Richard Thompson: A New Light
Steve Burgess, Dark Star, December 1978
I HAVE THIS adrenaline-fueled, hyper-hallucinatory recall of the first time I saw Richard Thompson away from club stages and makeshift podiums in Hyde Park. He was sitting on a bench under slate-sickly London skies across from the ludicrously misnamed Country Club, Belsize Park, hands in pockets of a chewed afghan, staring eyes-front, obviously totally wired-up for Fairport Convention's almost pulse-regular Sunday gig. Behind him the other band members were nudge-winking, half-in and half-out of the local parade caff, but Richard was lost who knows where, in chord progressions, daily dissentions, the future, the past, whatever. I remember I spoke to him; he was local hero guitarpicker numero uno and I, intoxicated by the presence of titans and nailbitingly panicky, forget the details. We were both painfully shy.
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