Martin Bridgeman

I don’t write much these days (a long story for another time), but on occasion during a type of block, I find I need a ‘push’. The more I search for one, the harder it is to find it. It starts like an itch, persistent and then unless I scratch it, it will continue to insist…

Last night was such a push…

I had almost forgotten about the Lazarus Soul gig but I made last minute arrangements and managed to get out. Sadly, I was too late for Arrivalists, AKA Pat Barrett. I’ll make up for that another time, but the smiles on the faces of the people I met said it all: he had risen our hearts.

The faces smiled, relishing a support slot in advance of the main event for the first time in a long while: we were all giddy, happy, mingling in the new and old, tentative. Pints in hand, greeting, more smiling, somehow trying to remember the routine: where to stand, suss out the ideal location, how near the front, how near the speakers…

The band step on the stage, the hum begins, a false start is noticed but not remarked on. Smiles all round, it’s grand. The thump of the backline a tribute to a wise and sympathetic engineer, landing in the chest, pushing out the air once again.

Brian’s voice live reminds you of his anger and the hurts of those he realises in his gripping songs, just shy of polemic but as sharp as any political pamphlet or broadsheet: street words from the street wise. The bass rumbles, a metaphorical push on the shoulder, growls, right in your bones and in your face. The guitar sneers, agrees with the lyric. A bed for the lift of the chorus. 

The guitars trade punches like a six stringed anger machine: snarling then ringing like a church bell; sounds almost in the near distance, easing out more memories. The first always clenched, rest to drop you off the edge at any moment he chooses. Hanging on to that edge, ready to jump.

An outstretched hand as the crash cymbal lands, instinctive, following: these drums truly rock and roll, but carry the pulse of the bodhrán: our pulse, familiar, driving, solid.

There’s righteous anger here, Irish anger, but not like some theatrical ‘paddies’. This band feel the rhythm of our streets, up and down, they see the fallen and the barely getting by. Years ago, we had the songs of the dispossessed in exile, ending their days in foreign hostels and street corners. Now they stay and this band tell their tales, make us look, make us think.

These are musicians who have their eyes fully open. While they see the weeds in the cracks they see the flowers too. 

A lyric about the once familiar Black and Amber, the pub long gone but the memories will never be pulled down.

Maybe it’s an age thing but perhaps now, some of us roll more than rock, smile more than laugh, feel real power and let it carry us on to one almighty final roar. 

Perhaps the gig was shorter than we had wanted but for me, if this was the last gig ever it will have been worth each and every second. 

“Knowing where the gap in the fence is”…yes, that’s true and wise.

A deep breath, the realisation that we’re all back together, the venue wrapped around us all….it’s back…