Some Stuff...

I went to see Robert Plant tonight at Somerset House, which is right near the River Thames. Doors opened at 7.30, I was there at a quarter to six, so suffice to say I was one of the first. Talked to this really nice family, the mum hadn't seen Perce since Earl's Court in 75, so she was dead excited. My brother arrived in time too, which was cool...

Except I left my phone at home, so nobody could call me. FORTY TWO missed calls, some from Mikey, most from my dad and my granddad, who was worried.

And OMG... I WAS RIGHT AT THE FRONT IN THE MIDDLE! The only people closer were IN THE FUCKING BAND! I SWEAR HE GRINNED AT ME!

It started to rain during the encore (we were outside in the courtyard).... by the time we got to Covent Garden in search of food I was soaked right through to the skin. Still damp, man.

Robert was marvellous, he really was. Beardy and marvellous. Seemed to be enjoying himself and apparently is descended from both Saladin and Pope Pius VI. Beat that.

Going to California nearly made me cry. Beat that.

Some Stuff...

I went to see Robert Plant tonight at Somerset House, which is right near the River Thames. Doors opened at 7.30, I was there at a quarter to six, so suffice to say I was one of the first. Talked to this really nice family, the mum hadn't seen Perce since Earl's Court in 75, so she was dead excited. My brother arrived in time too, which was cool...

Except I left my phone at home, so nobody could call me. FORTY TWO missed calls, some from Mikey, most from my dad and my granddad, who was worried.

And OMG... I WAS RIGHT AT THE FRONT IN THE MIDDLE! The only people closer were IN THE FUCKING BAND! I SWEAR HE GRINNED AT ME!

It started to rain during the encore (we were outside in the courtyard).... by the time we got to Covent Garden in search of food I was soaked right through to the skin. Still damp, man.

Robert was marvellous, he really was. Beardy and marvellous. Seemed to be enjoying himself and apparently is descended from both Saladin and Pope Pius VI. Beat that.

Going to California nearly made me cry. Beat that.

I feel sad. Just sad.

I woke up so tired this morning after the late-night insanity and soaking of last night. Nearly passed out at work, it felt like.

Syd Barrett died, and I'm not sad about it. Not because Pink Floyd aren't my bag, but because I hope that if he never did find the peace and calm, he can have it now. I hope though, that he did find some measure of contentment, of mental and emotional placidity.

And apparently, June Allyson died too. Her voice has always wound me up something rotten, but I didn't dislike her. Hell, she's what makes The Glenn Miller Story really sad. The bit at the end breaks my heart, man. 

What does it all mean? Slowly, my world gets further away with me. Not through the personal catastrophic passing of lives like George, but when the supporting actors exit stage left. Soon, there will be no more to tell us what the studio years were really like, no more secrets to be learned about Sinatra and Gardner, Flynn or Martin or the guys I love. There will be nothing new to learn because there will be no one there to tell it. Nobody left.

A whole bunch of buses stopped in Oxford Street. Just stopped and drivers got out of their little cab things at the front. One wonders why the fuck this happened but one does not really care.

Something else I meant to say yesterday: So, I was so close to Robert Plant last night that I could, in fact, see the outline of his cock. I want to tell you this only because actually, it's not like anyone who's ever seen The Song Remains The Same doesn't know what the scuffmint I'm talking about.

More importantly, I swear I nearly fucking cried earlier listening to Led Zeppelin, just as last night listening to him sing Going To California. I thought it was because I missed being there in the sun, with so few cares and stuff... it's not why.

I know that right now there are people dying in Mumbai. I know there are people around the world living in true agony of one kind or another. I know I'm selfish and trivial, but it breaks my heart to know that I will never get to see Robert at his peak. Never see the hair as it once was, the shirt without buttons, the sheer fucking arrogance of it all. I will never see the raw, undiluted, unadulterated energy as it once was. I get the grown-up version with its tongue in its cheek, the greying beard and...

I'm dead lucky, I really am, in many ways. Even in a Roberty way... the man is still a stone fox and more than that, the man's voice is still there... but it was much bigger once upon a time.

By the way... you know how I've been going on about how LZ stole the arrangement and performance of You Need Lovin by the Small Faces for Whole Lotta Love... Robert now does it with a middle eight. In Arabic. Stevie never did that. I just wish I didn't feel sad: Robert has always been the one to put the smile on my face, the blond and smiling antidote to Jim, you know? Led Zeppelin are the guys I listen to to cheer up, not to feel fucking awful!

Typical: the world's falling down around me, and my concern is that Robert Plant's boots last night didn't quite match the trousers.

I feel sad. Just sad.

I woke up so tired this morning after the late-night insanity and soaking of last night. Nearly passed out at work, it felt like.

Syd Barrett died, and I'm not sad about it. Not because Pink Floyd aren't my bag, but because I hope that if he never did find the peace and calm, he can have it now. I hope though, that he did find some measure of contentment, of mental and emotional placidity.

And apparently, June Allyson died too. Her voice has always wound me up something rotten, but I didn't dislike her. Hell, she's what makes The Glenn Miller Story really sad. The bit at the end breaks my heart, man. 

What does it all mean? Slowly, my world gets further away with me. Not through the personal catastrophic passing of lives like George, but when the supporting actors exit stage left. Soon, there will be no more to tell us what the studio years were really like, no more secrets to be learned about Sinatra and Gardner, Flynn or Martin or the guys I love. There will be nothing new to learn because there will be no one there to tell it. Nobody left.

A whole bunch of buses stopped in Oxford Street. Just stopped and drivers got out of their little cab things at the front. One wonders why the fuck this happened but one does not really care.

Something else I meant to say yesterday: So, I was so close to Robert Plant last night that I could, in fact, see the outline of his cock. I want to tell you this only because actually, it's not like anyone who's ever seen The Song Remains The Same doesn't know what the scuffmint I'm talking about.

More importantly, I swear I nearly fucking cried earlier listening to Led Zeppelin, just as last night listening to him sing Going To California. I thought it was because I missed being there in the sun, with so few cares and stuff... it's not why.

I know that right now there are people dying in Mumbai. I know there are people around the world living in true agony of one kind or another. I know I'm selfish and trivial, but it breaks my heart to know that I will never get to see Robert at his peak. Never see the hair as it once was, the shirt without buttons, the sheer fucking arrogance of it all. I will never see the raw, undiluted, unadulterated energy as it once was. I get the grown-up version with its tongue in its cheek, the greying beard and...

I'm dead lucky, I really am, in many ways. Even in a Roberty way... the man is still a stone fox and more than that, the man's voice is still there... but it was much bigger once upon a time.

By the way... you know how I've been going on about how LZ stole the arrangement and performance of You Need Lovin by the Small Faces for Whole Lotta Love... Robert now does it with a middle eight. In Arabic. Stevie never did that. I just wish I didn't feel sad: Robert has always been the one to put the smile on my face, the blond and smiling antidote to Jim, you know? Led Zeppelin are the guys I listen to to cheer up, not to feel fucking awful!

Typical: the world's falling down around me, and my concern is that Robert Plant's boots last night didn't quite match the trousers.