Would I have heard of you?

Had you been driving north in London, on the Seven Sisters’ Road, in February 2003, you may

have glanced up and seen a billboard with my face on it. A poster announcing my second album to

the world. Or if not the world exactly — angled as the poster was — then at least to the residents of

number 51, Birstall Road, N15. An early example of extremely targeted marketing. If they didn’t

know my name before, then boy would they become familiar with it. In a pull quote on the poster,

Q Magazine proclaimed ‘this remarkable album will be hard to better all year’.

For years that poster clung to the hoarding. For years my face was there to greet anyone opening

the curtains of 51 Birstall Road, N15. Stuck there as an afterthought on a scrap of wasteland,

wedged between the road and the railway line, that billboard championed me. Empty beer cans and

fast food cartons discarded beneath, as though my slot at a summer festival had only just ended,

the media circus moved on.

Which by then, it had.

I suppose after February 2003, other more remarkable albums must have come along. A few weeks

later the label abandoned the campaign, stopped my tour support, and perhaps also forgetting to

cancel the advert, unwittingly left the poster standing. Like me, a relic of a bygone era. A cautionary

tale to any label executive thinking of spending serious cash on uncommercial music.

A couple of years ago I planned to make a pilgrimage to the site, a self-deprecating way of

introducing myself to the uninitiated reader. Look! that’s me. Still there, still clinging on through

the seasons, come rain or shine. A 10ft high metaphor. I’d have stared wistfully at the poster for the

accompanying photographs — while musing, or pretending t0 — on life’s vicissitudes. Of the luck,

both good and bad this poster came to represent.

Tom McRae then, a journeyman songwriter of no particular import, but one whose story is still

perhaps worth telling; representing as it does the transition from the gone away world of paid for

music, to an era where recorded music is now virtually worthless. A world where a band’s debut

gig can be in a stadium, but no one outside the venue knows their name. And a world where all but

the very select or very lucky few, can make a living through music.

But of course, by the time I got round to actually writing something — despite my assuming it

would be there forever — the poster was gone. Torn down and replaced with one extolling the

efficacy of billboard advertising; ‘I make you money’ it proclaimed. My record label, manager, and

bank account, all had many years’ evidence to the contrary.

I went on to make a third album for Sony, and more for other labels with diminishing budgets and

shrinking expectations. Like an ageing footballer sliding down the leagues, accumulating ever more

serious injuries, headed for punditry or retirement. Or maybe more like a ghost, unaware he’s dead.

Still haunting the margins of the music business.

For twelve long years that poster stood its ground. For twelve long years my eyes looked wearily

out over hands clasped as if in prayer. Praying for what? A lucky break? Permission to quit?

Forgiveness from the residents of 51 Birstall Road, N15? As I write, that’s exactly half the time I’ve

been recording and playing live. I continue to make albums, I continue to tour. A loyal crew still

comes to shows. Surprisingly, not least to myself, I still make my living from music.

These days I play mostly in Europe, travelling to and fro in my trusty Skoda. Racking up the miles

and Eurotunnel points. When the customs’ officer asks me the purpose of my visit, I can say

honestly, but with just the tiniest hint of defiance, I am here to play my songs.

I can hear the inevitable question approaching like an anvil falling from space: would I have heard

of you?I want to say - that depends if you ever drove north on the Seven Sisters’ Road, anytime between

2003 and 2015. Or maybe you lived at number 51 Birstall Road, N15. Maybe you noticed a poster?

A magazine once said I’d made a remarkable album, hard to better all year.

What I do say, is no. No, you wouldn’t. One day they say. I nod, take my passport, smile and drive

on.

I’m still smiling. I’m still driving on.

Tom McRae, June 2024.