Robb Johnson & The Irregulars – Pandemic Songs
Irregular Records – 4 September 2020
On March 23rd the Prime Minister put us into lockdown. My diary notes that we were allowed to go out shopping, visit the doctor’s and walk the dog: “No groups larger than 2. A new era starts.” The week before, as the situation became obvious, I noted that, on the plus side, I would have more time to write and take pictures. Easy for me, or so I thought.
For those who were employed, it started to become a change of work pattern. For some who were self-employed, it rapidly became a dire situation. Actors, performers, musicians suddenly had the rug well and truly pulled from underneath. Many have found ways to keep going; those are the ones we hear about because they tweet and use Facebook, and YouTube. I wonder about those who we don’t hear.
Robb Johnson, that excellent observer and recorder of life as it actually is, spent some of his time writing new songs, thirteen of them about life during lockdown and released now as Pandemic Songs. Joining Robb on the album are a ‘socially-distanced pared-down’ version of The Irregulars with John Forrester on bass and vocals, Robb’s son Arvin Johnson on drums, percussion and Spanish guitar and Fae Simon providing vocals.
The start of this personal journey through four months of the coronavirus begins with Saint Mary, a song which may sound like laying the blame at the wild animal markets in China but listen again and you can hear Robb putting the blame fairly and squarely at the feet of the bankers, the accountants, the rulers. And what would you expect? I don’t mean this in a frivolous manner, but I would be disappointed with an album from Robb if it did not carry a message – and carry it loudly and clearly.
Robb’s last gig was on 16th March, Monday Afternoon at the Paris House, a cafe in Brighton that boasted live music 7 days a week. This was the day when what some might call a ‘step change’ happened in the progress of the pandemic in the UK. Theatres and arts venues were closing, people were told not to visit pubs, clubs or restaurants. France was already in lockdown.
On the 6th April, the death toll hit 5373 and despite a slight reduction in the rate, it still continued its unrelenting ascent. Restrictions were very tight, the Prime Minister was taken into intensive care, and Robb sang:
I should be in Paris
I should not be here
On the edge of chaos
About to disappear
Lockdown became a time of acute contrasts; a time for reflection yet a time to be busy in your own small domain. A time to worry about the large things in life yet concentrate on the minutiae. One More Lockdown Day meant queuing at Tesco’s where the tape strips on the floor show you where to stand; listening to the radio instead of aural wallpaper, and even clapping the NHS. It’s great being able to recognise the role of doctors, nurses, care workers, the people that put the food in the shops, the people that empty the bins, but it doesn’t put food on their table or look after their children while they still go to work. Still, it could all be helped by buying a nice badge showing that you care – all for 89p.
Perhaps there were little shafts of light to bring a smile, though only to be hidden again by the knowledge that madness and ignorance are great bedfellows. Who tried injecting Disinfectant? I expect a number of names could be put forward should a trial be started. But after such an excursion, back to the banalities of life:
Shopping for the Holy Grail that lockdown pilgrims seek:
Wipes and paracetamol, The Highlight of My Week.
The lockdown not only affected the waking hours. Several entries in my diary record bad dreams, the details of which I could not remember but left me with a dark cloud of depression hanging overhead for the day. Every now and again the dreams were brighter, clearer. For Robb, All the Bells Were Ringing though they could not be held on to, the night slipping through his fingers. The waking hours continued to bring Lockdown Jokes & Stories, real-life examples of how the virus affects the essential, unremarkable, important cogs in the wheels of civilisation. The deaths of the rail worker Belly Mujinga, the bus driver Mervyn Kennedy and the teacher Louisa Rajakumari are poignant, unnecessary, avoidable. The trip to Durham by the Government’s adviser, a joke. How can you get cross or complain or defend your loved ones? A joke?
So, let’s take everybody’s mind off it. Let’s have a day celebrating the end of a war, a war that finished 75 years ago. In my village, this was a street party, the whole village descending on the one street with drinks, food, jazz band. It started at about 3 in the afternoon and ended when it rained at 8. The furthest in social distance was probably a metre or two, but it doesn’t matter, we are invincible. It won’t happen to us – because we are blessed, we voted Out. Yes, let’s celebrate Victory in Europe, let’s celebrate the highest number of COVID deaths
Don’t forget your flags and bunting
While 60,000 faces disappear
Yes, let’s celebrate. The workers who looked after us and our loved ones: the carers, the transporters, the providers for these are The Days We Don’t Forget, though I am afraid that I have my suspicions that some might not accurately remember.
Eventually, there is a bit of easing. By the middle of June, I had stopped recording the facts and figures. The dark clouds that had been gathering some 6 weeks previously had descended full-time, and the more we were being allowed out to play, the less I wanted to go. In Palmeira Square, the awakening comes across as a gentle breakout. Robb watches as some proceed with caution, others carry it off with bravura accompanied by:
Tubular aluminium folding picnic chairs
Expensive minuscule cups of disposable cardboard coffee
Elaborate ergonomic empty children’s buggies
And there is always the loud-talking head attached to the mobile phone. Things may have changed but somehow, they have not. Perhaps things are more in focus? Perhaps we are more aware? Perhaps… we shall have to wait and see.
This period in our history has important lessons, but there are also other important lessons still to be learned elsewhere. The final track on Pandemic Songs is about Big Floyd who moved to Minnesota, “turned his life around”, had the opportunity to say “I did good” and had the usual problems of driving while black.
This is an album that captures the time, the essence of the months waiting, wondering, wishing. For me, the resonances were palpable. The observations, the commentaries, responses to the situation by Robb Johnson struck more than a note. And they will with so many. Listen to this album and make sure that these were The Days We Don’t Forget. Excellent.