News is on the march. The barbarians are at the gates, fixing bayonets alongside the authoritarians, Rotarians and Tony Blairians. But some things never change on a rainswept London night that bristles with fresh mission.

Romy Deighton has just taken to the stage as tonight’s support act, her natural stage presence conveying the very real possibility of her discovering fulfilment in what she does, free from the corrosive effect of Mammon-worship that is still so evident among the éminences grises of the industry. She is finding her feet with the delivery of each self-penned song, no doubt having long ago been tipped off by her gifted progenitors about the pitfalls and blandishments that might mar her journey along the musical path.

In the far corner of the hall, her father steps through a door and makes his way into the audience to sit and watch. It’s a touching moment, especially since it is well documented that Matt Deighton has, over the course of his novel career, all but martyred himself in the cause of making music, his way. He nearly packed it all in before he realised you can’t quit that which keeps you alive.

A smiling gentleman of advancing years and dressed in a Smedley knit looms at my shoulder in the half light.
“I know you,” he says into my ear, “you’re Greg, the keyboardist, we’ve met before.”
“…I’m not and no, we haven’t.”
“…Are you sure?”

It’s going to be that kind of evening. As Romy wraps up her set, I follow her father backstage. The fridge, a small low-slung model, glass fronted, functional, advertises its cold beer contents alongside other beverages not as interesting. I help myself and take a seat in a wing-backed chair opposite Dr Robert. The Dr reclines upon a Chesterfield sofa, one of several cluttering the capacious backstage area. No one seems to know where they came from but someone suggests perhaps a pub.

“Yeah, we’ve rehearsed,” he grins.
“Whose guitar is that?” I ask, pointing, the roadie who tuned it on his way with it stageside.
“That’s Matt’s Martin. But I’ll stick with the Takamine.”

These two songwriters may have rehearsed but needn’t have. They’ve been around long enough. The trick, it soon becomes apparent, is to leave things to chance. With a combined back catalogue of countless gems, the absence of pre-gig nerves is understandable. What they do is effortless. One might have expected the duo to make light work of a West End evening by drawing upon their richly endowed songbooks, but it was their collaborative effort, the new 12-track album The Instant Garden, that they chose to showcase.

At times duelling, or else accompanying one another with watchful care, the gig spun out and away and took its own shape. Wherein lies the value of the ticket. Matt’s Martin – an instrument that usually helps him produce a more ruminative, meditative performance – he largely eschewed. For much of the time he stood while Dr Robert sat, Matt brandishing a white Strat by which he issued sinuous, wailing solos washed in wah-wah and weighted with blues-folk. Occasionally urging the audience to clap along (a new one for those watching and for those who know him), he at times removed himself to the rear of the stage where stood a leather armchair in which he sat, seemingly forgetful of where he was, the solos improving as his comfort levels rose. Stage right, the Dr watched him, impressed and pleased that he was sharing a stage with a talent of such roguish insouciance.

These are gifted songwriters, a double act, performing at the peak of their game because they no longer seek the empty plaudits of corporation bean counters. Savouring each moment, they somehow came across like a latter-day Flanagan and Allen. Theirs is an easy, joke-laden bonhomie, an armour developed over many years that has insulated them from the viler vicissitudes of the shark-infested industry in which they have swum.

After a stirring rendition of Fred Neil’s The Dolphins, Dr Robert mused on how Neil finally turned his back on music.
“But I haven’t,” he added.
“…I tried,” quipped Matt, to much laughter.

Matt and Robert, in their musical stoicism, are AI-proof; by walking the straighter path they have rendered themselves and their artistry unreplicable. And as long as there is a humane audience thirsting for original work, these two gentlemen will prosper. The battle lines have been drawn. Or, better still, modernity saluted with two fingers.

Tracks performed included Giving Up the Ghost, Gardening In the Mediterranean Way, and the especially seductive Dude In a Roller. There was also a dash of T.Rex, a bejewelled retread of The Family Silver and a hush-inducing take of No One’s Lost Tribe from Matt’s 2018 solo long-player, Doubtless Dauntless.

The years have been kind to these two Bukowskian adepts because they still enjoy what they do – they have found what they love and are letting it kill them, so to speak. So permit me to push the Flanagan and Allen allusion one step further, just to lighten the mood: people cut from the same schmatta will always find each other.

Words & picture: Jason Holmes / @JasonAHolmes