Suppose a lad from Jersey gets off a train at Southall station. His grip on the strap from his guitar bag tightens as he gets his head down to complete his journey. It’ll be years before he admits that he was scared.
It’s busy. So, so busy. With colours. The clothes. The different cultures. The smells. It’s different. And he feels alien. He later finds out that that’s how they feel.
En route, from a restaurant he passes, a south Asian channel playing in the back is blasting the sounds of Rafi, whilst a group of men gather round a bottle of Bells, mopping up their Indian cuisine with their hands. The cutlery is decoration. It looks messy, he thinks.
Coming upto Featherstone Road a mother, dressed in an Indian suit with two coats on and a scarf around her head is picking up her toddler from after school club. She has two bags with her, and a trolley, and is deep in conversation. With herself.
On the other side of the road, a couple steal a kiss and then the girl walks 20 yards in front, wiping off the remains of her make up. She’s got a bag full of clothes that, Tom guesses, is a change for the secret date that they’ve just had.
At the side of Clarence Street, a transaction takes place outside a car as a distinct earthy smell colours the air. The buyer is in school uniform, and the seller is not going to win any competitions for disguise of the year.
Tom is let into Ravi’s house where a trail of cables guide the way. Ravi’s mum, broken English in tow, smiles warmly and points upstairs – ‘screaming, not singing’.
In the room the four lads – Ranj, Sarb, Zaki and Tom – get to work crafting their songs from Beneath the Flightpath. At dinner, Ravi’s mum presents paratha and raita with mango pickle. No knives and forks are present. Tom rolls up his sleeves.
