The Big Smokey

Camden is a very strange place indeed.

I wouldn't say it was intimidating, but with all the market stalls competing for the title of 'Camden's Loudest Speaker System', the smells from the array of open-air food outlets competing for space in your nostrils, and the heavy police presence competing with the local drunks, its certainly an assualt on the senses. As I walked through its crowded streets yesterday evening, I felt I could have been at some sort of music festival, or wandering around an unfamiliar foreign country, or perhaps a member of a savage post-apocalyptic settlement you'd expect to find in Mad Max.

As it was, I was in the northern part of London, on my way to a music venue known as The Roundhouse, to see a man called William Robinson Jr, or 'Smokey' to his mates. He's arguably one of the finest singer-songwriters to have ever picked up a pen, a hugely successful producer, and just so happens to have played a pretty major part in the early days and continued success of Motown Records. He wrote some of the best hits for the label, like 'My Girl', 'The Way You Do The Things You Do', 'Tears of a Clown' and 'Tracks of My Tears'. And he sang them all last night, with the help of his band and the BBC Concert Orchestra.

Smokey will be seventy next year, but his voice has more than stood the test of time. And the man can still move, his hips launching into spontaneous gyration whenever it was time for a slow number. However, I think its fair to assume that Smokey's had some 'work' done. The man's face is tighter than a drum. Seriously, you could bounce pennies off his forehead. But even then, I'm sure it would make a satisfying sound.

Two hours of intermittent gyrating and fantastic singing later, it was time to hit the streets of Camden once more. What struck me more than anything this time round was the interesting array of haircuts and outfits being sported by the natives. Of course, when I say 'interesting', I mean 'bloody ridiculous'. Why doesn't anyone say anything to these poor people? Clearly they've left their flat without checking themselves in the mirror. That could be the only reasonable explanation for walking around in full view of other people, looking like a heavy metal chimney sweep in a wind tunnel.

James Bond has just come on the television so I'm afraid I've become a little distracted, and I'm not sure how to bring this post to a satisfying conclusion. Its a Roger Moore one. He's probably the best Bond, I'd say. There's a midget in it too. And a car just took off and flew away. Brilliant.