To Kilburn to see David Barnett’s band The New Royal Family. He’s fantastically confident, entertaining and generally impressive as a frontman, and they make a splendid sound as a group. Vainly, I can’t help imagining him singing my lyrics. But then, I think the same while watching most bands I’m fond of these days. The frustrated lyricist’s lot.
I feel it’s still quite unusual for male singers (at least in bands) to agree to sing another person’s words. Which is a shame, as a kind of healthy competition tends to come forth: the singer doing their best to show off as a performer, putting their own spin on the words; the lyricist trying hard to impress the singer, frustrated with their own vocal shortcomings. A standard kept up on both sides. Showing off to each other, before showing off to a crowd.
I’m snuffling somewhat due to a cold that tediously seems to come and go. I inwardly grumble and whine on the journey, feeling that Highgate to Kilburn is the most difficult journey in the world. It isn’t actually: I just have to plan it better.
Last time I went to Kilburn was to the Luminaire, and I hung about too late, resulting in waiting for a night bus connection at Brent Cross at some ungodly hour.
Public transport has really been getting to me lately. Either I’m dwelling on the shortcomings of the tubes and buses, or I’m actually cursed. At the weekend, those on the Northern Line know all about these things called Rail Replacement Buses. The idea is, because of engineering works, Transport For London commandeers a fleet of lovely old Routemaster buses to cover the route that the tube trains would be taking. All very well, except these temporary drivers seem to be from a dimension much like this one, but not entirely. Out of the four or five Rail Replacement buses I’ve taken in the last month or so, two have led to an unexpectedly long excursion along rail routes which only exist in parallel worlds.
On one of these acidic trips, the driver decided to suddenly veer off into a maze of residential streets off Kentish Town Road before reaching a dead end. Then we all heard him phone his fearless leaders, and sheepishly retrace his trail to rejoin the main road at the point he left off. This was after about twenty minutes. No one on board said or did anything, of course. Too English.
On the other, a full double-decker of people expecting to travel from Archway down to Camden suddenly found themselves travelling down the Holloway Road, and then up Seven Sisters all the way to Finsbury Park. Which is, it’s fair to say, a somewhat loose interpretation of the Northern Line. To cap it all, the driver didn’t even use the bus lane. We were stuck in traffic AND on the way to the wrong destination. Some people did finally get up and say something to the driver, once we were on the Seven Sisters Road. Thus can be measured the limit of English Reserve – half the length of the Holloway Road.
“Don’t tell me how to do my job!” came the driver’s snarled response. One of those men who, given the choice between plunging off a cliff and admitting to having made a mistake, would take the pebble-dashed coffin look every time.
Thankfully, he relented to opening the doors to those who wished to take their chances elsewhere. Which was everyone on board. Muttering darkly, yet still not quite talking to each other, we walked the remaining yards to Finsbury Park tube.
It’s a minor waking nightmare. A vehicle full of people, all of whom know where they’re going, except one: the driver. And he thinks everyone else is wrong.
So now at weekends I avoid all Rail Replacement Buses. Instead, I take the normal 134 which covers the same tube route. It stops more often, but at least my pulse isn’t given any nasty surprises.
