I saw Davy Graham live in Aberdeen a couple of years ago. We were all very excited at the chance to see a real legend in such a small venue. We arrived very early. There were only a handful of people in the bar including one towering gent with an angry-looking face, resplendent in blazer and cravat. He was downing halves of Stella like alcoholics do: staring guiltily at them for a while, circling them with his hands and head then bolting them down in one, spare hand motioning to the barman for just one more. He was utterly incoherent. He seemed perfectly willing to sign autographs and chat to fans, but was completely unable.
When he finally made it to the stage he was an arresting sight. He began each number by mumbling a lengthy introduction about its influence and meaning, mostly featuring travel to the Middle East and the love of a young girl. He would close his eyes and the muttering would subside as Davy seemed lost in thought about the love of this young girl. Then he launched into a lengthy instrumental piece which changed pace and rhythm and key and melody several times. His guitar, an expensive Martin with a large piece of white gaffer tape cruelly stuck to the top, seemed to be suffering as he strangled these strange rhythms from it. You could hear the neck bending, feel his fingers drawing across the frets, the fingerboard bowed and wobbled under the drumming of his fingers. From time to time he would stop and retune a string, spending ages getting a tone which, to my ears at least, sounded completely wrong. It was unbearable to listen to, but compelling at the same time. Strange rhythms and melodies would appear through the confusion. Did he mean to play that? His fingering suggested that, on his day, this was a man who could make the guitar do entirely different things.
He introduced Anji, his most famous song, and my mate Stef let out a little cheer. Davy was furious. He froze in position - first chord ready and strumming arm aloft - for a few seconds then drew himself up to a fearsome height and rounded on Stef. "If you were up here, playing your music, do you think I would heckle and roar?" he shouted. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife. Davy stared at Stef and Stef said "sorry" and Davy stared some more and then the gig went on. We never did hear him play Anji though.
After a short break, a young man came onto the stage and apologised on behalf of Davy. "He's done some really great gigs, but tonight is not his night," he explained, "but he has agreed to come back on and play the blues for you." By this time the venue, which had been packed, was almost empty, but Davy did indeed come back on and played some more of his weird chords and strange rhythms.
It was mesmerising, I could have watched it forever. I always said I would love to see him again, to try to see him on his day. But he died on Monday so now I never will. Rest in peace, Davy you mad bastard. I reckon I could see what you were up to and I fucking loved it.
Confused of Chorley
