MUSIC means so much to me. It always has, from my childhood days when I would listen to my mum's quarter-inch machine send the sensuous sound of the strings from Hindi film classics in and around the kitchen as she cooked, to last weekend when I found myself in the heart of the swaying masses at the Doves gig at Brixton. Every major turn and twist in my life can be defined or remembered by a song or an album.
The past few years have made my love of music yet more tangible. When I was up and working late I would do so to a soundtrack of a few artists; these albums and musicians became confidantes, friends though the night; sometimes it felt it was just me
and them who were awake. When my marriage dissolved I relied on the support of some of the same artists; music and voices to help get me through the long, dark days of loneliness and self doubt. (I say that like those days are gone.)
Doves were one of those bands that kept me company through it all, constants in a world of change. Their music seemed somehow to chime exactly with every pattern of my life. I discovered them back in 2000 with the release of their astonishing debut album Lost Souls. (The joke was that Doves used to be called Sub Sub who were an unspectacular disco outfit who released a catchy pop song or two: worlds away from the anthemic, epic sound of Doves). Three albums later and their alchemy still works its magic. I had always wanted to see them perform live but was worried that the reality would ruin everything, that they would let me down. Because the one thing Doves have never done is let me down.
Standing at the gig last weekend, awestruck at the band's brilliance, I found myself on the verge of tears. Every tune, every sound seemed to be have an echo in my soul, my heart. Memories melded with emotions, lives past clashed with lives present, regret blended with hope. Days later I still find myself thinking about it. I never before fully appreciated the emotional, visceral, almost feral response I have to music. And I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank them for that. There are other bands who can offer comfortably numb. Doves remind me that I can still feel.
It's once more unto the breeks, dear friendsThe struggle I have with trousers is that they are a) not jeans or b) part of a suit. I'm not altogether sure how to wear them. With sweatshirts and trainers in that dressed-down way? Or with a shirt and a smart jacket, as if I were an Italian man over from Milan for a business conference? I will not be bowed or broken: I will try both looks… simultaneously.
Mercy mission can't wait until dawnIt's not often my phone rings at 3.30am. Not often at all. And when it does it's normally: a) a request for a cab b) someone looking for Tony c) a caller for whom English is a third language. Early Bank Holiday Monday my phone rang at 3.30am. The display told me it was my dear friend Craig. He had been the last person to call me on Sunday evening so I assumed that he had sat on his phone in the middle of the night and ignored the incessant ringing. The phone rang again and I realised that something was amiss. I answered. Craig's urgent yet whispering voice informed me that he and his beautiful wife Susan had been woken by the lady upstairs threatening them with all sorts. She had banged and pounded her fists so hard on their door that indentations had appeared. It transpired that she was mentally ill and had not taken her medication: she had turned into an angry, violent, irrational danger. And they were the unassuming victims of her life-threatening ire.
I dressed quickly and sped the five minutes or so to their place. In a palpable state of shock, still shaking from the stushie, they were ghosted back to mine and into the warming embrace of my spare bed, but not before a few drams of a particularly good single malt.
I think it must be the only time I have ever regretted receiving a phone call from Craig. And I hope to never have another similarly rude awakening. In the words of that Cowboy Junkies tune, good news always sleeps till noon.
The battle between crisp white linen and Formica tablesSomeone asked me the other evening to list my top ten favourite restaurants. For a glutton such as me this in no insubstantial and unchallenging task. As I honed my choices down from 300 or so, it soon became apparent that my list combined both those high end, fine dining type places that require a remortgage before visiting and those unassuming little spots that were a homage to Formica table tops and linoleum floors; the sort of places where you are convinced that they have forgotten to charge you for something. The fact was that a mile from my flat two such contrasting places exist, but moments from each other. L'Anima is an amazing Michelin-starred Southern Italian restaurant run by chef Francesco Mazzei. I first came across his work some years back at another restaurant and fell in love with his food. (What this man does with octopus is almost unholy.) The honesty and imagination of the food set in such luxurious surroundings has made for many a memorable meal. Service is impeccable, the energy of the room serene and composed. And yet a few hundred yards away is Tayyab's, probably the finest Punjabi restaurant in Britain, if not Europe. Opened 30 years ago and still run by the family, Tayyab's couldn't be more different to L'Anima. The queue snakes through the restaurant and out the door. A one-hour wait is customary, so good is the food. And while the hubbub and energetic service couldn't be more starkly different to Michelin-starred places, the food is still the star; dishes so warming, so reminiscent of home that I find myself transported every time I eat there. The fact that Wasim Tayyab is one of the sweetest men in East London (with cute cheeks that you want to squeeze) is an added bonus. No matter where one goes to eat there ought to be a single unifying factor: the love with which the food is prepared and the joy with which it is served. (And the heartburn that invariably follows because I eat too quickly.)
