My long journey to Ryan Adams

It may not be a journey to a specific, physical location, yet this is probably one of the most hard-fought and significant, let alone longest, journeys I have endured.

For those of you unsure of who Mr Ryan Adams is, let me shine some light on the subject. He is an American singer, not to be confused with BRYAN Adams. Many years ago Ryan was the singer in the alt-country band Whiskeytown before making music on his own, and then more recently with his own band. I first came across him in 2001 when I heard the song 'New York, New York'. This led me to discover the album 'Gold' which was my soundtrack to walking to college. I still 'shuffle through the city...' when walking a certain route, even now.

Once I find music I like, I tend to dive into it head first, so I checked out his previous music. On listening to Ryan's 'Heartbreaker' album I knew I was in trouble. I had my new favourite music. Man, that album was, and still is, so good. It is achingly beautiful where he pours his heart and soul into harmonica-driven laments, as well as breathily growling through Southern Americana guitar rhythms. It is also the home to one of my most favourite songs ever; 'Oh my sweet Carolina'. On some days it's top, but picking one song is like picking a favourite child. Sophie's choice really. But this song is consistently up there. If you haven't heard this album it go now. Go find it. If you know me, I'll lend you my copy. You can read the rest of this later.

So, to cut a long story short, my love affair with Ryan Adams' music has grown from there. It's soundtracked my life thanks to his prolific output. But live music is where the magic happens. I adore going to watch live music. There's something about the atmosphere, the cramped space and the electricity in the air. So clearly I needed to hear Ryan's voice ringing out clear and gouging a Southern drawl through my musical heart.

It was 2004 and I had convinced my friend Vicky to come see his show with me. A point to remember is that none of my friends who usually share my musical tastes have the love for this music as I do. I sold it to her that we could have a few days exploring Birmingham as well as going to the show. I will never forget getting to the venue after a long journey, (this was before the explosion of social media to keep us up to date) only to be told the show, and indeed the whole tour, had been cancelled. Ryan had fallen off stage and broken his wrist. I felt so deflated; it was as though the plug had been pulled on my party. Never has Birmingham offered less to a visitor.

But life goes on, and a few years later I bought my second ticket to a Ryan Adams show. Alas, once again it was not to be. The show was cancelled again, this time due to ill health. At least I didn't have to travel to Birmingham to be let down, but the heavy disappointment laid in the pit of my stomach all the same.

Then, earlier this summer I heard about Ryan Adams' forthcoming album and a few accompanying live shows. Demand for tickets was high and I failed in finding one. It was starting to look as though I wasn't meant to be part of the live experience. I bought the new album and consoled myself listening to that. It seems unfair to call it a consolation because it's one of the best albums I've heard in a while. Gloriously dark, rock riffs; you know a song is great if you end up singing along to the guitar parts. It walks a fascinating line between light and dark; from heart-rending laments to an urgent cry building to a crescendo that gets the heart racing. Go get that album now. It's ok. I'll wait again.

Then I remembered a Twitter App called Twickets that allows fans to buy and sell tickets on Twitter at face value. I camped out on Twitter, waiting for that magic offer. Eventually I saw it. Someone offering a ticket for the Shepherd's Bush show. As none of my friends are that interested in him, despite my best efforts, I thought I'd go it alone. I messaged them and waited with baited breath. The ticket was mine if I wanted it. If I wanted it! Hoping that the person was real and the ticket wasn't fake, I planned my journey to London.

The day of the show I woke up early, before my alarm and in the dark just like it was Christmas. Throughout the day at work, I was struggling to hold my excitement down. It's no exaggeration to say I felt sick with nervous anticipation at several points. Eventually I got on the road up to London. My car had a few issues on the way, helped in no part by the horrendous traffic of the capital. There were times I thought I wouldn't make it. But I did. Once arrived I met my ticket sellers. My eternal thanks to Ben and Nick. Mostly for being real and not being scam artists. Ticket in hand, I headed to the venue.

This was the first show that I'd been to completely on my own. But I didn't care. Without sounding too much like a stoner, it was all about the music, man. My heart was racing so hard whilst I was waiting that I thought I might've passed out. The support acts came and went and then it was nearly time. But then worry set in. I was stood in the heaving crowd (never have I been in a crowd with so much palpable anticipation) and the time he was due on stage came and went. I started to think I had cursed him by my mere presence. But all worries faded when he led the band onto stage and launched into the new single.

Man alive what a show. The songs were every bit as beautiful as on the records. The rockier songs pulsed through me and on the quieter, heartbreaking songs, the crowd hung on his every note. I've never been to a show where a messy-haired man with a guitar can hold the whole room in such awe. For me, a person who loves to singalong, it felt sacrilegious to bellow over his measured, impassioned words.

It was definitely worth the extra long journey to be stood in front of that stage. Thirteen years isn't that long a wait is it?

The only trouble is now I think I've spoilt myself. This Friday felt like a complete anticlimax. Once you've watched Ryan Adams perform on a Friday night, nothing else matches it. Maybe every Friday should be Ryan Adams performs night. Maybe in a perfect world.

Follow the brown sign

You know the ones. The signposts found by the wayside of roads up and down Great Britain. The beautifully enticing, dingy looking signs making you aware of a jewel in the British tourist board that is lying to be discovered, somewhere in the vicinity. Sometimes they're more than adequately clear in signalling 'Dunluce Castle', and then leading you to exactly that castle. And you know what you're looking for in terms of a castle. However some of these signs are a little more cryptic and generally less helpful.

To give you some scene setting, I visited the magnificent Northern Ireland. I had eight days to explore as much as I could. My travelling companions on this leg of the journey were Vicky, a very dear friend of mine, and her almost-four-month old son, and my Godson, William. Vicky and I have had previous experience 'exploring' together; not so much exotic, more rural areas. Deepest, darkest Wiltshire where we were unable to find a 100 foot white horse and blindly drove across a live firing range looking for a mythical village.

William was the uninitiated. If he realised what he was letting himself in for, he may have opted to stay at home.

On a rainy August morning, we headed out on the open road. Our route was to take us up through the Sperrins, a mountain range in the West of the country. To give a little more background, Vicky had only moved to Northern Ireland less than a year before, and for most of her residence she had been incapacitated by pregnancy and the subsequent infant child. Fair enough I suppose. And so sightseeing had not been top of the priority list. Once I had arrived to visit, maps and leaflets in hand, the tourist in her began to stir.

Negotiating the winding, country roads, we didn't particularly know where we were headed. But that's the nature of the adventures we were used to embarking on. We would drive until we found an interesting sign to guide us. This is where the brown signs are so valuable. This is where the magic happens.

I must add another character to the tale at this point. Vicky's husband, George, had also been dragged along for the ride. But I feel this is where we lost him. He didn't seem to share our enthusiasm for entrusting our route to waiting for a brown sign to appear. I hasten to add that George is a born and bred Northern Irish gent, yet when we asked him for worthwhile tourist trails, he had few gems to offer. With no greater alternatives, he dutifully fell into line to join us to put our fate into the hands of those wonderful brown signs.

Our track record on home turf had been quite positive. We had found many interesting ruins, castles and tea rooms. But now we were in strange, foreign lands.

As we drove the 'scenic mountain route', (labelled by the very same breed of signage) we passed our first board that directed us to an undiscovered treasure. I would recount the wording on the sign now, but I can't remember it at all. To be fair, two seconds after passing the sign I couldn't remember what it said. At a push I could say there were possibly three words, with a few 'c's and 'r's in there. It was just a bit too Irish for my English brain to comprehend.

Despite not knowing exactly what we were headed towards, Vicky was insistent. We found a turning point and set off in the direction pointed to by the sign. Passing another brown sign, we were heartened to be informed that this treasure was only a mere three miles away. Admittedly, I still couldn't understand the sign, and to be honest I'm sure they changed some of the letters around from the previous sign.

We drove on. And on. Pretty soon I was getting the feeling that our trusted brown signs were leading us a merry dance. We had definitely driven for more than three miles, but we hadn't found our destination. Not that we knew what we were looking for. None of us had been able to read the sign.

In time honoured British tradition we carried on. No, we certainly weren't lost. In fact we passed a stunningly beautiful lake that we weren't expecting and then continued on to a nature / craft centre that offered us weary travellers a hot drink and some sweet treats.

It was in this coffee shop oasis in the middle of the mountains that we discovered the truth about our magical signpost. Apparently the sign we were following was for an ancient Celtic burial site. And yes, we were on the right trail. But alas, the farmer who owned the land had got increasingly exasperated by tourists stopping by (clearly this is high excitement in these parts) that he removed the final brown sign to direct travellers to the exact site!

Gah! It seems some people don't have the same respect for those hallowed, brown signs as we have. Never fear. You can never stop the signage. We will continue to follow the brown signs. You never know where they might lead.