In the large seating area outside the front of the Hootananny pub in Brixton the smell of barbequed whole sweetcorns rolled-up in their green leaves mixed sweetly with the burning smell of small, brown leaves rolled-up in white papers. Rasta hats were prevailent in and out of the building. The MC had a heavy Jamaican accent and said "Jah" and "Rastafari" a lot. Tonight was Reggae night.
The main act was Baptist and The Rebels. Baptist is a singer, rhythm guitarist, composer and arranger. Angolan flags being waved by audience members to welcome him onto the stage, with The Rebels already up there having played a bouncy intro, told us of his Angolan roots. He was brought up there and learnt his love of music there, began performing when he lived in Spain in the nineties and took things to more professional levels upon moving to London, where The Rebels hail from. I drove to the pub tonight. Baptist and the others didn't come on till quite late and I ended up nursing my pint of Guinness for two hours. Actually, an hour and a half. The last half an hour was a reminder that I don't need to be holding a beer to enjoy music. At a church recital, the first thing I do after picking up a programme is not to look under the stained-glass windows at the side of the church for the nearest bar. It's to sit down and wait for the music. Likewise, I am able to sit and watch a busker on the South Bank without first having ducked into the National Theatre to buy a swift half in a plastic glass.
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