Shoutoutherehereherehere

Apr 1 2008 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

THE face on the man sitting opposite carried all the shades of cooling porridge, from light grey to pale grey.

The one vital sign was the animated drip on the end of his nose. But, by comparison to the other passengers, his countenance was positively perky.

For this was the Monday morning train to work, a chapel of repose on wheels.

The mood of gloom was matched only by that found in the Thistle and Thorn pub, hidden in Birkenhead’s docklands, on the night when Les Bangles, a troupe of exotic strippers, learned from their agent, Vincent Dunne-Deel, that they had been booked for the winter season at the Eskimo Outdoor Pursuits’ Park, in Greenland.

Of course, we should not forget the gloom which descended over our bespectacled and spindly curate, who had studied ancient Egyptian pottery at a red brick university, when he was ordered by his shine-in-the-dark bishop to join the parish’s “getting to know you” drive by entering the spaghetti-sucking marathon at the town’s super new concrete and chrome leisure centre.

Anyway, we are back on the train at rush hour.

From nowhere, a voice announces that this is the train for Liverpool Central and the next stop is James Street.

It was a soulless and disembodied voice of the sort favoured by those in charge down here, to tell us that people don’t count any more. Such voices can be heard on electronic switchboards in every organisation, purring along with fake sincerity and mock friendliness, occasionally even suggesting personal service.

But the emphasis on “this” in the train’s recorded announcement reminded me of an old song sung by foaming evangelists in the full flush of ecstasy – as well as old black men on the slowly swinging seats of timber verandahs in the Deep South. It was called This Train is Bound for Glory.

In the song, the train becomes a metaphor for our lives. We are on a ride to Heaven, but only if we side-step the devil’s cunning temptations.

It’s a grand old song with a thumpingly good tune and mission-house lyrics, which escaped from my memory and into my mouth, as I sat on the Merseyrail Special – hootin’ and chorusing to a congregation of depressed nine-to-fivers, journeying from Birkenhead to Liverpool. Never, one has to admit, an invigorating experience.

Sadly, though, I have now discovered that most commuters don’t like me singing to them on the train in the morning.

However, those who did listen to the song’s poetic rhythm now know of the people excluded from the glory train – “no liars, high-knee dressers, small tippers and cigarette smokers, crap-shooters, gamblers and midnight ramblers”.

Some fine singers have sung this song. I remember friends, arms-over-shoulders, mouths open as wide as caves, giving it all their emotion down at the folk club in the old rugby pavilion on the park. The late Hal Crabtree and his sister Joy were on stage, their guitars held high.

And then the dreaded shantyman in the Aran sweater who, judging from his intake of ale, had tubular legs and bucket feet, would head for the stage. There, he would throw back his bearded head, stick a finger in each ear, and give vent to a song covering a sailing ship’s entire journey to Australia. How everyone wished air transport had been introduced earlier.

For we, too, had quaffed copiously and were starting to coil our legs anxiously, as he approached the headwinds of another storm and the 49th verse. Such bladder-control had not been witnessed since Aunty Gwladys uncorked her Jeroboam of nettle wine.

As I think of these things, my friend and colleague Peter Elson is rather unexpectedly singing over our shared desk: “I could write a sonnet about your Easter bonnet”.

Popular songs creep into our memories, pulling with them pictures and faces, times and places, the sad smiles, the squeezed hands, the keen wind ruffling the grass and the silent shutting of doors.

All these qualities can be regained by the promptings of songs. We all have our favourites. I like sentimental songs. Waterloo Sunset is probably my favourite, an infinitely sensitive song, though George Harrison’s Here Comes the Sun has a wonderful, haunting quality of hope and renewal. Lily Marlene squeezes me inside.

When it comes on the wireless, I can hear the marching boots and see the soldiers framed on the mantel-pieces, never to sing again. Brave, little Edith Piaf offers us her, beautiful Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. To hear again Paul Robeson, singing Ole Man River for all the underdogs, helps us understand the power of the human spirit.

So I like to think that the Monday morning train is bound for glory.

LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk