Me old Cocker

Friday night was fantastic. Despite getting stuck in a traffic jam on the A14 for a whole hour way past midnight (delays at that time of night are against the rules, in my book), it couldn't take the shine off a great evening at the music venue the Luminaire in Kilburn, north west London.

Like father, like son, my dad and I are loyal creatures when we give our hearts to a particular artiste's music. Me, the ethereal-voiced Green Gartside of Scritti Politti; him, Bob Lind, an American folk singer with a special talent for a clever lyric.

Both have careers and lives that run spookily parallel in many ways. Neither can be considered prolific, each with only a handful of studio albums to substantiate their long service in the music business. Both have had well-documented problems with substance abuse. They've had just enough commercial success to make a living over the years, but tend to find more acclaim from their peers and critics than from the masses. Both are exponents of beautifully crafted, meaningful songs that often touch the heart.

After his 26 years of refusal to gig due to crippling stage fright and panic attacks, a dream came true when I finally got to see Green play live last year, also at the Luminaire. It's a great place to watch music - Time Out magazine's live venue of the year for 2006, no less, and the very definition of "up close and personal". This is the ideal venue to mingle with your heroes; it's like having a gig in your (slightly larger than average) front room.

Finally seeing (and meeting) Green was great, but it got me wishing that, somehow, my father could have a similar experience with Mr Lind one day. It seemed that a trip to Lind's native Florida, where most of his gigs seem to be, would be the only way to make this happen.

But then the unexpected happened. During a phone call with my sister, she casually mentioned "Oh, have you seen that Bob Lind's playing at the Luminaire?" I hadn't, the regularity of the weekly email from the venue to advertise what's on meaning that I don't always read it as throughly as I used to. We had to go. I called Dad to announce the amazing news - amazing indeed, as Lind hadn't played live in England before, and hadn't even visited since 1966 when he laid down some tracks in a London studio. Dad initially fussed over how he would get the day off work, before coming round to his son's thinking that life's too short to miss opportunities like these.

So, to last night. Dad's wife Dinah joined us for the trip. Having become quite a fan of Bob's myself, I got that same, I-never-expected-this-to-happen feeling as I did when I first set eyes on Green in the flesh, as Bob casually wandered into the room to take in the female support act. It's strange to be in the close presence of your heroes.

He proceeded to play a superb set to a full house, young and old, who whooped and applauded the veteran performer throughout the evening. Bob, clearly touched by the warmth of the audience, wore a smile as wide as the Mississippi as he basked in deserved adulation. Later, he was joined by the fabulous Richard Hawley, (of Longpigs, High Llamas and solo fame) for three songs, who ad-libbed most brilliantly on guitar (he'd only met Bob earlier that day for the first time, with no time for rehearsal).

Fluent in his patter and repartee with the crowd between each song, Lind expressed his gratitude to artists such as Hawley and Jarvis Cocker for helping to raise awareness of his music on this side of the Atlantic (there is a Pulp song titled "Bob Lind"), just two of over 200 bands and artists to cover his music.

After a third encore, he left the stage for the last time. Dinah, rarely shy in coming forward and determined that Dad should get to meet with Bob, decided to steal a march on those loitering hopefully by the bar for Bob to appear, instead inviting herself through the curtain behind the stage in search of the man himself. She re-appeared seconds later and called to me to "Get your father through here!"

Bob Lind, alone in the Green Room, greeted us warmly. Dad shared a conversation with him whilst I just leant on the doorpost and and savoured the moment. Like father, like son. Some people joined us in the room. It was Richard Hawley and an instantly recognisable, bespectacled, painfully thin bloke. "This is Jarvis, Bob", he said. Bob acknowledged them, but was in no hurry to finish his chat with Dad. I lit a cigarette and tried to look cool. Fucking hell, we're alone in a room back-stage with three musical legends. The Pulp front-man looked nervous as he waited his turn with Bob. Hawley tucked into some red wine. Bob readily agreed to a couple of photos with Dad, and we all shook hands and left.

Bob Lind, Jarvis Cocker and Richard Hawley. And us. In a small room. I must admit to feeling slightly star-struck by the whole, bizarre encounter. Outside, I tried explaining to Dad and Dinah what had just happened, as, other than Bob, they clearly had no idea what exalted company they'd just kept.

During the journey home, Dinah was still grappling with her lack of recognition of a megastar. "Well, I have heard of Joe Cocker", she claimed, "but I've no idea what he looks like".

I just smiled and kept driving. Nights like these don't come around too often.