32. Roy Harper
Royal Festival Hall
22 October 2013
Reuniting with someone from two lifetimes ago is always a gamble, especially when we last saw each other in that hazy fax-machine-era blur of the Nineties. However, thanks to the ever-meddling hand of Facebook, and a mutual love for music, here we were reconnected.
He now lives in the US and is a devout Roy Harper fan. And not in a casual “I love that one song with Pink Floyd” way. No, he is deep. He’s all-in. The sort who treats ticket stubs like sacred scrolls and speaks of B-sides with the hushed reverence of a man describing a religious vision. Naturally, he’s flying in from across the Atlantic to see Harper’s entire UK tour and kindly offers me a ticket to join the pilgrimage.
Which is how I find myself at London’s Southbank Centre; essentially a post-war concrete bunker rebranded as a “cultural space”, nursing a beer and preparing to be folked senseless. We head into the venue early, a rare, alien experience for me, but apparently essential for Harperites. The lobby is already buzzing with an oddly serene energy. It’s not the kind of pre-show tension you get at rock gigs. No one’s jostling for position. Instead, a small army of retirees, all of whom appear to have escaped from a National Trust shop, are gently milling about, swapping sandwich-based gossip and loading up on tea like they’re prepping for a very civilised siege.
My friend, of course, knows everyone. They greet him like an exiled monarch. These are The Roy-alists; a low-key, thermos-wielding cult who gather in tribute to England’s great folk philosopher. I’m asked, with genuine sincerity, “Which folk club are you from?” I admit I’m not affiliated. They pause. Appraise. And then, kindly, welcome me anyway with the sort of warmth that only people who unironically collect enamel brooches can offer, acceptance coming in the form of an offered cheese-and-pickle sandwich.
The show begins. Roy Harper, in his twilight years, ambles onto the stage like a benevolent wizard at a music-themed village fête. The applause is thunderous, which is impressive considering much of it came from an audience in the advance stages of arthritis. He begins to play. It’s gentle, pastoral, almost hypnotic in its meandering charm. Imagine if someone set the Waitrose bakery section to music. Acoustic strums, soft musings, references to nature, time, and injustice, all delivered with the calm authority of a man who’s seen enough to know better. It’s not life-changing stuff, but it is oddly comforting, like being read to by your uncle who once protested a bypass in Gloucestershire.
Then came the encore: “The Cricketer Leaves the Crease”. This is it. The big one for our woollen masses. The faithful lean forward, flasks clutched, eyes misty. As Harper strums the opening chords, the room becomes a makeshift choir, quavery, heartfelt, and unexpectedly moving. It’s less a singalong and more a gentle group lament. I’m definitely feeling something. Possibly indigestion from the cheese-and-pickle sandwich.
When it’s over, the crowd files out, looking spiritually fulfilled and lightly dehydrated. They clutch the remnants of foil-wrapped sandwiches like religious relics, and I realise I’ve just witnessed something quietly special.
I entered as a sceptic, an outsider, a non-believer in the Church of Roy. But I left with a grin, a mild craving for brown bread, and the knowledge that even if you don’t know the songs, it’s hard to resist the charm of a man, and a fanbase, this utterly devoted.