The Selfish Seen Kid

Dear Mr Guy Garvey

You are brilliant. Your Northern dulcet tones put everything I’ve ever wanted to say about anything into words. Lovely, beautiful words that your inarticulate devotees are only too grateful for – because when we lowly dregs try to express emotion only clunky clichés come jumbling out. Your lyrics have filled more of my birthday cards, letters and phone calls than you could possibly imagine. I also like your beard.

The awards and recognition that you have recently received are long over-due and it’s only right that the general public have finally recognised your brilliance. But, as a fan since the near-beginning, I couldn’t help getting misty eyed when I came to see you play at Wembley on last Saturday.

As always, you were all on top form – the atmosphere was electric and the set-list was a veritable chocolate-box full of treats for fans old and new. But I was left with the same sinking feeling my sister must have felt all those years ago when she played me Newborn for the first time… I wish “other people” didn’t like you too.

For years you were my best kept secret, only to be shared with a select like-minded few. It was like fancying the slightly nerdy kid at school – until one of those crappy cool kids decided that he actually was a bit of all right and sunk her plastic nails into him faster than you could say ‘geek chic’. Yes, yes – I know this is selfish and loving your music should be like reading a good book (you want to share it with the world) but in reality, I kinda, sorta wish that you’d stay so niche and commercially unpopular that you were destined to spend your gig-playing days singing in venues so small you could name-check every member of the audience.

The first time I saw Elbow it felt like a revelation. Before I never realised what an all-encompassing experience a gig should be… the banter you had with the audience, the band’s natural sense of humour and most importantly the sheer beauty of your songs left me feeling like I’d heard live music for the first, proper, time.

And from that moment I was hooked. I started to see life through your lyrics – with every album, every song feeling like it was mirroring every situation I was going through. Switching Off played through my mind when I lay in bed with my boyfriend… and later Red made me realise the relationship was going nowhere… Puncture Repair was a gift to a friend who had always been there for me… and I blasted Station Approach through my dinky iPod headphones when I left London to come back and live at home.

So, naturally, I couldn’t wait for Seldom Seen Kid and more importantly the tour that went with it. I booked my tickets and in April 2008 me, my sister and best buddy were set to see you at Brixton. All that was left for us to do was wait and be wowed. I remember the first time I heard Grounds for Divorce. I was aimlessly flicking through the music channels one Sunday morning when the video caught my eye. “Monday’s is for drinking to the Seldom Seen Kid…”I was already in love. As you banged the tankard down on the bar it was like you were announcing “we’re back!”

Fresh out the studio and still at the start of the tour – the performance you gave at Brixton was phenomenal. Even when you stumbled over the words to Newborn you modestly laughed it off and started from the beginning – which we all adored, as it meant we got to hear our favourite tune twice in one gig,

Following my inevitable post-gig blues I made sure I knew when you were next back in town – 14th March 2009; almost one year on. But what followed during those twelve months was a mixture of highs and lows... elated that you got what you finally deserved, and nostalgic for the days when no-one knew who you were. At the end of the Wembley gig, as confetti filled the arena and the crowd chanted 'one day like this a year would see me right', you threw on your suit jacket and hugged your best friends. It felt like the end of a long journey for you and your fans and the beginning of a whole new one.

Now Mr Garvey – you’re never going to read this letter. Not because I’m accusing you of ‘selling out’ or getting ‘too big’… only that I’m never actually going to send this letter to you. All this is, is one fan's version of a childhood strop. Angry and sad that somebody else wants to play with her favourite toy. All I hope is that you don't forget us, the one's who didn't care if you had a Brit or a Mercury award. Please keep making songs that will become the soundtrack to our lives and don't worry about tailoring your songs to the masses. 'Cos in the words of Whitney we 'will always love you'.

Love you, Mate

Jenni Day

Happy Birthday!

Growing up, I was your run-of-the-mill nerd. I studied hard, I had big goofy hair – and best of all, I would fall flat on my face in front of the too-cool-for-school kids on, nearly, a daily basis. They weren’t the best of times; they were the worst of times. But over the years I learnt the invaluable lesson of hair-straightening, watched in delight as womanly bumps grew under my unflattering school jumper and decided that talking to boys was much more fun than reading books. I was growing ever so slightly *gulp* popular.

But despite my social circle growing in size, I lived in fear that one day they’d all realise my horrific secret that I was, and will always be, a geek. The anxiety that came with this secret was unbearable – I’d try to hide my clumsiness, naivety and forgetfulness by references to up-and-coming bands, and impressing my peers by being the youngest under-aged person to get served at the pub – but it was all destined to come out at some point. And one day it did. As I strutted down the corridor at sixth form, I towered over the tiny, insignificant year sevens as I made my way to the common room. (Which we all know is a haven of procrastination, slopping snogging and gossiping) But the carpet of our decaying suburban school had curled up around the edges and with my head stuck firmly in the clouds, I missed my footing and banged my head on the door frame. The illusion of superiority melted as the not-so-tiny young ‘uns pointed and laughed. But just as I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment a warm friendly hand grabbed my shoulder. “That happens to me all the time too!” said my friend Michael, beaming from ear to ear. Then I realised I’d found my soul mates - my friends were geeks too.

And it’s not just about being clumsy – I am a nerd through and through. But worse still, I’m the not the clever, braniac type – I am from the no-common-sense variety. I watched my friends howl with laughter as I quite happily believed that there were no shadows in Spain because of “where it sits on the equator”. And I’ve been to Spain! And sat in the shade?! Over the years I’ve tried to turn these negative traits into some sort of quirky, loveable shape of a person – and for most of the time I get by, by the skin of my teeth – but there’s one thing that drives my loved ones mad with despair: I can’t remember dates. More importantly – I can remember anyone’s birthday.

The problem is that it’s hard not to take it personally when you get a phone call along the lines of “I think it’s your birthday today?!” three days after the big event, or when yet another belated birthday card lands on your doormat. But it’s never a sign of how much I care about the person, or how important celebrating the day of their birth is to me. Only that I am useless with dates. Outside of my family I can only remember two of my friend’s birthdays: Emma’s and Richard’s – 10th and 17th January respectively. These are engrained in my mind forever because of a drunken-giggly-teenage-conversation where we laughed at the thought of each set of parents having sex at the same time. Unfortunately this is the same picture my mind still conjures up, even years later, whenever I wish either of them happy birthday.

As I see 2009 a year for self improvement, I bought myself a diary. Not in the Bridget ‘big pants’ Jones sense, but in the practical ‘you’re not 19 forever, pull yourself together’ sense. But as I flicked though page after page of blank white space in my brand new pocket book I felt my heart sink. 2009 was empty. I had no plans. I started to panic. The year that I’d had such hope for after the sheer terribleness of 2008 was destined to be as empty as my bank account. Then I heard the best sound in the world ‘beep beep’ – ah ha! The sound of popularity! “Hiya,im of wrk frm da 22nd.. I kno ur prob wrking, bt I was wondering if I could cum visit?? Xx” It was from Gawain. Lovely Gawain! Brilliant Gawain! “Yes! Definitely! Come!” I replied. I stared at it. Hmm, maybe that sounds desperate? “Yes! Definitely! Come! I’ll check my diary to see when I’m free.” Much better. Having a diary was already working in my favour. Send. I flipped the page to 22nd February 2009 and proudly wrote “Gawain visits Bath”. Fabulous.

A couple of days later, the awesome power of the diary strikes again while I was talking to my ex-flatmate Adam. “I’m going to come up and visit you. Maybe at the end of May?” I say loosely, but with every intention of setting a date. “That’s too far away. How does the 7th March sound?” I looked at the diary. The empty entry looked sad and lonely. But not for long; “Visit Adam in Derby”. Then I remember the very reason I bought a diary in the first place...

“Dear Friends. I have bought a diary to save me from myself. Please can I have your birthday so that I NEVER EVER forget it again?”

The response I got back was mixed. From Ashley “you should know this woman!”. From Mark “here is also my account number and mother’s maiden name”. And rather confusingly from Andrew, “February 31st”. Now as I flip through the pages of my Paperchase diary, and see my barely comprehensible handwriting scrawled across the dates I’m happy in the knowledge that for the first time I feel like my year has some direction. I’m seeing friends I haven’t seen for months, reuniting with old flatmates and travelling up and down the country. I just hope this level of active “doingness” continues all year round.

So, dear friends – do you fancy a pint sometime? Give me a call! I'll just check my diary.