42. John Grant
Rough Trade East
9 December 2013
My first in-store gig. A sacred rite of passage for the terminally indie, and who better to usher me through it than the patron poet of the polemic, John Grant. The man had just won Rough Trade’s Album of the Year, and as a reward, they celebrated the only way a record shop knows how: exclusive merch, a special-edition poster, and an intimate gig for a handful of lucky sods. Naturally, I was one of those lucky sods.
So, there I was, queuing like a teenager outside the slightly grubby Rough Trade East, just off Brick Lane, being eyed up by a security guard who looked like he moonlighted as a synthwave DJ, as he escorted me inside to a trestle table where a bored staffer handed me an orange wristband and my shrink-wrapped album bundle. It felt less like a gig and more like picking up contraband from a sketchy bloke in a pub toilet. Which, to be fair, is also very on-brand for John Grant.
We were herded to the back of the shop, past shelves of vinyl, where the CD racks had been reluctantly nudged aside to create a “stage”, which was really just a raised plank and a bit of wishful thinking. I was wedged between Jazz Improvisation and an aggressively alphabetised stack of Vaporwave. The universe had placed me firmly in the “Free Jazz” section, which felt like a subtle cosmic insult to my general demeanour.
The venue slowly filled, and the pre-gig ritual of standing awkwardly began. There’s a lot of waiting at these things, which might explain why most of the millennial crowd immediately retreated into their phones, crammed in as we were between the Vaporwave and Folktronica sections. There’s something inherently odd about the vibe at an in-store gig. You’re in a shop, for god’s sake. People occasionally break into polite conversation, but mostly everyone’s trying to figure out where to stand without knocking over a rack of CDs.
And then he appeared. John Grant stepped onto the makeshift stage like a man who’d already glimpsed the apocalypse and found it mildly disappointing. The mood shifted immediately. Gone was the record shop awkwardness, in its place: reverence.
He opened with “Vietnam”, an icy, Bond-theme-for-the-socially-maladjusted number that immediately silenced the sniffly shuffle of the crowd. From there, he led us through the emotional minefield of Pale Green Ghosts. “GMF” landed like a mic drop from the heavens, a triumphant, sweary anthem for the heartbroken and fabulous; and possibly the greatest breakup anthem since Fleetwood Mac made that record.
However, it was the closer, “Glacier”, that levelled the room. A towering, soul-ripping ballad about growing up gay in a world engineered to make you feel less than. His baritone rose and broke like waves crashing through stained glass.
Then, like some emotional hitman with impeccable manners, Grant descended from the altar to sign posters. Just casually. As if he hadn’t just torn open the collective chest cavity of the room and rearranged our organs. When it was my turn, he smiled, genuinely, and asked my name. Then: “Have we met before?” I replied no and gave him the sort of compliment that comes out slightly strangled when your soul’s been freshly steamrolled. He nodded, warm as ever, and said, “You just have one of those friendly faces.”
Outside, I unfurled my poster and found it signed: “Thank you. With love, John Grant.” And you know what? Even if he writes it for everyone, I believe he means it. Because that’s the magic of John Grant: he breaks your heart with a synthesiser and then thanks you for the privilege.