Paul Weller and his various incarnations has provided the musical background to my adult life. It’s not to say I enjoy everything he produces, far from it, I just have a deep respect for the manner in which he keeps an authentic approach to music. His integrity and development of his craft makes him a standout artist from the fag end of the 70s. Judging from the fan bash tonight I can see a yearning for the glory hits of the Jam and Style Council, I get that, but he is often at his best when he and his band loosen up with many of his later releases. In my considerations he is simply my generation’s Ray Davies.
2-square-kilometre area of woodland on the south-west side of the Avon Gorge, close to the Clifton Suspension Bridge.
Stood, looking half bewildered to the world surrounding his existence, a Pep Guardiola lookalike. Slightly dishevelled, thinner. His nervous twitch holds a thousand transactions with the bottle. Pep anxiously riffles through the loose change in his palm. People flow past him, and like me, are ignorant of his true story. He looks broken.
I order tea. It is quickly dispensed into its disposal cardboard cup, the tea bag hoovers on the surface, “Say when”, the guy says as he pours the milk. “When,” I reply. He lifts his head. We capture one another’s eyes for a millisecond, and a distant sigh reverberates in our collective subconscious.
Stepping from the trailer and gripping the paper cup at its brim, I befriend an aluminium framed seat and its identical table where I place my tea and mobile phone.
25-years since I landed in Bristol. This is the place I have frequented, on and off, over those years. A tea/coffee trailer, adjacent to the Watershed, which also serves a delicious banana and chocolate crepe if you find yourself in the vicinity,
As then, and as now, it’s the perfect place to people watch. We mortals tend not to look up anymore, fixated by our devices. Connected to distance and not our immediate surroundings.
Groups of schoolchildren jostle, call each other names beyond my recognition and brag about things schoolchildren brag about. It’s all posturing, but there is the quiet one struggling to fit in and harvest a sense of belonging. An awkward shyness and sense of inadequacies. Seagulls hanker and cry for crumbs, and a wasp threatens occasionally. A guy in a leather motorcycle jacket on the next table sits back and stretches his legs out. Drawing deeply into his lungs, the cigarette smoke.
A momentary break in the traffic, pedestrian crossing beeps announce a new flow of passer-by. A young lady, early 20s stops abruptly, combes long hair with fingers. Tilts her head slightly to the left, raises her mobile, sucks in her cheeks like a pouting trout and snaps a selfie and walks on.
The Pep Guardiola lookalike is now loitering close to me, picking up random cigarette butts. A message appears on my iPhone 12, advising me to buy a new iPhone 13. I sip my tea, gaze up at the Weathervane, and before I notice, the Pep Guardiola lookalike has vanished.
Street photography to me is about telling a story. An imagine should be the doorway of the imagination. A place where the viewer is allowed to beg the question and determine the answer. As two elderly men stand outside of a large house in St. David’s, Wales what is their story?
If for whatever inexplicable reason you have not been introduced to Supersonic Man then the pleasure falls to me. From 1979 properly the best, worst film ever made a genuine classic.