I can always tell when my cousin is on the school run. Apart from the time itself – around 4.45pm – the bellowing wind enveloping her usually causes a shouting match as she marches up the hill towards her son’s place of learning.
Me: “RACH! LOVELY HJORDIS FROM IBIZA HAS SENT AN INVITATION TO WHAT LOOKS LIKE A PROPER OLD SKOOL DISCO NIGHT. IT’S CALLED THE RETURN OF JEZEBEL HOSTED BY BODY AND SOUL – A CHARITY – AND JADE JAGGER.”
Rach: (even louder than me): THAT SOUNDS NICE! COUNT ME IN!
Christmas takes you where Christmas takes you. On a warm Wednesday afternoon with shin splints – to Soho as it happens.
Starting off with a gingerbread latte in S’bucks, Vigo Street, I had my work cut out for me: Amongst other things I’d committed to popping in to see Los Hermanos Cubanos at Soho Radio with a few mince pies.
Four bearded men welcomed me and offered me another coffee on the house. Everyone was in red.
I ventured into the studio and offered my wares. Miguel was on the mic “Thanks for the mince pies S, but I cannot do them, the raisins they play havoc with my stomach. I think it’s a raisin inside – no?”
Kenny had two, Archie – one, Brent declined. I felt they were going down well.
“Get in touch with Bibi!” Brent called after me as I exited to Chopper’s hilarious monologue.
The record store I’ve intended to go to for aaaaaaaages beckoned. Sounds of the Universe is pure disco. I chatted to Neil. “I need something along the lines of Vince Montana – you know ‘Love is the Message’ or Raw Silk – that kind of thing.” He pulled a CD out for me as I proffered a pie. He took a bite: “Mmmm, nice.”
A pit stop at a Swedish gentleman’s outfitters provided the venue to change shoes, and Sam – the conversation. Trying to get into the music industry as a producer was tough at 25 he told me; ‘This city is hard, but I keep chipping away to manifest my own destiny’. “Tell me about it” I said and took out the goodies. His eyes lit up on spotting the Christmas vittles as I held out the tupperware.
Riflemaker bid my time before drinks. I chatted to Darren and Ian about the art on the walls. Welsh Ian talked ferries to Ireland, I talked about the craic. Darren told me he was an artist and interested in the process – what got someone to put the marks on the page that they did? Speaking of that I must crack on I said, snapping a pic of one of Josephine King’s gripping paintings.
The Campari bar at Polpo was my final stop. Ivan the bartender told me about the drink that seems so right in Italy. He mixed us a cocktail, we raised our glasses – cherry red with a splash of Prosecco, all Christmassy. “Hold on a second” I said, “I’ve got something here might go quite nicely with this.”
Favourite disco instrumental ever – sublime: http://bit.ly/13C1EhG
“Oh yeah. I know Gavin, he’s a friend of mine – great guy” said Pinky as I related having met him at a recent night out in Shoreditch.
“He knows a good biscuit, that’s for sure” I said slicing into an Eggs Benedict weekend brunch.
I’d been invited to come on down to a pop-up jewellery shop at Boxpark on Thursday night. Locating the event – sparsely populated but with the suspended air of more exciting times to come – I introduced myself to the founders of True Rocks – Emily and Dawn.
I got out my trusty Lumix and snapped away whilst we chatted.
“Oh, here’s Gavin!” Emily cried as a mammoth bearded gentleman made his way through a now increasingly crowded kitchen-at-a-party type space. I slipped one of his Rich Tea necklaces over my head.
“What was behind all this?” I asked the artist of said piece. “What were you thinking when you created it?”
“I wanted to do something about buying biscuits – cheap biscuits. I was interested in that exchange.” I looked at the necklace – a delicious treat in rose gold. The concept contained a dollop of quintessential British humour I felt. I wanted to know more, but first I had a burning question.
“Tell me something. Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night with a brilliant idea and think I won’t bother writing that down because it’s so good I’ll remember it?”
Gavin interjected: “I know what you’re going to say next! Yes, I keep a piece of paper and pen by the bed. But the thing I’ve decided is, it’s not the final idea itself that’s important (often looks rubbish in the morning) – it’s the thought process that led to it. Essentially – what’s more interesting is how you got there.”
I looked into his green eyes (or were they blue?) – made more so by a double shiner (malevolent muggers), green sunglasses and the bushiest beard I’d seen in a while. “Does your other half like that?” I asked with a nod to it.
“Yeah! Women either love or hate it. I’m compiling a list of those who want me to shave it off for money. Maybe one day I will and donate the proceeds to my wife’s charity – House of Fairy Tales .”
I finished my Verveine tea, and relating the evening’s events to Pinky. “It was nice wearing that necklace for the evening” I mused, admiring my brunch date’s newly hair free handsome face. “I hope they do the earrings.”
Apparently some people count sheep to help them get to sleep (really?) but the other night found me counting the number of times I’ve seen The Cuban Brothers before dozing off.
I could add up H&M designer collaborations I’d attended I suppose, but that would probably only go to five or six. Los Hermanos Cubanos however are a different matter.
“You must have seen them at least 20 times!” Van exclaimed over a pre-birthday dinner in South London. “No way!” I replied. “The first time was a Sunday Best party at S’Estanyol beach in Ibiza in 2004. Since then maybe once a year?” “Rubbish! I don’t believe you” she said.
A smokily scented night in Brixton, November 2014: Less threatening coming out of the tube, someone even brushed past me and said: ‘Sorry.’ More Starbucks than Iceland – although I was pleased to see Iceland still had prime position on the high street next to ‘King of Trainers’. “Let’s go to the Village” Foxy said. “It’s all chi chi – kind of one up from street food.”
Three souped up jalopies drove slowly by – the heavy booming of the bass so loud that the pavement vibrated. “That hasn’t changed – thank God” said Foxy.
The old market on Coldharbour lane now houses a myriad of cutesy restaurants, bars, hairdressers, vintage shops – all brimming over with gentrified Brixtonians.
We had a cocktail whilst inadvertently crashing someone’s 30th birthday party.
A lengthy queue to the venue for our evening’s entertainment had us surrounded by the usual plethora of beards and a lady regaling her companions with stories of the magnificence of Dorset. “Looks like a late one Foxy.” “Yeah, I reckon they won’t be on until 11.30pm tops.” “Nah, 11pm I’d say” I replied.
Several beer bucket challenges later we stood before the stage. It was 12.30pm. Kenny ‘the bastard’ was doing his stuff as Archerio and Miguel warmed up at the side of the stage.” Our new Japanese friends next to us were practically asleep. Eager twenty-somethings craned their necks to see more of Domenico. Miss Dorset pushed and shoved with elbows that denoted many a triumphant sale bargain.
I turned over in bed, closed my eyes and searched through the venues in my mind. The ICA, Carphone Warehouse Ball at Alexandra Palace, Bestival 2005 (or was it earlier?), Koko in Camden… I got to 15. I tried to find the 16th, I knew there was one, but I was sleepy. In the favoured expression of Miguel Mantovani It was time to just ‘allow it.’
*1st two photos from ‘Ibiza Spotlight’
We arrived at the after party. Jérôme had invited me. I’d looked my hostess in the eye at the gig prior – a glance that said: ‘Is he okay this guy?’ “Oh yes, you should go S, it’ll be fun” she’d replied.
Our jeep ride to post-performance shenanigans had us chatting away about everything from the West of Ireland to my photographic attempts for Conversations with strangers. “Get one of these for a start” Jérôme told me, pointing to his holster-like belt which contained a small camera not dissimilar to mine.
On arriving at a fabled hotel in the countryside, I recognised I was indeed walking in with the photographer of the island as Jérôme continued to fill me in on his work: “I take all the photos of the artists that perform at Ibiza Rocks.” “Gosh, really?” I said. “Yes, and perhaps you’ve seen my book – portraits of the people that live here – it’s called ‘Ibiza People?’”
He showed me a pic of the book cover on his phone. “Oh, you know I think I have seen it in various places.” “Probably” he went on. “And, all the smart villas – they have my photographs.”
A commotion at the entrance to reception interrupted our chat. Suitcases and their accompanying guests appeared with the excitement of arriving finally at a holiday destination. “Sophie, Soph, can you bring that bag here, I need my passport!” Soph appeared, out of breath wearing a hat, short backless dress and flip flops. “Here you go darling.” Then, seeing us – and specifically my handsome companion: “Hello, hello, who are you? Do we know you? Have we met before?!” “I am a photographer. My name is Jérôme Ferrière – perhaps you have heard of me?” “Ahhhh! Enchanté, enchanté! Bonsoir!”
Before I knew it Jérôme was hastening to his jeep to fetch a couple of his books. “Wait for me, I’ll be back” he called over his shoulder. Minutes later we were all flicking through it. “Oh, mais c’est magnifique, ça!” exclaimed Sophie. “Oui, oui, c’est vrai. Ooh la la!”
Two book sales down, we headed inside and I got a guided tour of his arresting portraits adorning practically everywhere you looked.
We stopped at a large black and white photograph of Nile Rogers. “Let’s have a selfie with Nile, Jérôme, but I think you’d better take it” I said, opening my handbag to search for my camera. 
Conversations with Strangers 