By Myles Palmer
ANELKA is one of the most gifted footballers you will ever see.
But not one of the BEST footballers you will ever see.
I don’t think he will do much against Arsenal tonight.
It will probably be : one shot into the side-netting, one shot over the bar, 3-0 to Arsenal and,”Patrick, where are we going for dinner tonight?”
With Bergkamp and Henry back, with Campbell and Vieira fit,Arsenal should pulverise City.Schmeichel will be busy.
Last week I fancied Vieira to score in this game.
I still fancy him to score. If he does, he should make Nicolas pay for dinner.
A PERCEPTIVE FRIEND gave me his views on the Chelsea game.
“Two players stood out above all the others, Sol and Patrick. Patrick started magnificently and didn’t deserve either yellow.
“Something you couldn’t have seen on TV was the theatricality with which Andy D’Urso behaved throughout the match, to take centre stage.It was disgraceful. He was a prima donna. It was absolutely disgraceful.
“It was a great opening half hour, and then gradually the players just became perplexed by D’Urso’s decision-making. And it just degenerated, deteriorated, disappeared down the plughole.
“But Sol was rock-like. Sol and Patrick held that team together”
I GOT LUCKY LAST NIGHT.
Promised my pal Dave Sharp that I would come to a songwriter’s showcase where four acts sing four songs each.
Then my best friend Doug phoned and said,“You’ve gotta see Damien Rice tonight. He’s the hot singer-songwriter.”
Three phone calls later I’m on the guestlist.
The rain was bucketing down, so Jan gave me a lift to the tube station.
I meet Annette, a friend who works at Reuters, at Tottenham Court Road, and we walk to The Borderline.
The room holds 280 and it’s packed.
People are alert, waiting, expecting something exciting.
A scruffy, good-looking boy comes onstage with an amplified guitar.
He has a lovely voice and a whimsical, mercurial manner.
After one song two pretty girls come on. One plays viola, the other sings gently,modestly.
They are soon joined by a bearded bass player and a drummer with a shaved head.
Damien obviously enjoys making noises as much as singing about poetic, sexy moments.
His music has melody, rhythm, atmosphere, variety, plenty of light and shade, a sparky, exploratory edge which makes it compelling.
The drummer is very, very good.
A young blonde, really enjoying it, is sitting on a stool to my right.
“Have you seen him before?”
“No, but Carla has. She has the album.”
She taps her friend on the shoulder.
“What part of Ireland is he from?” I ask.
“Dublin,” says Carla.
“How old is he?”
“About 24,” she says.
I reckon Damien Rice will be playing the Royal Albert Hall by 2004.
By then we will be sitting 40 yards away, not standing 20 feet away, by the sound booth.
Outside it has stopped raining and we stroll down Oxford Street towards Cork’s wine bar in Binney Street, just beyond Bond Street.
We go down into the basement. We’ve missed the three solo performers.
Dave Sharp and his band are already onstage and about to start their first song.
Our timing is very,very lucky, a complete fluke.
I know Dave as a friend, a handsome, charming songwriter, a gifted arranger, a versatile musical technician, a record producer.
I’ve never seen him live before, so I’m surprised that he is so accomplished and funny onstage.
The band slam sweetly through the four numbers, which I know well.
His voice sounds great.
It’s mainstream adult pop. The music has an easy-going fluency because Dave has an easy-going fluency.
They go down a storm, as you do with an audience of friends.
We chat briefly afterwards.
“The harmonies were fantastic!”
“We did a lot of work on those,” says Dave.
“It’s just a shame that you couldn’t videotape it.”
“I did video it,” he says, grinning.
I walk Annette back to her car in Harley Street, explaining that Dave has 90% of an excellent album that he wrote and recorded in four months, but it’s tricky trying to find that extra 10%.
She insists on running me home.
DAMIEN RICE is at the Borderline again tonight.
Some tickets left, £9.50.
10th September 2002.