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What I did last night, not a review, more of a ramble
In the afternoon it started to snow. In half an hour the ground was white and my plans to attend the evening concert were in doubt. The notion of missing Patrick Duff at Arnos Vale Cemetery was unacceptable, I changed into warm woollen tights, packed a torch and set off, a little apprehensive, but determined.
I arrived some minutes early, the cemetery gates were locked and in darkness. The dead wanted to rest, it seemed. I waited in the car, reading China Mieville's Kraken, engrossing enough to distract me, until a small, battered blue car pulled up beside me.
Emerging, be-hatted and anxious, from the vehicle, a man asked if I were the gatekeeper, sadly I shook my head. I noticed a rather highly strung looking passenger and realised that I beheld the man of the hour. Would this glimpse behind the wizard's curtain matter?
After shouting over the wall and several phone calls, we were allowed into the snow covered graveyard. There was talk of pushing my car out if the snow froze, I was instructed, rather worryingly, to park on the hill.
I squelched back through the looming and impressive memorials, the snow falling wetly on my fluffy black hat, before acquiring a coffee and a seat in the cafe.
People came, an internet friend of many years and I met up, she was a lovely companion, mentioned by Patrick later as she had endured a nine hour journey to be there. It got busy, we waited for Patrick to ring the bell of the Chapel.
Finally, the tolling summoned us inside, we sat in the front row, the candles, white muslin drapes and joss sticks making the already atmospheric venue even more magical. As the warmth melted the snow on our coats, he came to the stage, illuminated by swaying trees, just a man and his guitar.
He wore a hip, pale blue suit, brown shiny shoes and belt. A black fedora hat on top of his dark curls. Understated, somewhat timeless, an aura of intensity and honesty surrounded him, compelling the audience to pay close attention.
Despite his height, he's a slight creature. As if a layer of something is missing from his slim shoulders. Some protective cloak others have against the world has been mislaid, leaving him vulnerable, stripped, the artist without pretense or hubris. Being part of the event in the Chapel already felt spiritual and special, more than a concert, something magical unfolded.
Enough of trying to articulate that. Patrick played songs, told stories of loss, hardship and redemption, his love of music and determination to follow the path he travels now shining from him. At one point he abandoned the amplification and stepped forward, almost in the audience to sing to us. If ever I doubted the power of the song, the importance and soulful resonance of music, my faith is now restored. If he was preaching a religion, I'd be baptised.
In the end, my friend and I hugged, it had been too beautiful for words. The snow outside was melting and I drove home full of music and hope and love for the things we take for granted.
Patrick shared himself with us, things he'd learned, dreams he'd had, mistakes he'd made, earnest and honest, charismatic almost in spite of himself. Through his deep, soulful voice and the surprisingly complex sounds he drew from the guitar and keyboard he played, I was touched and uplifted.
It was even better than my dream (as described from slightly over a year ago here)and I will be watching him play again.
I arrived some minutes early, the cemetery gates were locked and in darkness. The dead wanted to rest, it seemed. I waited in the car, reading China Mieville's Kraken, engrossing enough to distract me, until a small, battered blue car pulled up beside me.
Emerging, be-hatted and anxious, from the vehicle, a man asked if I were the gatekeeper, sadly I shook my head. I noticed a rather highly strung looking passenger and realised that I beheld the man of the hour. Would this glimpse behind the wizard's curtain matter?
After shouting over the wall and several phone calls, we were allowed into the snow covered graveyard. There was talk of pushing my car out if the snow froze, I was instructed, rather worryingly, to park on the hill.
I squelched back through the looming and impressive memorials, the snow falling wetly on my fluffy black hat, before acquiring a coffee and a seat in the cafe.
People came, an internet friend of many years and I met up, she was a lovely companion, mentioned by Patrick later as she had endured a nine hour journey to be there. It got busy, we waited for Patrick to ring the bell of the Chapel.
Finally, the tolling summoned us inside, we sat in the front row, the candles, white muslin drapes and joss sticks making the already atmospheric venue even more magical. As the warmth melted the snow on our coats, he came to the stage, illuminated by swaying trees, just a man and his guitar.
He wore a hip, pale blue suit, brown shiny shoes and belt. A black fedora hat on top of his dark curls. Understated, somewhat timeless, an aura of intensity and honesty surrounded him, compelling the audience to pay close attention.
Despite his height, he's a slight creature. As if a layer of something is missing from his slim shoulders. Some protective cloak others have against the world has been mislaid, leaving him vulnerable, stripped, the artist without pretense or hubris. Being part of the event in the Chapel already felt spiritual and special, more than a concert, something magical unfolded.
Enough of trying to articulate that. Patrick played songs, told stories of loss, hardship and redemption, his love of music and determination to follow the path he travels now shining from him. At one point he abandoned the amplification and stepped forward, almost in the audience to sing to us. If ever I doubted the power of the song, the importance and soulful resonance of music, my faith is now restored. If he was preaching a religion, I'd be baptised.
In the end, my friend and I hugged, it had been too beautiful for words. The snow outside was melting and I drove home full of music and hope and love for the things we take for granted.
Patrick shared himself with us, things he'd learned, dreams he'd had, mistakes he'd made, earnest and honest, charismatic almost in spite of himself. Through his deep, soulful voice and the surprisingly complex sounds he drew from the guitar and keyboard he played, I was touched and uplifted.
It was even better than my dream (as described from slightly over a year ago here)and I will be watching him play again.
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Being in a big cemetery at night was not actually at all spooky, it felt nice (says the entirely predictable goth) :-)
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China Mieville
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It does sound like a most magical night however, your pictures alone are all sorts of pretty, and I do hope the warm glow and renewed faith may resonante with you for a good while to come. :)
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Victorian cemeteries in the dark with snow have to be atmospheric don't they? It's a law.
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Yes, I believe it is the law, or at least an old charter or something. They are also, I believe, required to keep a resident owl for hooting and swooping purposes, along with a fox to look up and gaze at you for a moment with meaningful eyes as your torch alight upon it before it slinks off into the darkness. That's what it says on my parchments anyways, although things might be different in your area of the country. :)
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We always have very vocal rooks and owls in Cornish cemeteries, and I hear bats are resident at Arnos Vale, but they hid from my eyes.
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It's been a while since I ventured amongst the tombstones here, though the graveyard further in land from the more photographed one was the residence of a rather overstuffed cat which I can only assume still inhabits the house by the gate along with its pet humans.
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Is the overstuffed cat dead? I can't decide if you meant it was a taxidermy subject, toy or just fat kitty. I am confused by the overly complicated ending of a book I just read.
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Overstuffed cat was alive, at least the last time I saw it, but quite large and decidedly fluffy. Somewhat like a more tortoishell version of the creature I shall be visiting tomorrow. Anyways, I hopes your complications have now resolved themselves and you has something nice and straightforward for the remainder of the week. Take care, x.
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