KATE DAVIS

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: KATE DAVIS AT PINUPS, ISLINGTON – 25/1/20

The Islington has changed its name. It’s called PINUPS now. Maybe to clear up any confusion that might have resulted from there being two pubs in Islington called The Islington (see Chapter Thirteen). Or maybe it just fancied a change.

  Maybe I need a change too, I think. How could I change, I wonder?

  The guy at the door calls me a dude. “Thanks dude,” he says. “Enjoy the show.” It makes me realise that no one’s called me a dude for a long time. 

  I need a wee so I head straight to toilet. In the toilet I can see my head and shoulders reflected in three mirrors, all at different angles. It’s not a pretty sight. And the light isn’t particularly flattering either. I look a mess. Maybe I should get a haircut, I think. I look terrible. I run my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to address my bedraggled appearance. 

The Rough Trade tote bag guys are out in force tonight. There’s the bald admiral standing, as usual, right at the front looking on imperiously, like Napoleon, or Nelson, or one of those guys. And there’s the one who kept falling asleep at the William Tyler show, fiddling with his digital camera. I find their presence comforting, and I enjoy observing them.

And then suddenly KATE DAVIS is on stage singing. It all happens very quickly. I barely have time to put my notebook away. She is unaccompanied, which at first, I have to admit, I am a little put out by. I had been expecting a band, you see. On the record it’s a band, so I expected a band, and as you know, there’s nothing quite like a full band. But after a song or two, I don’t mind at all. There is an intimacy to a solo performance which is almost thrilling at times. 

  “This is my first sold out show in London,” says Kate Davis, after she has played a couple of songs. “And my first trip to London.” Everyone applauds. It’s a mature crowd. It’s very quiet in between songs. “I hadn’t been expecting you to be so polite,” she says at one point. 

  “Get the fuck on with it,” someone shouts.

  “That’s better,” says Kate Davis.

  Kate Davis sings songs about young love and, um, well, just young love actually. They all seem to be about young love unless I’ve missed something, which I don’t think I have. She has one song, an “unrecorded” song called Shrivelled Fucked French Fry, in which she compares herself to a shrivelled fucked French fry left at the “bottom of the bag”, probably because her young lover is ignoring her or being mean or something. “I guess you guys don’t think I should put that one on the next record,” she says, underwhelmed by the round of applause the song attracts. Nonetheless, she seems pleased with how things are going, and is thankful.

  “What a great way to experience London for the first time,” she says. “Thanks for being such a great audience.”

  We clap. 

  “And I’d like to thank Adam, the soundman, for doing the sound. 

  We clap. Thanks Adam. 

  “And Bird on the Wire for putting on the show.” 

  We clap. Thanks Bird on the Wire. 

  “And I’d like to thank London for not making me feel like a stupid American.”

  But we don’t clap for London. We seem to have collectively decided that giving London a round of applause would be a bit weird. As if London cares about our applause. London doesn’t give a shit about anything.

  After the show Kate Davis is selling records, and there’s a line of middle-aged men waiting to buy one. Some of the middle-aged men are requesting that she sign their record, which involves her removing the shrink wrap first, not an easy thing to do without some sort of tool, a kitchen knife, for example, and Kate Davis is having terrible trouble opening the middle-aged men’s records to sign them. One of the middle-aged men demonstrates a technique for removing the shrink wrap, by vigorously rubbing both sides of the record simultaneously, but it’s not really very effective, and is not adopted by Kate Davis. 

  When it’s my turn to buy a record, Kate Davis looks at me and says, “Would you like me to sign it?” 

  “No,” I say. “That’s OK.”

As I walk back to the car I briefly consider changing my name. It might be good for me, I think, and I start getting quite excited. But then I think about having to notify the bank, and the water company, and the electric company, and all the other companies, and telling all the kids at school, and explaining to my colleagues, and my family, and then what if it doesn’t work out, I think, I might get sick of it, or it might not suit me.

  No, I think, as I get into the car, it’s just not worth the trouble.