Pogoing to a concertina

Hey kids,

It’s me. CP. We’re headed back down the road on our continued Summer Acoustic Quartet Folk-Rock Rampage Tour. Got a warm laptop on my knee.

Speaking of pyrotechnics.

A friend of mine went to see Morrissey and told me about his no opening act approach. Apparently, before the band ever walks onstage, there’s a video montage: the New York Dolls, Elvis, rockabilly clips, snippets of political imagery, Meat Is Murder propaganda. A smattering of clips of Moz’s obsessions, I guess. A kind of Mr. Roger’s welcome-to-the-neighborhood Morrissey primer. I thought that sounded pretty cool.

It got me thinking about what I’d throw up there if I ever had the wherewithal—or the budget—to pull off something that ambitious. Maybe I’ll make it a thing here on the old Substack.

Here’s one thought:

Pogoing to Richard Thompson.

There was a time—sometime in the Reagan years, maybe before, maybe after—when Richard Thompson still crossed America in an Econoline van. San Francisco was one of his regular ports of call. Wolfgang’s in the city. Maybe the Palms in Davis. A room in Cotati that’s probably been a revolving door of eighteen failed wine stores by now.

The Richard Thompson Band I saw was stripped down: two guitars, bass, drums. I seem to remember the drummer had been borrowed from Jethro Tull. Imagine that. And the beautiful Christine Collister at the microphone, all velvet tone, covering Linda’s parts.

And one night at Wolfgang’s there was a guy perched on a road case, squeeze box balanced on his knee, spitting out licks in another language while Thompson traded back and forth on Stratocaster.

Looking over old album credits years later, I figured it must’ve been John Kirkpatrick.

More flashbulb memories. For years I suspected I’d dreamed the whole episode.

Then YouTube settled the argument.

Here’s a clip from a British festival in 1980. Rain coming down in biblical sheets. Of course it is. Because a festival over there isn’t official until the sky opens up and pisses down on the whole gathering. Then they come alive. Seriously, if you look really close—really look—you’ll catch them: the “punters” down front, pogoing in the mud. Pogoing to Richard Thompson. Pogoing to a concertina. Strange. Cool. Odd. It really is pretty awesome. And soooooo British. In fact, while they’re calling the songs the bass player can be heard saying, “Sorry?”

They are forever saying “Sorry?” over there.

Check it out:

Also, about the fine art of newslettering? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still making this up as I go. Why not become a paid subscriber today if you’re not already? If not, you can always donate to Doctors Without Borders. They’ve been providing food, water, and health care around the globe for 50 years. Or an abortion fund or any gun violence prevention group. They can ban abortions but can’t seem to regulate guns.

You can also do none of the above and just carry on. We are happy to have you.

Onward,

-CP

P.S. Summer Acoustic Quartet Folk-Rock Rampage Tour hits Chicago, Cincinnati and Louisville this week; Nashville, Atlanta, St. Petersburg, Tampa, New Orleans, Houston and Austin next week. Be there or not.