The Grattior shut down today, after over 700 great gigs hosting musicians from all over the world. They had some of the best musicians play there, outstanding. I am reminded of some of the great players I've met at that bar, which are really out of this world. The Grattior means kind of 'The Shredder [on a fretboard]' from grat a young word in French. I am also reminded, as I listen to absolutely mind-blowing Bonnie Raitt (namely I Ain't Blue, Under the Falling Sky and Blender Blues) of some of the other places I've played. I remember this one gig in Belgium, when I demo'd it, I used 'Old High Mountain' toonin'. (That is, slide gee-tar but with the middle G taken out, tuned up to D-A-D-[no string]-A-D). I cinched the gig (of course, it's me, even on my own I'm a one man musical army, and have been described as a 'walking radio' - though I'm good enough to know I'm not that good - there are much better players than me out there, people like Rosie Stone, who is outstanding - long story). Anyway, so I thought I had best get a fresh set of quality strings on mah gee-tar (this one was Gurtrude, a 1970's Epiphone acoustic jumbo). There was this guy there, a big guy, very charismatic, who really helped out. He was a successful businessman, very amicable, and seemed to love my music. I played a few notes on the night in question, and he approached me and asked, "What have you done?" I replied that I changed my strings. He complained that I had lost that same sound. He was right, because I wasn't using the 'Old High Mountain' toonin'. This guy said to me, that once he'd made his investments, and lived quite comfortably, all he did, all day, was appreciate great music. It taught me a lesson. If you have a winning formula, it's best to stick with it.
Even Pascal, the owner of the recently closed Grattior once said to me, once he had heard me play Gurtrude in 'Old High Mountain' toonin', "You know, Maxwell, that you can play any bar in France now, and do well." I knew then that I'd hit on something. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Ry Cooder, Kelly Joe Phelps or Sea-Sick Steve, but I play in that same style. It's pretty cool. Even today, without an audience, I seriously rocked out. There were a few fans in, namely tiny little birds that chirp and watch from the wires outside my bedroom. When I lived back in Bridport I had some swallows that used to nest in the eves of the house, and used to line up on the trees outside whenever I used to play my piano. Whenever I stopped, they would chirp like crazy. I remember coming back from the mountains one year and a whole flight of them swooped right past my head, not even an inch away, as if to say, "Where the hell have you been?"
Even better than that was when I used to team up with Olly Dean, the Old Time fiddle player. We used to play this ghastly little café every Saturday. On my way in a kingfisher used to swoop past me, then sit and listen to us across the river there, regularly. I've only ever experienced that once before in my life. I was in a place not far from here, in rural Wiltshire, and this lone kingfisher came right up to me (normally they are extremely timid) as I was singing and playing Paul McCartney's Mother Nature's Son. I felt extremely privileged, honoured. That is the greatest audience, Mother Nature herself. There have also been some other remarkable creatures that have come to me as I have sung and played. I remember one beach party a pod of dolphins came to listen. When I was with Didier, elsewhere, an eagle came by, and several butterflies. Perhaps the greatest was when I was playing music with the violinist Fiona Pace, and a herd of deer came close, then scattered at the precise moment that the last note sang out on her violin. It was something else.
All this is in the past, of course. Now, I am just an unskilled labourer. A poor scholar. A nobody, and that's okay too. If nothing else, there is always hope. It's a big wide world out there, and there are many places I have yet to see. I actually long for the old days, just a backpack and a guitar, and the road.
Max.
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