kurdish' on the top of the page.

Kurdish?

... Kur ... dish?

How the hell had that happened? I thought it was Country and Western. Most Country and Western makes my blood curdle, but Kurdish?

Paula announced herself and the band before the next song started:

'My name's Paula Darwish, and we're The Country and Eastern Band.

Now it made sense. (You can read more details at her website above. I'm afraid there is no music there to download or listen to but if you want to catch them  live, that's the place to look.)

As the set continued I was completely charmed by Paula.

I have to say that the bass playing was the only loose thread in the set up. For at least half of it, the timing just pulled the hell out of the songs. At the other end of the stage area, the percussionist was versatile and locked in with the drummer. If he could do it, why the hell the bass couldn't, was beyond me. I hate to criticise but it did make a difference, like a loose thread unravelling the fabric of the songs. He was racing ahead like he had a dentist's appointment; in Brazil.

It reminded me of the time I played at the Womad festival with Josephine Oniyama. I was playing bass myself then and had drunk too much coffee, and necked way too many Red Bulls. My adrenaline was racing and I think I finished the set two minutes before the rest of the band. They were coming off stage and I was ready to go on for the encore.

But that was then, and this is now, and I was ready to burst if I didn't use the gents. I made my way over and went through the door and... the music I'd left behind sounded like the most funkiest thing this side of Istanbul. How weird is that. My perception had changed completely. I stepped back outside the toilet and the bass was still a little askew. I stepped back into the toilet and there, once again, it sounded perfect. The whole thing sounded great. Perhaps I should have reviewed it from in there. It was almost like I'd entered a parallel universe like... what was that programme? Mr Ben, that was it. The character in the show would try on a costume, and then walk through a door and magically appear in the particular era that suited the clothes he was wearing.

Sort of like Laurence Llewellyn Bowen but in reverse.

I came out of the toilet; checked to make sure I wasn't dressed as something stupid like a Musketeer, and got back to my seat. The music definitely sounded better on my return. Weird. It was the musical equivalent of watching one of those documentaries on cosmetic surgery. The patient started out looking quite nice but sort of sagging around the edges, and ended up all tight and tucked in.

Paula was playing harmonica and the bass player had gone from being slack to being some fifteen fingered riffing demon running up and down the fretboard and I was enjoying myself. Some little musical barrier in my head had crumbled and I realised it was actually a great little band. It was the opposite end of the musical spectrum to Duffy, but there were all sorts of things going on, especially on the percussion front and it was definitely different. It had integrity; a certain dignity in walking it's own musical path.

I was glad.

Paula Darwish, with her quirky band, quietly charmed the audience whilst singing her heart out and despite the shaky start I enjoyed the Country and Eastern band. In a funny way it felt like a musical detox. I felt purged of something after listening to Paula. It was as if it had cleared away some little musical prejudice I wasn't aware of having. Half digested musical memories of stuff I had heard in the seventies that had become lodged, and somewhat stagnant, moved along and made room for this interesting hybrid of East meets West; this Turkish delight of a musical evolution in process.
 
When the gig ended, Paula thanked everybody, and that was that. Well, apart from the mad eyed woman who tapped me on the shoulder.
        'Are you the official photographer?' she asked, when I turned around.
        No. I'm an independent,' I said. 'But, if there are any good photographs, I'll send them to you. Are you Paula's manager?  I can't remember what she said. I just remember thinking, actually, she's rather attractive; if a little intense; sort of like a blonde gun dog, which is funny because I've often been compared to sheepdog. I gave her my paw and we shook. I refrained from sniffing her in traditional doggy fashion, not wanting to continue the canine thought to ridiculous extremes.

       Geetan
       April 9th 2006