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But it was now occupied by a threesome I’d never seen before. Gary Smart, brother and partner of Billy, had vanished.
    I stared round the crowded bar, but there was no trace of him. He’d been standing with a tall, skinny man who’d had his back to me. I didn’t hear a word of their conversation, but their body language suggested a business deal. Gary had been putting some kind of pressure on the other man. It certainly hadn’t looked like a pleasant, concertgoers’ chat about which of Jett’s albums they liked best. I cursed silently. I’d missed a great chance to pick up some interesting info.
    With a shrug, I drank the few remaining mouthfuls of my drink and went back down to the foyer. I checked out the tour merchandise just to see if there was anything among the T-shirts, sweatshirts, badges, programs and albums that I fancied. Richard can always get freebies, so I usually have a quick look. But the sweatshirts were black, and the T-shirts hideous, so I walked back through the half-empty auditorium and slumped in my seat next to
    “That their name or a critical judgement?” I asked.
    He laughed and said, “Well, they ain’t honest enough to call themselves that, but they might as well have done. Now, while we’ve got a minute to ourselves, tell me about your day.”
    As he lit a joint, I did just that. I always find that talking things over with Richard helps. He has an instinctive understanding of people and how their minds work that I have come to rely on. It’s the perfect foil to my more analytical approach.
    Unfortunately, before he could deliver his considered verdict on the Smart brothers, the lights went down. The auditorium, now full to capacity, rang with cries of “Jett, Jett, Jett …” After a few minutes of chanting, wavering torch beams lit up pathways on the stage as members of Jett’s backing band took the stage. Then, a pale blue spot picked out the drummer, high on his platform at the rear of the stage, brushing a snare drum softly. The lighting man focused on the bass player in pale purple as he picked up the slow beat. Then came the keyboards player, adding a shimmering chord from the synthesizer. The sax player joined in, laying down a line as smooth as chocolate.
    Then, suddenly, a stark white spotlight picked out Jett as he strode out of the wings, looking as frail and vulnerable as ever. His black skin gleamed under the lights. He wore his trademark brown leather trousers and cream silk shirt. An acoustic guitar was slung round his neck. The audience went wild, almost drowning out the musicians in their frenzy. But as soon as he opened his mouth to sing, they stilled.
    His voice was better than ever. I’ve been a fan of Jett since his first single hit the charts when I was fifteen, but I find it as hard now to categorize his music as I did then. His first album had been a collection of twelve tracks, mainly acoustic but with some subtle backings ranging from a plangent sax to a string quartet. The songs had ranged from simple, plaintive love songs to the anthem-like “To Be With You Tonight” which had been the surprise hit of the
    Eight other albums had followed, but I’d increasingly found less delight in them. I wasn’t sure if it was the changes in me that were responsible for that. Maybe what strikes a teenager as profound and moving just doesn’t work once you’re halfway through your twenties. But it seemed to me that while the music was still strong, the lyrics had become trite and predictable. Maybe that was a reflection of his reported views about the role of women. It’s hard to write enlightened love songs about the half of the population you believe should be barefoot and pregnant. However, the packed crowd in the Apollo didn’t seem to share my views. They roared out their appreciation for every number, whether from the last album or the first. After all, he was on home ground. He was their own native son. He’d made the northern dream a reality, moving up