remote cards

Walking down Sauchiehall St there is a bustle, staff clearing out of shops, making sure they are all closed up, pulling shutters down. But there is music, loud enough to carry down the street. I am scanning the street to spot a shop still open later than others that might be responsible. Perhaps it is the van? The plain white transit, parked length ways across the pedestrian precinct. At the same time I am trying to place the song - a woman’s voice, something poppy, with just a hint of a rock edge, reasonably classic for its time, if I could only place it. Clear of the van, and I see her, a busker. A packed heavy bag with a rig set up in it, a microphone stand for her to sing into, which is why she is so loud, why it is has so much punch and volume. By this time the song is building up and I’ve finally placed it - Torn - that song which was Natalie Imbruglia’s big hit. The girl has long dark hair, tied back, and is dressed in layers of grey and black - t-shirt, over long sleeved t-shirt, gloves, long skirt. Opposite her, there is a pub on the corner, outside of which there are a half dozen men and women, they stand in groups smoking before they’ll head back inside to their drinks. She hits the chorus and they all spontaneously join in - a rough and ragged backing choir - am awready torn!

Labels: busker, girl, glasgow, singer

There is always a different girl on the door of the Italian restaurant. They need a girl in the doorway, because this Italian is downstairs, basement level, from another street level. So the girl stands with the menu and calls out to passers by. The last time my brother and I were here it was an olive-skinned brunette, who couldn’t escort us down fast enough to get away from the manager who was loitering with her, he always hassles her to eat more she complained. Then on the way out she asked us what we had, when we told her she said it sounded great, I suggested she should go and get some, and she replied by saying she didn’t want to get fat.

This time there is a blonde girl, shoulder length hair, caramel coloured jacket. She asks if we are part of the Clark group, we look confused, oh, there is a table of 10 and they haven’t all arrived yet, she explains, leading us down the stairs, leaving the manager loitering on the front step again. I remind my friend once we are sat, the last time my brother and I were here, the manager sang. The place was packed, and he would call for silence and then burst into song after a short introduction. He did it three times before he finally left for the night. The place is pretty quiet right now, so maybe we will be ok?

The manager comes into the restaurant, an aging guy, balding, rumpled suit, a bit scatterbrained from the look of him. He potters about, keeps an eye on the too young skinny guy, and the gorgeous foreign waitress who is one of the most consistent members of staff here. We have our dinner, and are finishing up with coffee. He wanders by, glances curiously, with surprise he asks, black coffee? We laugh, and nod, sure. Its busier now, but we are finishing anyway, ask for the bill. While we wait, the manager clangs a spoon of a tray.

The restaurant becomes silent, and he stands there, some people come, some people go, he tells us. I am going to sing you a song, he declares, though I am not a singer. Nessun dorma, he informs us is his song of choice (someone goes ooh) before telling us that it is not an easy song to sing, so if he can have silence. The bill lands on our table, and we count out money, splitting it between us, as bursts into song, giving it his all. For a moment he blocks the exit at the bar, then steps forward. So a couple take their chance and lunge for the door, but he turns and follows them, waving his arms in the air, singing even louder than before as he does so. The rest of us laugh at the absurdity, and most people start to clap. There may have been more to the song, but he seems pleased enough to have reached that climax.

We take our leave, he thanks us as we pass, pats me on the back. The blonde girl is standing at the top of the stairs, one earplug in her left ear, did you have a good meal, she asks. Yes, we reply. Good, she smiles, and wishes us a good evening.

Labels: doorway, glasgow, italian, manager, nessun dorma, singer, waitress