Well, this was unexpected.
My heart (or ego) was still smarting from Frenchie, although what niggled the most was not knowing his story – Girlfriend? Drug habit? Holiday? Dead? – so me and my friend Earl went to a folk/anti-folk/whatever-the-folk you want to call it festival on the banks of the Spree.
There was a singer there who had played at a UK festival a few years back. His voice is loud and strong and beautiful, plumbing places that don’t normally dare lest you fall to the floor. Which he often ended up doing, half mad preacher-man, half poet.
He asked for requests and I requested a song about a girl he used to be in love with that reminded me of a boy I used to be in love with.
We got talking after the gig, and he was Southern charm personified – he would make Satan himself seem like a tongue-tied teenager. The next day he asked if I wanted to hang out instead of learning German modal verbs. I got my shoes on.
We wandered round Gorlitzer, got a beer, shot the shit, walked inexorably to my place. He made what happened next seem so obvious and natural it was as if it had been my intention all along. And I swear to God, for once the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Not really.
Over the next week we hung out, went on a road trip to Weimar where I took some photos of his gig. Which made me feel like the oldest groupie in town. I probably was. Weimar’s pretty quiet.
Whatever. I was under no illusions about the nature of this relationship – he’s a true wanderer, swapping company and music for sex and laundry.
Wherever The Singer went, people fell were happy to be in his orbit, basking in his good vibrations. Hell, he even met my mother, whose first visit to Berlin happened smack-bang in the middle of the romance. Needless to say he charmed to pants off of her too (and dear Lord, I do mean that figuratively).