mostly david ephgrave

Right now, I should be going to bed, but instead I find myself staring at a yawningly empty page. Despite keeping my blog up almost daily for over three years now (an anniversary that snuck by without me noticing), there will occasionally be times when I have little to say. To be honest, I’m surprised to have said so much since I began; you can’t always have something of interest to impart. One thing that was personally notable for me last night was finding out that Bobby Vee had passed away. While I don’t know a great deal of his music outside of the obvious big hits, I actually saw him play once. It was in 1995, when I won tickets to a concert celebrating the 20 th Anniversary of the Paul McCartney-organised Buddy Holly Week, at Shepherd’s Bush Empire, through the McCartney fan club. Looking back, it was a pretty incredible line-up, including the original Crickets, Carl Perkins and Bobby Vee, plus a surprise appearance from Macca himself, who ca...

Of the many songs you might expect to hear blaring from a car as it cruises down the High Street, Bobby Vee's Rubber Ball isn't one of them. Yet despite the incongruity, that's exactly what I heard today. Winding down your windows to subject all and sundry to your music is obnoxious, but it's somehow less so when what you're listening to is so jaunty. Vee may have followed in Buddy Holly's footsteps and fronted The Crickets, but a rap star, he's not. I saw him at a gig at Shepherd's Bush Empire in the early-Nineties and he couldn't have been less ghetto if he tried. The man behind the wheel had big (rubber) balls to pull it off, particularly while he was held at the lights. I'd struggle to rustle up the requisite facial expression for the situation if it were me; it's not a song to scowl to.  I understudied the part of Vee when I was in Bill Kenwright's touring production of 'The Roy Orbison Story', back in 2003. I on...

Tonight's the second time in my life that I've become unreasonably excited on remembering I have a Kit Kat in my bag.  That's not to say there haven't been occasions when I've achieved acceptable levels of joy at the thought of a two-or-four-fingered treat (INSERT YOUR OWN PUNCHLINE HERE). I'm certainly never disappointed by the prospect - but it's fair to say that tonight's moment of realisation gave me a spring in my step that's seen me through the rest of the day (at time of writing, we have four minutes left).  The last time this happened was in 2003, when I was on tour with The Roy Orbison Story. It was in the midst of a matinee on a two-show day, after a very long week, that the fact I'd bought a chocolate bar earlier came back to me. The moment is seared in my memory. I was on stage at the time, wearing a white rollneck and a black suit jacket, playing the bass part to Mean Woman Blues. I'm sorry to say that the thought of that ...