Ghosts of la Belle Époque...

Tour Diary Extract #4

SEP 16^th 2024. Opening for Richard Hawley in Paris.

(I narrate this entry myself, in a noisy park in Newbury. It’s laughably amateurish. Me, not the park, it’s quite nice. It’s available in the app, or web page. Again, me, not the park. Count how many mistakes I make, how many obvious crap edits, how I keep being harassed by weird men, and how I swear at traffic. Listen to the end, I take several attempts at just signing off… it’s frankly embarrassing, and if you message me with the word I read completely wrong pretty early, then… you’ll win something. Dunno what. Well done you!)

I’m up early to get from Leeds to Manchester airport in time for my flight to Paris, but not early enough. I read Waze wrong, and what I thought was fifty-nine minutes is in fact fifty-nine miles. The drive is an hour and a half. I am way behind schedule.

I hate being late, but often am. I believe I can fit anything into five minutes, the seconds reeling out ahead of me, a universe of subatomic moments I can bend and stretch to my will. This is useful for writing songs, terrible for leaving the house.

I sprint and make the check-in, then waddle breathlessly to security— a rattle and clatter of adrenaline and effects pedals.

This your bag? says the man.

Yes it’s my fucking bag, you always fucking search it, and it’s always for the same fucking reason. Luckily mouth and brain still aren’t connected. I nod.

I follow his gaze as he removes my carefully folded spare shirt and stage clothes, and looks down at four metal blocks linked by wires, attached to a ticking clock.

He looks up; widens his eyes.

Effects pedals, I say. For Guitar.

What do they do?

I think for a second. Honestly, not that much.

Why the clock?

To remind me time is running out. I’m fifty-five, every second has to count. To remind me of the time I spent chasing a dream; the time away from home, from the person I love. The time I can’t get back, can’t start over.

I tell him: so I know when to get off stage.

I hastily re-pack and run to the gate.

The flight is delayed by two hours.

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When I get to the venue, Richard is soundchecking with the band. I gaze around at the stunning architecture of this Belle Époque music hall. The red velvet, the gold leaf. The stage is dramatically lit; even in an empty auditorium the sense of excitement hums and bounces off the walls, off the sprung wooden floor.

The ghosts of past shows stalk the balconies. I want to stop for a moment, listen for their echo: the orchestras, the ballet. The chansons, the ‘60s and ‘70s rock gods in their pomp. I want to walk in their presence, to be swept up in that timeless river of song, of dance. But there’s a chicken salad in my dressing room and I’m starving.

I soundcheck, some of the local crew know me, having worked on my shows in the old days. I used to sell this place out, so I try not to flinch when they say they’re surprised to see me opening. At these times I become Beatific Tom —be kind, be patient, be professional— the truth is, the bigger part of me is happy to still be doing this, even if a small part—a part that can’t quite be silenced—still believes that something will change.

I’m nervous. I want to impress. I’m not sure who even knows me any more in this crowd that is here to see Richard. But being the opening act is a win-win. Most of the audience doesn’t care: you can be crap and they won’t remember. You can be amazing and they won’t remember. But if just a handful of people listen and discover you, then you become their secret. Real music fans love a secret.

Over the years I’ve opened for amazing artists like Paul Weller, The Waterboys, World Party, Tori Amos, John Cale. And Dido.

Those shows brought me a bunch of fans who have been loyal to this day. I also know the music press are in tonight, which is why I took the show on a day off from my own tour. It’s hard to get people to write about me now, but as I’m touring an album of duets with French artists, I’d like to think I’m worthy of a little attention. Tom McRae n’est pas mort après tout!

I walk into the spotlight (French shows always have amazing lights, even for the support act) and the microphone immediately feeds back. I say something to cover the moment, but that’s the dramatic, pensive opening blown. Then it’s about trying to find another way to cast a spell, without resort to easy charm or professionalism. Both of those are enemies of performance.

I change the set on the fly, as I’m not confident of the sound or my fingers. But I style it out, find the light, strike a few poses in case the photographers are in early, and by the end I’ve got them. They’re clapping along (on the one and three!) and there are ripples of recognition spreading through the hall. “Did this guy used to be Tom McRae?”

Yes he did. For a short while.

When I finish my set—according to my clock, precisely thirty minutes later— Richard’s band are by the side of the stage applauding, and the crew all smiling, so it seems I did okay. With the adrenaline coursing through me I’m never quite sure.

In the dressing room I see my sister Jane, and my old friend and fellow singer-songwriter, Keren Ann. This is the highlight of my day. We all get to talk, but not for long enough. Then while Richard is playing, despite me wanting to watch the show, I find myself in another dressing room having a business meeting with a company who want to talk to me about buying my back catalogue. I hate missing the show, but unless I keep tossing these roulette chips on the table, there’s not even a half-chance one of them will come up. I try—and fail—to be yet another version of me: Business Tom.

I catch the end of Richard’s show. Another old friend I’ve known for over twenty years. The crowd are loving it, and loving him. For a second I see myself up there, from the glory days. The wave of love and applause washing over me, seeping into me. Then, a second later, I’m drifting up to the balcony, fading into the patina of the wood, the flock wallpaper, the red velvet. Just another ghost.

After the show, the great and the good of Paris are in Richard’s dressing room. TV presenter Antoine de Caunes, various journalists, Olivier Nuc —another old friend, and the premier rock critic on Le Figaro. But they’re all there for the headliner. I slink away and take an Uber to the hotel. My flight leaves at six am.

There’s just time for an hour or so of sleep, before heading to the airport, and to York for tomorrow’s show.

I take the alarm clock from my pedal board and place it by the bed.

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Then the velvet rope shall be drawn aside, a bouncer will look over your shoulder at the baying, poorly-dressed mob, while ushering you into the plush interior of… THE EMPLOYEES ONLY BATHROOM. I mean, VIP area.