I've followed Emma Smith on Instagram for the better part of a year, but I do not know how I originally found her. I think it is something to do with Jo Harrop, who sings similar songs in similar places. You can't go far in London without finding a jazz singer and a pianist.
I once wrote a novel, Ernest Zevon, about a male pianist and singer who duets with a female (and very Australian) saxophonist. There are endless possibilities.
This being Tennessee Vibes, I always try to make a link. Although there's no hint of Tennessee roots music here in London's original Soho, there are American influences in Emma's tunes. She has a new album out, Bitter Orange, and these four shows at Ronnie's were launch parties. I had pre-ordered so I already had the signed album before the show, and I loved the boozy references in some of the songs.
It's hard finding someone to take to a show in August in London, and I arrived with a colleague. We went straight from work to the early show. As we were shown to our seats, I stumbled over a beautiful guide dog.
As we walked further into the venue, I came to the realisation that our table was pretty much on the stage itself. We were seated directly next to the piano, and we could read the music over pianist Jamie's shoulder. This was rather closer to the action than I had anticipated.
I did not know that the song London Pride was written by Noel Coward. I wish I had known this because my current writing project focuses on gangsters during London's World War Two Blitz, and the song was written during those years.
As Emma explained on the night, old Noel cheekily stole the tune of the German national anthem (or the one at the time, the details are unclear) and put some new words to it.
London Pride itself is a flower. The flower is officially called the tongue-twizzling name of Saxifraga × urbium and it flourished in bomb sites. I had (wrongly and superficially) assumed that the song was about the beer. But there is a connection. The beer is named for the flower rather than the song. One might say they both share a common root.
Emma's plentiful success is anchored by her incredible singing voice but there is a lot more to it. She commands the stage, she was relaxed at Ronnie's, her home from home as an east-end Londoner born and bred, and she tells genuinely engaging stories in a funny way after each song. It is easy to see why Jeff Goldblum likes to sing with her often.
Possibly the very best story of the night concerns Emma's grandfather, one of her great inspirations, and the enterprising way he acquired a trombone in order to avoid doing anything dangerous in the war. However her mother played saxophone and her father played trumpet, so it is a musical dynasty.
Emma's grandfather turned out to be excellent at trombone and a very hard worker, and he built an international career playing for Barbra Streisand and Frank Sinatra. He also knew Ronnie Scott the man, and it turns out Emma sat on his knee on the stage there at the age of three.
As I have followed Emma's journey for a while, I already knew that she was proudly Jewish, wearing a Star of David necklace on the night. She also references adhd in her social profiles, little details which only add to her appeal. She is absolutely straightforward and transparent about her challenges as well as her successes. I recall a recent reel where she sat in the rain behind Beaconsfield garden centre, keeping it, ahem, reel.
One of the more memorable portions of the show is when Jamie Safir, Emma's long-time pianist, creative director and co-writer, began to blow his melodica. If you have not seen such a thing before, it is one of those humorous instruments such as the bagpipes. It is a small keyboard you hold in front of you, attached to an air tube down which you blow. It has to be seen (and heard) to be believed.
I managed to stay off the booze once again, introducing my partner in crime for the evening to the delights of Mother Root, a natural fiery ginger aperitif which goes well with tonic in place of London gin. I am thrilled to let you know it takes pride of place on Ronnie's cocktail menu.
Fracas
This being me, the night wouldn't be complete without a little fracas on the way home. As regular readers will know, I have a sideline in fighting crime. Trouble follows me down every alleyway.
On the walk back to Oxford Circus, my friend was unceremoniously shoulder-barged. That was when I realised I still held some mental scars from the last time I went to a gig with another human. My friend spun round, looking for the perpetrator.
"It's not worth it," I said, terrified of what Mrs D would think if I starred in yet another mass brawl outside a tube station. Fortunately, the spark disappeared immediately. Order was restored. Phew. But yet another sidekick had been placed in arm's way. These are violent times.
