But he was a good singer my dad and an even better entertainer and I grew up in a house full of traditional and modern ‘folk music’ and stories of pubs and people he’d sung with. He wasn’t normally that modest either. So the unlikely but very real sea shanty and folk renaissance of recent years and the promise of a lively session at a great venue tempted me out of my social inertia and age related torpor. ‘Come on Phil, get a grip…’ I heard a tired but defiant inner voice encourage. So I bought four tickets to see Blackbeard’s Tea Party, my daughter’s enthusiasm the clincher; me, my equally tired wife and two of our three grown-up children, weirdly not embarrassed to be seen in public with their wildly uncool parents. ‘Speak for yourself,’ rebukes the voice…fair point. My wife’s Liverpool heritage oozes cool. And she’s an Evertonian.
We get in early to find it’s a standing up gig. Damn! We sit on the bench seating round the edges and as the room fills it’s clear that it’s a pretty mixed crowd. I don’t feel so old as a youngish looking woman next to me tells me, for no reason I can ascertain, ‘I’m a pensioner you know.’ My inner voice says, ‘… well get yourself a bloody Shackleton’s high seat then…they’re lovely!’ But my actual voice says nothing. I just smile inanely. I don’t even know what inane means but I do it anyway. Then a couple of talented young folkies come on and play nice guitar and fiddle tunes. We stay seated as the crowd continues to grow. People with naturally dark, red, fair or just any hair start to mix with the grey wave who shuffled in with us when the doors opened. The young folkies finish and we clap politely. It was nice. My ‘kids’ give up their seats for some people who look younger than me.
A couple of beers later and I’m relaxed. Painful feet aren’t necessarily my worst ailment but they make the decision to stay seated when BTP come on easier. I don’t need to see a band these days. I’ll just get the vibe…‘Whoa!’ It’s a strong start. The room is filled with sound. It’s a good sound too. Is it folk rock, heavy folk, folk ‘n roll, or just brilliant live music in a pub and I’m most of the way down my second pint?! Hard to say, but a few songs later I’m standing up watching the band get into their significant groove. I just felt I was missing something. I was and I coax my not-very-tall wife to sit up on the back of the bench seat. To her credit she achieves the feat with grace, aplomb and a little help from the lady next to her. Her smile turns to a broad grin as the band’s energy is transferred from eyes to brain to mouth. They really are good. I don’t know if glitter ball crash helmets are ‘a thing’ but the lead singer wears his like Humphrey Bogart wears a fedora.
And so it goes on. New songs and songs my dad used to sing transformed for the 21st century with an enthusiasm and skill of which he would have wholeheartedly approved. If folk music was guilty occasionally of being a bit self-reverential, music, to him was always about joy. Any music. And here we were in the Greystones in a room full of joy. And all for not much more than the price of cod, chips and mushy peas. How does that work? The cheapest ticket to ‘see’ Bruce in Manchester next year is ten times more expensive. A seat where you can actually see him is at least double that. TWENTY TIMES more expensive. For that money I would expect to somehow become Bruce for the night because, let’s face it, nobody enjoys a butt-clenchingly macho Bruce gig more than Bruce himself. I know because I was at Bramall Lane in ’88 when he played till the pubs shut, the sun came up and I’m pretty sure my foot condition started…
The night at the Greystones got more surreal during the break as my usually reserved daughter introduced herself to one of Sheffield’s own music royalty who was chillin’ in the bar. He was cool about it. He’s a cool guy. She said she liked his music. He said he liked her shirt. Two Sheffielders saying just enough. Meanwhile, my wife found herself in a queue by the ladies’ where the band was waiting for Laura, their brilliant fiddle player, to emerge for the second set. On the spur of the moment, out of character and in the spirit of the night, my wife nearly got a selfie with most of the band. The smiles were genuine. The mild incompetence somewhat out of character.
I was blown away by the whole experience. Memories mixed with unexpectedly new emotions. Genuine tears of joy. Shared with my kids at a venue where their grandpa used to play and entertained by one of the very best live bands I’ve ever seen. Bruce included. Try and see them if you can. They are Blackbeard’s Tea Party and folk or not, they rocked my support sox clean off. Seems I didn’t need them…maybe the pain in my feet is only in my head? I just needed a proper gig to get them tapping again.