One fateful night in Kilburn...

      This entry is a little off topic from what I intended to write about on here - i.e. cliché accounts of my visits to the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, accompanied by pictures of me smiling in front of various statues and monuments…and a telephone booth. Really, nothing says “Hey, I’m in London” like a picture inside a red telephone booth. But last night was one of those awesome, adventuresome, and out-of-the-blue nights that I must write down in words, if only for my own enjoyment in the future. While I found the events of last night to be absurd and hilarious, those who read might be just slightly amused, or not amused at all. If this is the case, then I guess you had to be there.

      The night started off as I was sitting at the kitchen table with my flatmates Rachel and Max, when Rachel mentioned that she was going to see a show in Kilburn at 8, with The Dead Poets, The Walkers, and Cas Christensen playing.  She explained that they are all relatively unknown bands, but that she looked into them online and liked what she heard. I was up for going since I definitely wanted to see some live music while I was here in London. After all, some great music has come out of this place. I was initially planning on doing the usual, going to a pub (yes, "the usual," because I am of the legal drinking age here. And yes, I feel very mature). In retrospect, I'm glad I made the decision to stray away from this typical routine, because the experiences to follow were far more interesting and blog-worthy than anything I would have encountered at a local bar.

      Rachel and I set off, hoping that we would get there without getting lost, but knowing this was a very likely possibility considering our histories traveling (or my history, at least. See previous post. Oh and I forgot to mention that last week, I took the wrong train to get to my first crew practice, and after miles of frustration, I hitched a ride with a stranger...but nevermind that.) So actually, I should note that Rachel is completely responsible for getting us there. I just followed and nodded, afraid that any of my suggestions would lead us to the other side of London. We finally arrived in Kilburn, and stepped outside to find a dead-beat neighborhood, in every sense of the phrase. Luckily, The Good Ship music venue was just a couple of blocks away. Excited for the show and relieved that we had made it there with relative ease, we were ready to enter. But, a guy lingering in front of the entrance was our only obstacle. Casually smoking a cigarette, he asked us what we were going inside for. After stating the obvious, that we had come to see the show that night, he apathetically responded “Oh, that’s been cancelled. We had a power outage, and a gas leak...eaihiahurf” The last part was unclear. Again, I’m still getting used to deciphering the accents around here. Anyhow, this news was upsetting and inconvenient, as we had spent good money and time to get to where we were. As we glanced behind us at the abandoned neighborhood with dark alleyways radiating from the central road and an occasional fruit stand lining the sidewalk, we realized there was little hope that we would find a decent alternative. Rachel stepped in and asked the guy if there was another venue in the area where live music was playing, to which he responded, “Well, there’s two places - there’s the North London Tavern, but it’s a little posh, unless you’re into that, and it costs 5 pounds to get in. There’s another place called the [something that begins with the letter P]. It has free entry but it’s a bit of a hike down the street.” With a mutual understanding that free is always better, Rachel and I headed down the street, not aware of the long and unrewarding trek ahead of us. We did not seek clarification on what the name of the place was, but agreed that we heard the letter “P” in there somewhere. Close to an hour later (or what seemed like an hour after passing several kabob shops and tumbleweeds) we had not passed a single bar, or even a sign with a word starting with “P.” As we walked further down the ominous road, we noticed that people in the cars driving by were staring at us and smirking as if to say “you don’t belong around these parts of town.” I took this as a sign that our journey was ill-fated as long as we continued down the quiet road. So, after another block, we decided it was time to turn around, suck it up, and settle for “posh,” even if only to make the most of our travel to this particularly lively section of London. We stepped into the first and only bar we encountered on the way back, which was called the “Crown.” Staring at the sign, we reasoned that maybe the guy back at The Good Ship really said the "the Crown," and not some word that began with "P"...the phoeneme in "Crown" almost sounds like a "P" sound, right? Perhaps we were just reaching a point of insanity. The bar seemed to be a popular after-work destination for middle-aged men, and was probably not the hip music venue we were looking for. We asked the bartender for directions to “Power” or “Powell” or “Pumba”…and started making up words with "P" that we might have heard the guy back on the stoop say. The bartender, understandably, had no idea what we were talking about. And really, I wasn’t surprised that he could not be more helpful in directing us to a music venue, considering the local retail and restaurants - had we been looking for kabobs or a hookah bar however, we would have been in luck.

      We continued back towards the North London Tavern, hoping that it would be worth our while. We asked the bartender inside where the music was - he directed us upstairs and explained, “It’s an open mic night, there’s poetry and music. It’s quite nice actually, I’ve been up there a few times.” So not exactly what we were looking for, but we decided to check it out. We walked up the creaky stairs and turned the corner to find a dimly lit room behind a curtain. Peaking in and straining to listen, we heard a woman softly speaking - most likely reciting a poem. The first word we could make out was “intercourse,” and after quietly laughing to ourselves, we turned around and headed back down the stairs. We were hoping to hear music, and we weren’t convinced that the poetry we had just sampled was worth our precious 5 pounds.

      Instead, we sat at the bar and ordered a drink. As Rachel and I started talking, we noticed a man in our periphery looking over at us and slowly approaching. “How…how was your Christmas and New Years?” I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly, as these holidays had long passed, and quite frankly I was over the whole routine of telling people what I did during my vacation. “What?” I responded. It turned out I had heard him correctly the first time. “It was good," I replied "I was just at home with family.” He continued to pester us with small talk, as Rachel and I exchanged confused looks and tried to convey our disinterest with succinct replies. We also just couldn’t understand what he was saying. We weren’t sure why he was having so much difficulty producing sentences, but Rachel and I later consulted and determined that he was either aphasic or drunk. He started to move his arms in a large circular motion, causing him to loose balance and nearly fall over, while telling us a story that contained the key words “New Years” and “Regent’s park”.  So, taking all symptoms into account, he was either aphasic with impaired proprioception and spatial orientation, or he was just shit-faced.

The bartender looked over at us, and seemed to empathize with our current situation. I didn’t want to offend the man, as he seemed genuinely interested in our holiday traditions, so I desperately searched my mind for a decent excuse. Then I remembered, Oh yeah! The open mic night! I turned to Rachel and said “Oh, you know what? We should check out the open mic night upstairs.” She nodded and we headed upstairs, excusing ourselves from the bar. We decided to give the open mic night a second chance, considering the debacle that awaited us in the bar. The room behind the curtain was very cozy, and looked like an old living room with an assortment of comfortable leather chairs and couches, and a fire place with candles lit on the mantle. There were about 20 people in the room, who appeared to be regulars at this weekly event. The people ranged in age from 19 (me) to around 70, but the greater portion of the audience were older. A bald man with a curly French moustache stood at the front, reciting a poem. His job seemed to be introducing the different acts, but he conveniently used their set up times to squeeze in a few of his own brilliant verses, including one wherein he compared song titles to car brands - a truly thought-provoking poem that was reminiscent of the works of William Blake and D.H.Lawrence. Finally, he introduced the first music act during our short stay. A 50-something man played a lively tune on the guitar and sang about “linens, tea kettles, and lettuce,” occasionally interrupting the chorus with harmonious moans that sounded like bag-pipes. Honestly, it was pretty enjoyable.

      After some more poetry, a quiet man with a guitar took the floor and told us about how he visited a garden over the summer, where he saw the most beautiful roses. These roses, he explained, became the inspiration for his songwriting. He played a calming fingerpicking tune on the guitar and sang about his sorrow over leaving those roses behind that day, never to see them again.

      Rachel and I really began to enjoy ourselves, as we heard a variety of poetry and music acts. I felt like we got a nice inside-look at the lives of these Londoners, who attended these open mic nights regularly to let loose and listen to fellow Londoners share what inspired them the previous week. 

      The open mic had ended and we slyly exited the bar, so as to avoid any possible contact with the man who graced us with his presence earlier that night.

      Little did we know that the absolute culmination of our strange, but surprisingly enjoyable night, lay ahead on the journey back to our apartment. We got on the tube, and of course, missed our stop. That’s more like it, I thought, there has to be at least one screw up whenever I travel. So we got off the tube and waited for the train to go back the opposite way. The train we boarded was completely empty. We began to brainstorm various movie plots in which people were isolated in trains and an unfortunate turn of events ensued…it was then that the train inexplicably stopped. For those few seconds we were sure we were doomed...until the train started back up again. Finally, we arrived at the stop we should have been at 10 minutes sooner. We boarded the next train, again, very unsure of our decision. We were right to get on, but the train ended before our destination. We got off, but as we saw more people getting on the train, we thought that maybe the train would go all the way to where we needed to go. Rachel and I were discussing this matter while I was still standing in the train and she was outside on the platform. At the very last minute, I jumped out of the train as the doors were closing. We noticed the train heading back to where we had started, so we were proud of ourselves for making the right decision. We must have appeared very confused, since a kind man asked us where we needed to go, and directed us to the next train. We entered the next platform, still with a bewildered look upon our faces, when we heard another man ask “Do you know where you're trying to go?” At that point I was certain that English people were the nicest, most helpful human beings on the face of the earth. I don’t think a single person in the United States has ever shown concern for my very obvious misplacement and wandering. We turned around to find a good-looking guy leaning against the wall, with a guitar by his side. We both responded “yes” but continued to make conversation by describing how difficult our tube ride had been already. He smiled, probably thinking we were idiots, and asked where we were coming from. “We're coming from Kilburn” Rachel responded. 

“Oh, really? I just came from there! What were you doing there?” 

“Well, we went there to see a show at The Good Ship, but there was a power outage or something…” 

“Oh man, I was going there too, but I heard the same thing. Who were you going to see?” 

Rachel responded, “Cas Christensen” 

“No way…that’s my name. My name is Cas.” 

I was sure he was kidding at first, as it had been hours since the show was initially scheduled, and the chances are so ridiculously small that we would be taking the same tube at the exact same time (mind you, the tube comes every 5 minutes) as the musician we had come to see. But no, it was definitely him, which I was only convinced of when he handed us a card with his name and website on it. We all boarded the train, and he told us where he would be playing next. I was still shocked at the coincidence -  had we taken the right trains on the way back, we wouldn’t even have met the guy. Or, if he hadn’t offered his help for directions, we would not have known who he was…Basically, it was way too coincidental for me to handle at the time. 

Looking back, I am glad that the show we went to see was cancelled. While our night had not gone as planned, we had such a crazy and interesting night anyways. And even if all we got out of it was confirmation that there are some very strange people in London, at least it was worth a good story.