“Ladies and gentlemen, Kingston Mines is pleased to invite on stage from London, England, Mr Eric Clapton!”

And thusly was I announced to a smattering of applause from the 2am drinkers still sentient after a night of blues and beer in downtown Chicago. Dressed in a long overcoat. And scarf.

Kingston Mines, Chicago? Eric Clapton? Explain Tim

It’s well known, by those who are in the know, that Tim Robson knows the blues. I wake up in the morning and there is Mr Blues waiting on my pillow. I might not be off share cropping but man, that 7:41 to Victoria commute is a bitch. It was what the blues was built on.

Back when time was young and I was in corporate real estate, my bosses in the global company I worked for had their head office in Chicago. So when they held a conference, to O’Hare I was summoned. Not that I minded; I was young, between addresses, flying business class and had two pressing objectives on my mind.

1) I wanted a hotdog. Chicago’s the birthplace of the hotdog, right?

2) I wanted to go to a blues club. Chicago’s the birthplace of electric blues, right?

3) Yeah. You know what three is. More about that later.

Tequila Madness in Suburban Chicago

It was Christmas. Chicago was cold and snowy. On the second night the senior VP invited us around to his house in the suburbs for a festive celebration. All the houses were lit up like a Home Alone homage. The wind blew and the snow fell fitfully as the limo sped to his house.

There were buckets of beer. I helped myself. I had a colleague from Singapore who did the same job as me in her region. I was surprised, pleasantly of course, to find that Suzie was pretty damn attractive. That attractiveness increased throughout the evening as the bucket of beer was steadily emptied. She was fun, also looking for a good time once we’d done with the party which - wouldn’t you know - was full of corporate stiffs wanting to talk about real estate. Fuck that! I was here to party.

One cloud spotted my horizon. My American counterpart Jeff (or whatever his fucking name is, it’s a long time ago. Jeff will do.) was also much attracted to Suzie. He had poise, good looks and an easy mid western manner. Single as well, bastard. I’d try to corner Suzie in a room and lo! there was Jeff, all teeth and good humour. The urge to recede into beta-ness is strong.

But I was lucky that night. We had some sort of party game and I won a bottle of tequila. Of course, we three thought it a good idea to start doing shots. After a few of these I explained that I wanted to split and head to downtown Chicago and get that hot dog I wanted. And then watch some blues in a dive club somewhere.

Yes, let’s do that said Jeff and Suzie and so we made our excuses - ‘you’re boring fuckers and we're off to get wrecked mofos’ - and got in taxi and headed downtown.

Into the Club. Hotdog.

Pitched out somewhere in a wintry central Chicago, I located a hotdog joint and indulged my first passion. Yum! Loved it. It went down fast. One craving satisfied it was time to indulge in number two on my list in order to get number three. Somehow, stumbling through the night, we ended up in Kingston Mines blues club. It wasn’t busy but, there again, it wasn’t that early by the time we rolled in.

The house band was playing some uptempo ‘modern’ blues. Not Howlin’ Wolf or John Lee Hooker. Whatever. We took seats at the bar to watch. Music playing, Jeff and I spent most of our time trying to outdo the other as we competed for Suzie’s affections. I think at one point Jeff started to get the upper hand. Same old. Same old. So, this being the case, the beer and tequila decided I needed to let slip to Suzie that I played in bands back in the UK. How were they to know my bands were crap? Oasis weren’t worried.

Suzie seemed impressed. Very impressed. Jeff looked annoyed. Good. Suzie was so enthusiastic she rushed off to the stage and when the song ended, had a word with lead guitarist. They chatted for a while and I could see her pointing in my direction. Oh dear. I could see where this was going.

And then I was announced onto stage. Suzie had said jokingly, I was Eric Clapton. I don’t think anyone believed her. There I was in a long overcoat. Scarf. Pissed out my head. Better looking.

Reluctantly - well not really - I’m an incorrigible show off - I swayed to the stage. A few of the drunks at other tables clapped. The guitarist gave me his guitar and I strapped it on.

Playing the Blues in Chicago: A Sausage-Fingered Disaster

“Waddya wanna play?” asked Mr Bassist.

Drunk and out of my depth, I went route one. “Er, I’m A Man?”

“Sure, start it off.”

And then I realised my fingers had all become sausages. I’ve had my fair share of disasters on stage, broken strings, drunkenness, hostile audiences - and this could have been the worst of an impressive pile of humiliations. But, looking back into the room, I could see Jeff moving in on Suzie again, so I thrashed out those A-D-C blues chord shapes with more energy than finesse.

“Now when I was a young boy. Bout the age of five…” behind me, suddenly, crashed in the drums, bass and other guitar. Wow! I was rocking Chicago with a shit hot group in support.

My voice was croaky and world weary. That 2am tequila sound. Fitted the song perfectly. I got through two verses and then the guitarist leaned into me, “Take a solo, man.”

The only solos I can do - not well, not technical - are simplistic blues runs. But that night, in Kingston Mines, I was all thumbs. Wrong notes, missed strings, out of time, yes; all the Robson trademarks were present in that woeful solo. Mercifully brief. Realising I was all bravado and tequila, the other guitarist stepped in and blasted out a solo that seemed to be a step above the ones he’d been trotting out previously. Eat that Eric, he seemed to be saying with his fingers. Oh to be fluid like Mick Taylor.

And then back for a verse / chorus and I stood there taking the polite applause from the band and the indifference of the audience. Suzie cheered and Jeff politely banged his glass on the bar.

“You were amazing!” said Suzie. Time to leave.

Later back at the hotel at O’Hare

We got back to the hotel, the hangovers beginning to kick in. The conference would start at 8am with a working breakfast attended by the big boss. It was now 4.30am. In the elevator we pressed the buttons for our floors. I hit nine. Suzie hit thirteen. Jeff didn’t partake.

“Can’t you remember your own floor?” I sneered.

“Yeah, sure,” replied Jeff smiling. “Thirteen.”

Next Day

I was awoken by my phone ringing. Confused and tripping over my clothes hastily discarded all over the floor like mantraps, I picked it up.

“Tim, we’re all waiting for you,” said my boss annoyed. “We need the EMEA numbers and plan for the year.”

I looked at my watch. 8.20. And then. And then the headache kicked in. Followed by the rush to the bathroom. You know the story. Suffice to say, me and the bathrooms of hotel became intimate friends throughout the rest of the day. Possibly the most miserable day of my whole life. I’ve never had a handover this bad before or since. I played no part in the real estate conference and flew back to the UK suffering and dejected that night.

But - and who else can say this beyond a few, a select few, I’d played the blues in Chicago at the legendary Kingston Mines. Years distant from the events, I forget the hangover and look at those grainy pictures with pride. I rocked once!

Annoyed about Suzie though.

Quotidian Notes:

1) After this incident I couldn’t smell, let alone drink tequila for twenty years. This is something I’ve been manfully working on recently. We all love a trier!

2) All career episodes, that were all consuming once, fade with time. I forget what the Chicago conference was about. Something important, no doubt. But ultimately inconsequential. Work hard. Show up. But don’t take it seriously.

3) I still play the blues. Live it man! But, the tequila! We’re not all Keith Richards and in both my recording and live career (FFS sake Tim!) a couple of loosners is fine. More and all you get a drunken mess. Maybe I like it that way. Sabatage is the go-to excuse of the underachiever.

Want More?

Explore more Blues & 60s Music Trivia: