Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Every Girl Needs A Mug With Her Name On

Every Girl Needs A Mug With Her Name On

"I'd just like to thank Corinne for having me here"

And, even though I'd never before clapped eyes on James Morrison, I had to concede that it was my pleasure. I like boys with guitars after all, even boys who have a nervous twitch which involves drinking literally gallons of bottled water between songs.

I'd not been too impressed with the misspellings of my name on the walls (Corrine, bah) though I didn't mind too much hearing random people shouting out my name. I'm a future famous person; it's something I'm going to have to get used to. And when I ended up with a mug with my name on I was rather chuffed. Chuffed enough to make carrying a mug through the mean streets of Sheffield ok, anyway.

But whilst I'm sure that Morrison would have been thanking me had he actually met me and the good people of the Leadmill misspelling it given half the opportunity, it remained that there might have been another Corinne in the building. And it might have been her who people were talking about (notice the might, you never can tell when someone who recognises you from your blog is going to crop up). Because on Sunday night Cat and I took the train into South Yorkshire to go and see the-other-Corinne. And I didn't take anything to hit her with about the Radio One Cerinne fiasco.

Which might have had more to do with the fact that I was preoccupied by the fact that South Yorkshire scares me rather than any slights which might have been inflicted on me by CBR. For starters the train was operating on a 1 for 2 seating policy. And then the station was in the middle of some serious building work which rendered our directions invalid unless we wanted to scale some metal fencing. Within minutes though we'd found the Leadmill, and more importantly, the freakiest little bar in the world, where there was no ice or tonic but you could get generic white rum and cola for two pounds. In that move Sheffield suddenly became a thing of wonder and Cat and I whiled away a good hour sat by a window partaking of the generic drinks and identifying generic CBR fans.

When it came to getting into the venue itself it was to discover that i) the toilets were purple and smelled slightly odd and ii) there was now riccardi and coke for an almost as bargainous two pounds fifty. There was also a fan - of the electric variety rather than the DA type - wafting around the stage and freezing everything in its path. Seriously they should take it up the the polar ice caps, it would reverse a good fifty years of damage in a couple of minutes. Thus I became slightly worried that we would resemble ice before CBR had even got on stage.

James Morrison in this respect came as something of a relief and, as partial as I am to solo male singers, I enjoyed him even if I'm only slightly disgruntled to have subsequently discovered that he's younger than me. I can - just - accept that pop acts are a good five years my junior but serious musicians must be older. I refuse to accept otherwise.

After Morrison had departed there was a huge gap as men with wires plugged then unplugged the Sheffield electrical system and each instrument seemed to merit five minutes tuning. Now, I may be of a theatrical bent, but there is no other entertainment medium you could get away with doing this in. Sorry, we need a thirty five minute gap between acts two and three while we change the plugs; Sorry the footballers need extra stretches, talk amongst yourselves for the next forty minutes; Sorry I know this is live tv but you won't mind watching as we change all the camera angles.

When CBR did come on she was wearing a gorgeous green dress (DA always likes someone who dresses with a sense of occassion) even if she did seem incredibly thin. And then she started to sing. Two words. Incredible. Voice. As amazingly distinct as it sounds on the album, which seems something of a feat. Possibly the highpoint of the gig was her sitting on a chair, playing her guitar and with only the gentlest of backing singing 'Like a Star'. Beautiful.

After the gig the triangle of Sheffield we were in yeilded its final component - a part post office part kebab shop where we could get chips. Seriously, what more could you want?

As if the inhabitants of South Yorkshire wanted to answer that question further on our train back to Leeds we found ourselves caught up in an episode of Rail Cops* and got stuck on a locked train as we waited for the police to meet the occupants of carriage D. Classy.

*Late-ish docu-soap about, well, rail cops.

2 comments:

Nik said...

Ah well, it's better than getting caught up in an episode of Dock Patrol, because then you'd have to be on an actual boat [ok, barge] and probably wearing deck shoes.
p.s - that Morrison bloke looks cool, but then I would say that because Gilly says I like James's...

Val said...

Glad you had a good time and Sheffield wasn't toooo scary. I seem to hear her everywhere I go at the moment.