October 2024. Norwich.
I was actually in Norwich for a gig that Wednesday; the two new pubs and a stunning dusk were bonuses.
Yes, yes, it’s a fine city.
I’ve been to the Arts Centre in the shell of St Swithin’s a few times over the year, a lovely 300 capacity choice for musicians adding East Angular.
But this gig came in a week that had introduced a little peril to middle-aged blokes who go to see modern music.
It could well have been me getting interrogated in Lincoln if the Southworths had arranged their pub crawl 3 days earlier. The Last Dinner Party are (just about) worth seeing live, but the idea I’d have to justify why a bloke in their fifties would even like them seemed incredibly depressing to me, almost reinforcing the idea we should only like the music of our youth and own gender.
As you’ll be (painfully) aware, I like modern music, particularly confessional female singer-songwriters. 50 years ago it would have been Sandy Denny and Joni Mitchell and Patti Smith. Now it’s Lizzy McAlpine, Julia Jacklin and the wonderful Bess Atwell, who’s produced the song this Old Boys stands at the back and sheds a tear to.
Anyhow, no problems getting in Norwich, and a really mixed crowd reverently quiet throughout the set.
There, that’s quite enough praise for Norfolk.
retiredmartin 