Week 11 – Thursday 17th March – Buffalo, Cardiff - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - £6
“The forest had a rock in it. . .”
It was a guffaw that led to another man/boy giggling uncontrollably, in an impressively manly manner, for the remainder of the song.
I'm afraid you win no prizes for guessing that it was Sandro who’s guffaw triggered the giggler, who has yet to be identified, although is suspected to be spectacularly handsome, witty, intelligent, has absolutely no difficulty growing facial hair, and has an imposing physique.
His nickname 'Weedy' is clearly ironic.
Of course the lyric itself was probably just the beginning of a no doubt intriguing story told within that particular song, but unfortunately the bout of giggling and Sandro’s guffawing meant that to us it was just a single sentence, standing alone as though it were a profound statement uttered by the prince of profundity Brian Cox.
“The forest had a rock in it. . .”
I knew there was something about that forest. I always suspected there was a rock in there.
Our childishness shouldn’t count against Big Friendly Leftwich though, I’m almost certain it was a rock of some importance. Thankfully our laughter went unnoticed, in spite of the hush that occupied the room at the time, and BFL was able to continue to woo the crowd with his delicate voice.
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It was St. Paddy's Day, and in spite of last week's chastening experience, we were winging it once more. The Wombats were gigging in Cardiff Uni’s Solus, but had sold all their tickets to better planners (and people who didn't detest them), which left us with a choice of some prog rock in the form of Martin Turner’s Wishbone Ash at The Globe, some reggae/ska in the form of Jaya The Cat in Undertone (the basement of 10ft Tall), or some indie folk from singer-songwriter Benjamin Francis Leftwich in Buffalo Bar. None would provide the kind of music to get us in the mood for St. Paddy's Night, but we decided that Benjamin Francis Leftwich had the best name and plumped for him.
We entered with our £6 tickets and were subject to Buffalo’s foolproof security procedure of marking our hands with a small B in black ink. Once safely inside, I contacted P. Mushy and Cousin Bish to tip them off.
Unfortunately, my plan was unsuccessful and they were both denied entry. Cousin Bish had unfortunately misheard, marked his hand with the letter P and was promptly shown the exit. P. Mushy had misinterpreted my information altogether and using black and yellow markers, drew an amazingly elaborate bumble bee on his own hand. Unfortunately, he didn’t take refusal lightly. When asked to leave he threatened to sting the bouncers, leading to ugly scenes.
Support was due to from a duo called The Sorry Kisses who have been touring with BFL, but instead came from the male half of that duo, Sam Forrest, who apparently had a rock in him. We realised during the gig (when he told everyone) that he was also the lead singer of grunge rockers Nine Black Alps.
We consulted Wikipedia to check he wasn’t confusing himself for somebody else, and found that he was indeed correct. Forrest may have been interested to know that he has also released a few solo albums of a much softer nature than those produced by Nine Black Alps, plus a few albums as part of The Sorry Kisses with Hayley Hutchinson, who Sam told us was unfortunately ill, and spending the evening lying down with a cat on her belly watching TV.
He declared his fond memories of Cardiff, having apparently lived here for three years, but remarkably made no attempt to pronounce any Welsh words. He mentioned multiple gigs with Nine Black Alps here, with Sandro claiming to witness one such occasion, although strangely, Forrest didn't seem to recognise him.
He played guitar and sang some slow, pleasant enough songs for about half an hour. My personal highlight was a song called 'Just my imagination' in which he seemed to repeat those three words ad infinitum, although that may have just been my imagination.
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It was the last night of Benjamin Francis Leftwich's tour. BFL is a twenty-one year old with a medium-sized future ahead of him (size not to be confused with length of course). He was bearded, and slightly schlubby looking. In a pretty small, quiet venue, his melancholic music, introspective lyrics, and compelling voice demanded a hushed audience. I quickly lost hope of hearing a cover version of Dropkick Murphys' 'I'm Shipping Up To Boston'.“You are the most respectful audience I’ve had during this tour,” he declared toward the end, clearly ignorant of Sandro’s guffawing. The audience was made up of a greater proportion of youngsters than we’d anticipated (by that I mean student age rather than nappy wearers) and sadly there were barely any nappy wearers at the other end of the age scale, i.e. incontinent old people, which was a shame.
So far BFL has only released a couple of EPs, with his first album due out later this year. As with most singer-songwriters, his lyrics were very much of the earnest variety, but the lyrical content seemed secondary to the effect of his voice, which in my mind actually made him less pretentious and more naively charming. Sandro however decided this verdict made me more pretentious and called me a patronising twat.
BFL also used trusty self-deprecation to endear himself to the audience.
“I always feel very Rock ‘n’ Roll when I do this,” he said between songs, as he switched from his trusted acoustic guitar to an electric one, before telling a story of a gig when his electric guitar had been causing him problems, until a sound engineer had joined him on stage and solved it by switching his amp on.
All things considered, if you like your music gentle, and you're a fan of unique and interesting singing voices, I heartily recommend BFL. If you don't, then I heartily discourage you from so much as googling his name.
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After Benjamin’s performance, we went for a post-gig pint at the Rummer Tavern. En route we saw several groups in green St. Patrick’s Day T-Shirts. We were accosted by a mad man looking to give away free mini-torch keyrings, that shone light through a specially designed Guinness St. Paddy’s day template. Mine didn't work so I felt like I’d been ripped off, even though it was free.
I was then asked by a homeless man for 50p.
Is that being too presumptuous? How did I know he was homeless?
Well, he looked homeless. No, that came out wrong.
He looked poor. No, that’s worse.
No, okay, what really happened was, a thoroughly normal looking man approached and said:
“Excuse me, good sir, I am an indisputably homeless person and I was wondering if you might be so kind as to lend me a few pennies, if you have any spare change that is of course.”
Being the benevolent soul I am, I of course reached into my pocket and offered him 50p.
“There you go, sir. All the best,” I replied.
“Why thank you, sir. How generous of you, and may I say what a lovely, handsome young man you are,” said he.
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After Sandro had told him to fuck off, we found ourselves in the Rummer where a promotion offered a St. Paddy’s Day prize for every Irish drink bought. I ended the night with a Guinness pin badge, but we left a couple of ridiculously large unwanted Guinness top hats behind.Neither of us were working the following day, but unusually for St. Paddy’s Night, we weren’t particularly keen to head on anywhere afterwards. Perhaps it was because Benjamin Francis Leftwich had left us drained of energy, or perhaps it was because it was the week of the Cheltenham festival, and with its temporary Irish invasion, Cheltenham was clearly the only place to be. More likely it was because we're very boring people.
Before we left there was an unexpected visitor to the Rummer.
“Your money’s gone to a good cause,” Sandro said nodding to the bar. I turned and saw the homeless man I’d given 50p queuing at the bar.
Bugger. I knew that polite, posh homeless man down on his luck shtick was an act. He spoke to the barman and appeared to be turned away. Spinning around, he clocked us and headed over.
“He’s got your number,” you may be thinking cynically.
'He has got my number,' I thought bitterly.
But I was wrong. You were wrong. Or you were right if you thought the opposite to the people who were wrong.
He merely asked if he could change ten pound coins for a ten pound note because they wouldn’t do so at the bar.
Is that too much to ask? I prefer coins, if anything. They’re gold for a start. And they don’t rip as easily as notes. That's about it really.
“You can count ‘em,” he said in a far less posh voice than he had used previously.
“No, no, I trust you,” I replied, before counting, recounting and carefully checking the weight of each individual coin. As Benjamin Francis Leftwich may well one day sing; if you can’t trust a homeless man, who can you trust?
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March26-4 – Larry Miller - ✓
5-11 - Daedelus - ✓
12-18 - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - ✓
19-25 - Elbow
26-1 -?
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