Career opportunities, the ones that eventually knock…
I’m bringing you a 1-2-3-4 with a difference today, my way of marking Billy Bragg’s 68th birthday with a few personal milestones featuring the man himself these past 40-plus years, in what I feel constitutes a neat finale for WriteWyattUK’s 2025 output. Because dreams really can come true, pop kids.
Take one… HMV, Swan Lane, Guildford, Surrey, 19 March 1985
A landmark year was shaping up. Over those last three weeks I’d caught the mighty Ramones at the Lyceum up in town, feeling self-consciously overdressed without ripped jeans and leather, then three nights later I was back on home ground for The Smiths’ Meat is Murder LP tour at Guildford Civic Hall. And then there was Billy Bragg at my hometown venue.
Getting on for two years after he dropped a mushroom biryani off at Broadcasting House with a copy of Life’s a Riot With Spy Vs Spy for a grateful Peelie, I’d become a fan, this 17-year-old devouring his quotes in NME interviews, lapping up his three Peel sessions to date, and enamoured by his debut mini-LP and Brewing Up With. As it was, ‘Between The Wars’ never really chimed for me, though I loved the sentiments. I see it more now as his ‘Blowin’ In The Wind’. Either way, he had his first hit, and on the day of his Civic Hall performance I nipped down out from my sixth-form college to HMV in Swan Lane to see the Big-nosed Bard of Barking in person.
That was my first proper face-to-face meeting with a music hero, and like a few occasions since I had time to over-think what I was going to say. Reaching the counter, I smiled and asked, in what I perceived to be a Peel-esque manner, ‘So, wat’s it like to have a chart-bound sound, Billy?’ He hesitated then gave a rather earnest response, and all I could do was nod and smile. I knew full well that hitting the charts wouldn’t change him. He was far better than that. Yet there he was, pensively pointing out how fickle fame was, suggesting it was likely to blow over soon. And there was me, tongue-tied, wanting to say, ‘I know, I was being ironic,’ but fearing I might sound snotty. I thought of a hundred and one witty things to say as I left, Billy already shaking hands and signing for the next punters.
And why I decided to later swap my vinyl copies of those first two signed records for a signed version of Back To Basics, I really don’t know. That’s space-saving gone mad.
That night was part of the Labour Party Jobs and Industry tour, a precursor to the Red Wedge happenings later that year. And I was all for that, Thatcher having increased her majority two summers before, this teen desperate to help turn that tide when I got the vote… albeit in a constituency the Tories had held since 1910 and would retain until a brief Lib Dem return in 2001. But I was part of Guildford’s Labour Party Young Socialists, among some two dozen members (as the wonderful Serious Drinking put it, The Revolution Starts at Closing Time), my good mates Alex (his dad our prospective parliamentary candidate) and Rick (his mum among the camping at the gates Greenham Common protestors, if I remember correctly) handing out info on the merch desk that night.
Knowing I was a fan, Alex was shocked when he heard the man himself, pre-show, say he was awaiting Wiggy’s arrival. That was my nickname (some mates still only know me as Wiggy), him thinking I’d played down my friendship… not knowing Bill’s right-hand roadie was all known by that handle. Well, we all crouch on the shoulders of giants, eh?
My other abiding memory that night involved ‘A New England’, our man tongue-in-cheek ribbing those he said were about to launch into the extra verse written for Kirsty MacColl, not long out of the chart with her wondrous version.
Take two…. Glastonbury Festival, Pilton, Somerset, 20 June 1987
Creatively, I felt Billy’s peak was still to come. I remained fully subscribed to his political outlook, but it was the less slogan-heavy material I loved, not least the bitter-sweet relationship songs. I loved the artwork and ‘pay no more than’ notes on all those records, and I could quote Bragg (like Weller) off the top of my head on many a social occasion. Tell-tale lines about bottles of pop being opened too early in a journey from this victim of geography. A true wordsmith, as proved on Talking To The Taxman About Poetry and Workers Playtime (I was 21 years when I heard those songs, I’m 58 now, but I haven’t been for long).
And between those releases I caught him at Glastonbury ’87, the last of many great performances that Saturday that stay with me, from opening teen act Rodney Allen (for me on first hearing surely Bill’s little brother) and fellow West County boys The Blue Aeroplanes onwards, via That Petrol Emotion, The Wedding Present, and The Woodentops, all bands I loved.
At that point, my tentmates – fellow gig and footie regular Steve, down from Cobham then, I think), and a ginger-haired fella from the other side of Guildford called Mark, who I’ve not so much as bumped into since) headed off to see fellow faves Real Sounds of Africa (I’d finally catch them in mid-September, putting on an impressive performance at The Maltings, just up the road from me in Farnham) while I made my way to the Pyramid for headliner Elvis Costello, planning to re-meet later for Misty in Roots’ Other Stage finale. A great night was had by all, a night in which our Dec’s highlights included his cover of ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You’, me realising for the first time what a great record that was. I wanted to see Misty in Roots too, my mate and fellow attendee Steve a big fan of their Live at the Counter Eurovision ’79 LP, but it wasn’t to be. Rather naively, I’d not expected such a massive audience, us failing to find each other among the darkness and pervading fug of special ciggies.
Similarly, our Plan B – catching Billy’s late-night marquee show, was flawed, word of his supposed ‘secret gig’ clearly getting out. I enjoyed his set though (don’t ask me what he played, I can’t recall, and others seem to have different ideas of what songs were included, unless of course – highly likely – he played more than one set that weekend), then wandered around aimlessly until around two in the morning, increasingly lost.
When I eventually found the right field, I couldn’t place the tent (in hindsight like many others), finally joining a campfire get-together, taking on the persona of the mysterious fella of no name and very few words (more knackered than stoned, probably), leaving it until it was light before trying again, eventually unzipping and crawling back in after 5am.
Another festival sighting followed two years later, in late August ’89, catching Billy at Reading Festival, Peelie compering and the Essex troubadour among the highlights, a proper soaking made up for on a day bookended by The Men They Couldn’t Hang and The Pogues.
Take three… The Fleadh, Finsbury Park, North London, 10 June 2000
Billy was rarely off my music centre in the final decade of the old century, popping up here and there, from a guest appearance with Norman Cook’s Beats International in early 1990 onwards. Somewhat aptly, I was travelling the world when The Internationale surfaced, but a love for his output never faded, my decision to carry a Union flag patch on my backpack as much down to him as The Jam, The Kinks and every other innately British act I loved. Billy’s outlook was largely mine, one of the golden generations for whom a proper Welfare State saw me at least able to part-compete. Why let our flag be hijacked by the right wing? This was my country, and I was quick to sing its praises – for all its flaws – in foreign climes, arguing against the perception of us portrayed by Thatcher and co. Who’d have thunk that flying the flag would remain an issue a quarter of a century on.
Soon came Don’t Try This At Home and that Marr-velous link-up with a Boy Called Johnny, as also heard on under-the-radar numbers like ‘Walk Away Renee (Version)’. And few singles in 1991 came anywhere close to the might of ‘Sexuality’. Having moved in with my better half in late ’93, swapping Surrey for Lancashire, William Bloke and the following outtakes LP received plenty of plays on my system. And my own growing appreciation of Americana was at least in part down to Bill’s own journey and the Mermaid Avenue albums with Wilco.
By the release of part two, I was a father, with proper responsibilities, my gig count much reduced, but I caught him on fine form at the Fleadh in Finsbury Park, North London, in June 2000, there primarily to catch the returned Undertones but also loving the sets by Bill, his old friend Kirsty MacColl, and Lonnie Donegan. And I have it in mind he was already playing the trail-blazing ‘England, Half English’, although that wouldn’t land on record until 2002.
When The Progressive Patriot landed in late 2006, I was quick to devour it, as good a nutshell study of what Englishmen meant to my generation and his as any. And 40 years after my first BB sighting, with so many of those lyrics still pertinent in our fragile ‘one leap forward, two leaps back’ world, I still regularly return to that winning catalogue. More power to his elbow.
Take four… Westlands Entertainment Venue, Yeovil, Somerset, 27 October 2025
So there I was on my 58th birthday, backstage with fashionably just about on time Billy, making small talk in a tiny dressing room, this rather nervous fan about to interview him on stage but soon put at relative ease, us swapping a couple of tales about various bands and inspirations while I half-craned to hear the venue’s PA on the final night of Yeovil Literary Festival 2025, an half-BB, half-BB influences playlist I cobbled together that day between autumnal wanders around lush Somerset countryside with my better half.
While Billy, not long back from the London launch of Billy Bragg: A People’s History (where he was interviewed by my fellow Spenwood Books author Iain Key), his wife picking him up at the station in Dorset ahead of a late-doors drive up the road, my beloved and I were in a neat little camping pod barely a mile out of town, close to the Yeovil Junction station The Chesterfields wrote about on cult 1988 B-side ‘Last Train to Yeovil’, with us the final campsite guests of the year, the weather kind to us on a day all leading to this career moment.
I’d had a brief chat with Billy on the phone a week earlier, and over the following days several pages of notes were whittled down to a couple of sides of A4 in big writing I could hopefully surreptitiously glance at, mid-answer. As it was, I barely needed them, with what I envisaged as 40 minutes of us chatting followed by 20 minutes of audience enquiries stretching to closer to a 45-25 split, barely a dozen of my questions landing… and all those mere prompts to set Billy off.
And while I’d have liked to have got on to so much more, there was at least time for him to convey a message of hope from Trump’s America, following an inspirational chat he had with Woody Guthrie’s daughter Nora while in London.
He was great, of course, but two hours would have been better, us barely touching some of the territory I’d hoped to reach. All too soon, the lovely Yeovil Community Arts Association chair, Liz Pike, was anxiously hovering in the wings to present Billy with a paper rose for his efforts and try to whisk us away so the volunteers could go home… at which point the Sunday night headliner, who adamantly told the audience earlier he wasn’t going to sing that night, launched into an unexpected American folk song, leading a quick burst of ‘Happy Birthday’ directed at yours truly, his inquisitor rather embarrassed but somewhat made up.
An hour or so later, he was still in the venue, signing all and sundry for an adoring audience, taking the time and trouble we’ve come to expect and that I surely would have appreciated as that tongue-tied teenager 40 years earlier in the queue at HMV in my hometown.
And while one of the questions untouched at the end of our on-stage chat involved his future plans, it seems that our Billy is no closer to hanging up his guitar, plectrum and notebook, his recent Palestinian charity single, ‘Hundred Year Hunger’, one of my highlights of the year, the maturity in his voice and story and sentiments subtly expressed suggesting he still has plenty to offer as a performer as well as an on-point talking head regularly popping up on our television screens, in print and on stage. Keep on keeping on, Billy. The world still needs you.
If you haven’t yet tracked down a copy of Billy Bragg: A People’s History, in large format paperback, hound your local book shop or order online via this link. It includes more than 50 contributions from Billy, who reminds us it’s ‘packed with photos from my personal archive, over 700 concert memories from fans and with contributions from a host of my friends and collaborators over the years, from Wiggy to Nora Guthrie,’ adding, ‘This is the Billy Bragg story in the words of the people!’
The same publisher, Spenwood Books, also brought us Malcolm Wyatt’s Solid Bond In Your Heart: A People’s History of The Jam in 2025, having previously published the same author’s Wild! Wild! Wild! A People’s History of Slade. I know, you’ve left it late to order in time for Christmas, but why not treat yourself to a New Year gift. via the same distributor, Burning Shed, by clicking on those links, or contact me for a personalised, signed copy.
Oh yeah, and Merry Christmas to you, thanking all those who have checked out WriteWyattUK this year. Here’s to a happy and peaceful 2026.
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