Wreckless Eric - Leisureland

 

Whoever would have thought that Wreckless Eric would end up an Old Statesman. A sage,wizened geezer somewhere between Peckham High Street and Ancient Israel. An Old Testament, New Wave prophet. Branidshing a telecaster. Someone who you'd be obliged to to gaze at his lined visage and glean what you can, because you know at heart that he's forgotten more than you will ever know. And how wonderful that the man's never once considered changing his name. Even though he never really liked it. Or felt comfortable in the skin fame cast for him when he first pitched up and sang Whole Wide World into the mic. . 

Latest album Leisureland find him chipping away further at the golden seam he's been working at for a good ten years now. I've seen him play twice in that time. About ten years back in a large room upstairs at the Central in Gateshead sharing a low stage with his wife Amy Rigby. For the encore they played an priceless version of Leaving on A Jet Time.

After the gig I cornered him, probably a bit worse for wear. I was generally a little worse for wear in those days. Despite that, he was very generous with his time and stories. Clearly very much in love with his wife and where he'd landed up. Living in the Catskills in marital bliss. He glowed contentment. as well as artistic focus.

I saw him again at The Cluny a few years ago with a friend from my local and management friends.  I was really, really drunk this time. Staggering. Drooling. But not so senseless that I didn't appreciate his set. Riddled with fine songs, and lengthy, rambling anecdotes between numbers, stories of his days on Stiff in the mid to late Seventies. With Elvis C. and Ian D. The Pub, Punk and New Wave Days.

Leisureland is battle worn and wise. Tinged with a woozy nostalgia for the land he's left behind and its slow woozy post-Brexit  rot where Every Day is like Sunday. Cloudy and grey. A country that's forgotten what it is and once was. This is a record that probably won't be paid much attention. That's a huge shame. It's sad but it's also a celebration. It really should be celebrated itself. A finger on a fading pulse.