Dispatches From a Dilettante (23 page)

     10. Al Stewart – I never liked him as a singer but he’s sold millions of records and this encounter nearly turned into an argument. I was working as an emergency cover waiter for three nights at a posh restaurant in Dorset. It was around 1974 and the restaurant had delusions of grandeur to the extent that it boasted a ‘connoisseurs’ wine list. Al Stuart who was at a table with, I think, his mother and niece and he asked for recommendation from that posh wine list. Sadly I knew nothing about wine at this point in my life, being more of a Tetley’s bitter man at the time. Commendably or foolishly I displayed enormous chutzpah and confidently recommended two wines which he firmly rejected after they were opened. This sent me into a total panic and the manager served him for the remainder of his meal after dismissing me contemptuously. Years later I read that Al Stewart was a serious wine buff and owned a vineyard in California.

     11. Ricky Wilson – Several encounters with one meaningful romantic conversation. The Kaiser Chiefs are a Leeds band and because I travelled regularly on the train from there to London, this is perhaps no surprise. Getting on at Kings Cross with all the other suited types and sitting in first class (in my defence it was an advance ticket bought cheaply and if you travelled every day on our rail system you’d want some comfort) a young man with shades on stood out from the business types and I recognised him instantly. However everybody is entitled to privacy and I left him alone for the journey. Fate though drove us together as, on arrival into Leeds, we both exited the train at the same time. Without introducing myself I informed Ricky that I knew what he had been listening to on his iPod. He looked bemused and then amazed when I told him correctly that is must have been Martha Wainwright. The Kaiser Chiefs had just been on Jools Holland and after their last number Ricky had rushed over and embraced Martha who was also on the show. There was real chemistry then, and Ricky admitted that he had a crush on her. We walked to the barrier together, oblivious to the crowds of commuters, discussing the tribulations of love, mano a mano. After that I saw them individually and collectively on several occasions, one being particularly amusing as a ‘suit’ in first class was reading an article about them and discussing ‘I Predict a Riot’ with his colleague, while blissfully aware that the singer of that ditty was sitting across the aisle from him.

     12. Sally Timms – in the pool of the Austin Motel, Austin Texas and the best encounter of them all after Jimi Hendrix. If you have never read ‘In the Fascist Bathroom - Punk in Pop Music’ by the Californian music writer and critic Greil Marcus, you have missed out. He devotes pages to the importance of the Leeds punk scene led by The Mekons who remain a great band to see to this day, on the odd occasions that they get together. This is made difficult because they are restless individuals currently residing in New York, Chicago and Leeds. Q magazine has referred to their ‘Transcendent Pop’ and a browse on YouTube will get you to an old single ‘Millionaire’ which garnered that praise. At the old roadhouse that is the Austin Motel my wife had declined the offer of a dip in the pool and lounged nearby as I took a plunge. There was one other guy dangling his legs in the water while talking to the only other pool occupant – a pale woman who was obviously his girlfriend. We said ‘hello’, she got out, dried herself and went back to her room just as I realised who it looked like. “Is your girlfriend from Leeds?” I tentatively asked. On getting a positive response I further enquired if her first name was Sally and then, going for broke, asked if she was the Sally who sang in the Mekons. Clearly impressed by such a good ‘spot’ he went and got her from the room after which we spent twenty minutes reminiscing about music in Leeds. Sally had that depressive view about England held by many expatriates in order to affirm their own decisions to live elsewhere. Then in true punk fashion said she had to go and change for dinner. It was 5.45pm.

     13. Damien Hirst’s mum – on a train from Devon to Leeds. Let me acknowledge straight away that she is not a rock star but as her son has demonstrably led the life of one he’s in. I had miserably failed to do more than half of the Guardian quick crossword when the woman sitting opposite asked if she could have ago at finishing it, which she effortlessly did in about five minutes. We started talking about family and she mentioned her son was an artist, without naming him. “That’s tough way to earn a living” I said rather patronisingly. “He’s doing OK” she said and I’m just travelling back from his house in Devon. That rang a bell with me and, once she’d admitted to being his mum, she went on to add “He’s a good lad but he puts too much of that white powder up his nose”. Mrs Hirst was very much her own woman and did not say another word about her son. We chatted for the rest of the journey and she told me that she was visiting her sister, who it turned out, lived very near to our house. So it was when her son phoned to check on her progress Mrs Hirst told him that she was sharing a taxi with a man that she met on the train. Damien seemed not in the least perturbed.

16.
ESCAPE TO THE DESERT 2002-2010

High up on the Blacketts Ridge Trail the lizard was basking on a small rocky outcrop. It was perfectly still and less than two metres away with its magnificent and vivid colouring in clear definition. As quietly as possible I got my camera out and silently began to crouch down in order to highlight the lizard against the cobalt blue of the cloudless Arizona sky. This would be a stunning photograph and I was already imagining it being admired by visitors as it sat framed on the windowsill at home.

Almost seventy two hours later I got the final cactus needle out of my posterior. In the final moment before clicking the shutter I had crouched on a prickly pear cactus at the side of the trail. I swore and shot up as the lizard scuttled away to the sound of my wife’s hysterical laughter. Laughter I might add that only lasted until she inadvertently suffered the same fate while bending down to pick the initial tranche of cactus needles out of my backside. On getting back to our B and B in the Catalina Foothills we undressed and spent two hours picking out numerous further needles, one by one. This required close range visual scrutiny and no little embarrassment. A marriage that can survive indignity like this is on solid ground.

Year on year we had travelled to Tucson in April as the perfect antidote to the grey English winters and the relentless nature of work. The five mountain ranges surrounding the city offer fabulous scenery, unparalleled hiking opportunities - both in heat of the desert or at a cooler nine thousand feet with snow still on the highest peaks. Despite being in a Republican and deeply conservative state, Tucson bucks the trend with a quirky music and arts scene combined with a fairly eclectic range of additional cultural offerings. Guaranteed dry hot weather in spring and fantastic cuisine are the clinchers.

McMahons Steak house and cocktail bar is one of the high end eateries owned by a Tucson grandee and over the years we have got quite friendly with one of the staff there. Larry always gets us a darkened booth to eat at and observe the action on a Friday evening. It is, by American standards quite formal. On our first visit there the staff, to their credit, didn’t bat an eyelid when a huge American female in shorts and t-shirt waddled in and proceeded to sit at a table on her own and eat enough food to feed the northern half of the city for a week. She did all this with a grim joyless determination while great rolls of fat spilled over her seat as she adjusted position to attack the next bit of sirloin.

Meanwhile the wine waiter brought us what looked like a bound copy of War and Peace which turned out to be the ludicrously large and pompously self aggrandising wine list. “The cellar has eighteen thousand bottles” the waiter proudly informed us. “I hope then that you will be able to locate a bottle of the house red” was the required response as he improved his weight lifting skills by removing the wine list and heading off to impart the bad news to the sommelier.

A quick glance round the room of about forty diners was enough to see that only three tables were actually drinking alcohol and only one of those had a glass each of wine visible. I hadn’t counted the cocktail swigging and hopelessly drunk middle aged woman swaying on her stool while slumped on the grand piano and flirting with the bored looking pianist. The success of this flirting was being undermined by the fact that she had just returned from a bathroom visit and had applied lipstick to an area only relatively close to her lips. We had by this stage learned to split the enormous entrees in order to be able to rise from the table at the end of the meal without assistance and so having finished at McMahon’s we headed down to Speedway Boulevard for the music action.

I had, prior to our initial Tucson visit, been on the website of the Chicago Bar (‘Authentic Chicago Blues in Tucson’) and we were looking forward to ending the night there. On the huge flashing neon sign outside it said, ‘9pm Tonight - Live on Stage - The Bad News Blues Band’. When we arrived at 9.15 there was one truck in the car park. We strolled across the lot in the balmy desert air which the car radio -‘93.4 KXCI - Real Radio Real people’ - had just informed us was eighty five degrees. As we paid our five bucks each to get in I asked the rotund guy on the door, who was wearing a floral shirt, shorts and a bandana, if the band were on stage yet. “Hell no they’re not even in the goddamn building” was his retort after he had relieved us of our cash. In subsequent visits we realised this band were on every week and had got their arrival, set up and sound check down to ten minutes.

The club was about the size of a large dining kitchen with six people drinking on stools by the long bar. Further back were two pool tables and some high chairs around along the wall on which were a noisy group of four Hispanic guys well into their night’s drinking. The band (two guitar, bass, drums and sax) played with brilliant technique and a desultory look of quiet despair. Again on subsequent nights at the Chicago Bar we struck up conversation with them to learn that their ambition had faded as marriage, families and jobs came along.

Half way through their second set there must have been about fifteen people in the building, including the bar man, to witness one of the Hispanic guys fall in slow motion from his high bar chair. As he did so he grasped at his equally drunk pals in a vain attempt to save himself but of course only succeeded in dragging them down with him. The band went into the guitar break with a group of three men prostrate in front of them on what passed for the dance floor. This must have been a regular occurrence because the sax player leapt off the tiny stage and helped them to their feet returning to the stage in perfect time for his solo slot. We felt at this point that we had had our ten bucks worth and made our way outside. The band stopped playing to say goodnight to us which was a nice but embarrassing touch that made us resolve to sneak out unseen when we left early on future occasions.

Part of the reason for annual returns to Tucson was the academic work I was undertaking to find the perfect margarita. This involved quite a lot of practical research which my wife was pleased to assist in. I’m not normally a spirits or cocktails man but there is something about the Sonoran desert that makes the taste of a margarita exquisite. It just isn’t the same in a cool climate. There are various versions of this south western speciality which is tequila, triple sec. lime and ice with salt round the rim of the glass and a quarter of a lime up there too. Each bar will have a house margarita, a ‘special’ and other twists on the basic format.

Our current favourite is served in a Mexican bar/restaurant called El Charro (‘Established in 1922 - We are not the best because we are the oldest, We are the oldest because WE ARE THE BEST!’) Two margarita specials at the bar followed by Chicken Fajitas washed down by a couple of Tecate beers is, to quote a well known northern comic ‘a taste sensation’. This bar has the additional attraction of being the only place in the world to my knowledge where one of the wall mounted televisions sits in a gilt frame which would normally house an oil painting by a seventeenth century master. You can’t beat class.

However if you really want an authentic dose of local culture and people watching opportunities of endless fascination, then it has to be ‘The Maverick – King of Clubs’ on a Saturday night. This is blue collar cowboy night out even if most arrive in trucks. The Texas two step and other dances, performed to the music of the excellent house band is of such a high standard that we have only occasionally ventured onto the dance floor. We feel a ridiculous tingle of excitement if we manage to get round without hitting anybody or injuring ourselves. Dancers leave a plastic tag hooked over their drink at the bar that says on it ‘Gone dancing back in a minute’ which reserves their place - as we found to our cost when sitting in what we thought was an empty space. The cowboy who not very politely asked us to move, even though there were free places all around, was one of the regulars who I didn’t feel brave enough to challenge noting that his body mass was three times mine and his forearm was thicker than my thigh.

In addition to the usual numerous wall TVs to be found in American bars The Maverick has two giant video screens on either side of the stage showing bucking bronco competitions on a repeating loop. The dancing and drinking action goes on to the early hours and this provides us with a constant dilemma. We’d love to stay, but hiking in the desert requires an early start as the temperature from midday to three in the afternoon is often a totally dry thirty two degrees with a burning sun. Most hikers start around 5.30am but we seldom make it to a trailhead before 8.30 in the morning. Consequently we carry two rucksacks full of water and loads of factor fifty sunscreen.

On one of our first hikes in Madeira Canyon we were coming to the top of quite a steep incline and after nearly three hours on the trail had not seen another human being. Suddenly coming down towards us was a large, hugely muscled guy with a stave going at quite a pace. On seeing us he took off his sun glasses and, after a big ‘hello’, wiped his brow with his spotted bandana as we made small talk. He was wearing a vest and on his sizable bicep was a tattoo with the name LINDA inked underneath it. For want of something to say I stupidly asked him if this was his wife’s name. “My ex wife, as the bitch dun left me” he replied. When I tried to mumble something vaguely empathetic he went on to say “It don’t matter ‘cos I’m gonna git me another” and with that he cheerily set off. I was dying to ask him whether he meant another tattoo or another wife - and if wife searching how arranging dates where each woman was called ‘Linda’ was going.