Troubled genius: Gil Scott-Heron
If you were at the Gil Scott-Heron concert in Edinburgh on Tuesday night, I apologise. I was the numb nut who stood on your feet/head/hands (delete body parts not applicable) in my efforts to scramble through the 1500-strong crowd to get to the toilet, urgently.
I’ve waited 30 years to see the African American poet, singer-songwriter, author and political commentator Gil Scott-Heron. His chocolate-gargled voice provided the soundtrack to my late teens through to early twenties. I misspent many of the wee small hours of many mornings dancing wildly (unless it was the dreaded twelve-incher, in which case my dancing would gradually wind down to a shuffle and my pink frosted lipstick smile would gradually fade to a grimace about four and a half minutes in. Those stilettos pinched) and mishearing the lyrics to The Bottle. Turns out I wasn’t alone in my lyric confusion. One of my chums admitted that she used to think the lyrics were “See that fat boy over there, running scared, his old mam hit the bottom”. I chuckled in empathy.
I even remember what I was wearing back in those halcyon days. It was probably an ill-considered combo of lime green footless tights, stilettos, green one-shoulder leotard and a circle skirt cut to the waist. I shudder. I also sported the white woman ‘fro for several seasons longer than I probably should have. Don’t judge. That look was very on trend back then. The perm fumes were so noisome back then that every dog in the town followed you around for days after your wash ‘n’ wear perm had been administered.
With my usual lack of foresight, I bought the tickets for the great man’s appearance in haste, subconsciously knowing full well that I wouldn’t want to be arsed going when the date finally rolled round. The lure of the fish and chip refuelling stopover at Biggar gave me the motivation I required though.
Gil Scott-Heron, is in the grand tradition of troubled geniuses, a troubled genius - plagued by drug addiction and imprisoned several times for various drug-related offences. I forgive him these transgressions. He has the growliest voice I’ve ever heard, and if I’d closed my eyes last night I could have been transported back to the 1970s. I could almost smell the perm lotion and Charlie perfume. Bliss.
I love a good bit of trivia. And in what is the most fantastic piece of trivia ever, Gil Scott-Heron’s father Giles Heron was the first black athlete to play for Celtic back in the 1950s. Whatever your football allegiances, you can’t fail to be impressed by that bit of trivia.
Gil didn’t come on till after 9pm. We arrived at the venue, duly fuelled by fish and chips at Biggar, at 7pm and managed to find seats at the front of the balcony. Result! I removed my shoes and whinged and whined about the time it took for Gil to come on stage. I could have poked down an extra single battered sausage at Biggar had I known in advance that he wouldn’t be on till 9, for goodness sake.
So on he came, a tall skinny man in a big suit, and I sat slack-jawed in awe. I knew he’d do The Bottle. He had to. Sure enough, the last tune of the evening, the opening bars of The Bottle reached my waiting ears.
Just at that point, my stomach started to do somersaults. I know not why. Perhaps it was the excitement? Perhaps it was the culmination of 30 years of waiting to see the man who provided me with the memories of meeting my late husband and father of my two children at the Stagecoach in Dumfries? (Not wanting to spoil the moment with inappropriate humour, but for the avoidance of doubt; late husband and father of my two children are one and the same person) Maybe it was the fish and chips?
I don’t know. I just know that I HAD to get to the toilet. I could feel the colour draining from my face. You know the feeling. Ashen faced, I fumbled for my shoes, which I had discarded smugly earlier in the evening. Shoving my wet socked feet (somebody had spilled a drink) into my shoes, I scrambled over seats and bodies in the dark to find my way to the ladies. I cared not a jot that my shoes were on the wrong feet. I trampled everything in my way, leaving behind a wake of tutting Gil fans. By the time the…ummm…”crisis” was over, Gil had left the building. Ah well. At least I was first out of the hall. Every cloud and all that. See, I’m such a glass half full woman, I can even turn a bout of diarrhoea into a positive - and I didn’t even have to Google diarrhoea to spell it right first time. You may virtually high five me. It’s alright, I’ve washed my hands.
