If you’re like me, who lived in a small out-of-the-way place in a bleak outpost of England, you probably never expected to find yourself beside the Pacific Ocean in the Californian sun. Though given my musical proclivities it’s probably not unexpected in hindsight. But in 1993 that’s where we found ourselves, having made a couple of prior visits for three weeks. It seems a big move to make now with my 63 year-old head on but at the time, putting your possessions into storage and flying out to Southern California to live in a tiny room with a kitchenette, bedroom and balcony all in the same space by the ocean, with Pacific Coast Highway rolling past, didn’t seem such a big deal. We had $3000 and had no idea how we’d manage beyond that.
Here’s the thing though, being gnarly northerners, we didn’t imagine we’d become quickly Californiated, a difficult to describe condition, but which is very not British. All our hang-ups instilled from birth that were class derived just melted away and I can’t tell you how brilliant that felt. No one cared, rather being English was broadly seen as being a good character trait, sophisticated even.
We lived in Laguna Beach, amongst rock stars and various famous people. Teesside it was not, and we found it spiritually and literally intoxicating. However, our lifestyle of going to gigs on rainy, dark nights, so ingrained in us since our teens, obviously went by the wayside and after a while we found ourselves missing it. Life started to feel more plastic. Absolutely lovely but almost too easy, which I know sounds a bit mad. But then, it’s the grit that makes the pearl.
Going to gigs at the Coach House in San Juan Capistrano, with its handy parking lot outside was good and lots of bands played there, but it was, again, too easy with no rough edges. We went all over the state at various times to see bands but the culture was so different, though it’s now made its way over here. Now, traditionally we went to the pub, had a few drinks and then to the gig, and sat or stood there until it was over. Not in California, people were constantly wandering around and eating, almost as if the music was a sideshow to their consumption. Not everyone, but plenty, and everywhere.
Indoor or outdoor, it was the same. Now it happens here. When we saw Joe Bonamassa it was a sideshow to the pizza for some. I still find this incredible. It didn’t matter how big they were. Steve Miller, Counting Crows, Buddy Guy, Bon Jovi, Joe Satriani, Eddie Money, Extreme, Big Head Todd And The Monsters, it was always the same.
I began to pine for those city hall nights, drink behind your eyes, rain in your face, the music being the sole focus. It wasn’t a leisure experience or even especially comfortable, but it made it special. In California it felt more easily dismissed, it was just part of another sunny day.
It sounds mad doesn’t it? But it was like that about everything. Slowly, we lost touch with world affairs, if it didn’t happen in Orange County, we didn’t know about it. Two rough-edged souls were being smoothed out, so we came back after nearly a year. And you know what? It was depressing! It was like leaving a room illuminated by a 150 watt bulb for one with a 40 watt. The infinite shades of green were striking like never before and slowly we fell back into our old life, though until recently I still had boxes of stuff unpacked since storage.
It didn’t stop us going back in the intervening years, we even stayed in Las Vegas for a month, which I shall tell you about sometime, but I think we learned you can take the kids out of the north, but you can’t take the north out of the kids.
You can take the kids out of the north, but...
