If you find yourself in London on February 24th, it might be raining.
This year, it was indeed raining. You might be there to attend one of the countless concerts that the capital of Albion offers every single day. I've always thought that if I lived there, I'd probably spend every last penny to attend them all.
The University of London Union has a concert hall. It's equipped with a spacious stage, a parquet dance floor, a bar with beer flowing freely, and an area for pre- and post-concert socializing. For a moment, I wondered why and how I spent my twenties at the University of Turin, where the most attractive space was the cramped room of a student list, where you could smoke in defiance of the annoying ban. Next to me and the most wonderful concert companion life has ever given me, sits a couple who could be my parents' age. It is at that moment that I realize some questions don't make sense and that I shouldn't ruin my evening.
Fionn Regan is an Irishman from Bray, a few miles south of Dublin. He plays guitars with his initials written with black electrical tape applied to the body. He has embarrassing bowl-cut hair, wears improbable tight pants, and a plaid flannel shirt that you could easily find at the countless crowded stalls of Camden Town for two pounds or a little more. He seems like he landed on that stage by accident. He moves with nervous twitches and has wild eyes. He doesn't talk much, but in the end, it's just a detail: his guitars speak for him, his harmonica, and his voice, which doesn't waver as he blends folk with rock and country across the 13 songs of his modest setlist.
Fionn Regan has released two albums: The End of History in 2006 and The Shadow of Empire, which came out a few weeks ago. Currently, he is touring Europe to promote his new work. The first album is a gem of acoustic folk and complex melodies painting absurd stories, on the edge of his poetic madness. He is not Nick Drake, not Jeff Buckley, not Elliot Smith, God forbid. But the boy will make it, I believe in him. The second album is dressed in completely different sounds. Fionn puts aside his acoustic guitar, grabs an electric one, and tries to make us dance, even though I notice the sixty-something couple is more focused on their beer than on the tired hip movements of the wealthy London university youth. Fionn is not Bob Dylan, not Neil Young, not John Denver, and certainly not Leonard Cohen. But the boy will make it, I believe in him.
Fionn plays just under an hour and a half, and there's no way to get a word out of him, an extra song, an autograph on the setlist, or a quick chat. Let alone the famous five questions of DeBaser. He leaves just as he came, amid an embarrassing precision fingerpicking, despite his stubby fingers and the nervous strumming of "Protection Racket", the flagship song of his latest effort.
We return to the counter and shortly after to the annoying rain of these parts, while the sixty-something couple has already silently slipped away, amidst the noisy and tipsy London youth. No one will waste time deciphering the smile etched on their faces. The impression remains of a refined artist in harmony with his music, his instruments, and the asymmetrical physicality with which he gifted us his music.
The boy will make it, I believe in him.
The rest is just London rain.
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