Last night I saw James Taylor at the Hydro in Glasgow.
Though this morning I couldn't quite believe this had happened, I actually had a brief conversation with him at the interval, when, instead of going off, he sat on the edge of the stage, long legs dangling, and patiently signed tickets, and posed for hundreds of selfies.
I had nothing for him to sign, having left my ticket in my purse in my haste to reach the front of the stage, and in truth I didn't want an autograph, or a selfie. I just wanted to say hi. The crush was phenomenal, but I held my nerve, and eventually reached James. Our conversation went something like this;
Me: (touching his arm) Hi James. Just wanted to thank you for singing 'Millworker'. It's one of my favourites.
James:(signing tickets, looks up, smiles) Glad you enjoyed it.
That was enough for me, I was happy, and turned to start squeezing my way out through the crowd, but then another smile from James, and
James: How's the sound out there? We were kind of worried about this venue.
Me: (palpitating) Oh? No, it's wonderful, everyone is loving it. Thanks again so much.
James: (smile) Thanks.
As conversations go, it wasn't scintillating; I have probably been more scintillating to the milkman, but when I did return to my seat, and my two bemused friends, my heart beat just a little faster. I know nobody swoons these days (shame) but if they still did, I would have; Sal Volatile would have had to be administered.
I have been fortunate enough to see James live about eight times. The first song I ever heard him sing was 'Handyman' (1977), and it was love at first listen. Since then, his music has been with me at every stage of my life.
When I was at boarding school in Stornoway, I listened endlessly to his music in the evenings, his achingly lovely voice transporting my mind to places other than the cramped room I shared with two other girls.
When I lived alone (and sometimes lonely) in Edinburgh, I would play his music every night as I fell asleep, his voice mingled with my dreams.
When I was in Australia, and everything I carried had to earn its place in my rucksack, I took a casette (remember those?) of his music with me, and played it whenever I could.
When I was (very) pregnant with Jacob, Derek and I saw him at Lennoxlove House in the summer of 1999, and I sang 'You've Got A Friend' to Jacob as James sang it on stage.
It's not as the long haired, dark eyed, young performer that I know James, but as a mature man, supremely comfortable on stage, his mellow voice and characteristic guitar playing filling the hearts and souls of the listeners with joy.
Last night's show was wonderful, with James' voice and relaxed, intellegent presence filling the venue, many familiar songs, and some new.
Many of the songs are already known by heart,and loved by the audience, but nothing can compare with hearing them played live; each acquiring a new polish and freshness in the performing, like an old treasure taken from a box or pocket and rinsed in clear, sparkling water.
At the end, he must have felt the love; he returned for three encores. Three. The last of which was his version of 'Wild Mountain Thyme', a traditional scottish song, taken to America, I imagine, by emigrating Scots, many of whom would never see Scotland again. James brought it home last night. I was not the only person in tears as the crowd softly sang along to the familiar words, 'Will ye go, lassie, go?/ An' we'll all go together/to pull wild mountain thyme/all around the bloomin' heather/ will ye go, lassie, go?'
