Tribe Called Questfallen

 There's a phrase bandied about in the arts community: "I've found my tribe!" 

It's triumphalist and exclusionary, and designed to make you feel sad if you have not, in fact, found your tribe. What it means is, "I'm now working with a group of people similar to me for a common purpose, and we are each other's cheerleaders, and there is NO WAY I will drop them like a greased sandbag if something better comes along in the near future. We are BLOOD. For the time being. Anyway, the drawbridge is up."

It will shock you to learn that I have no tribe. Or so I thought. Today I was walking to the shops, pounding along in my modern uniform of Can t-shirt and Scarpa walking boots; a Kosmische fell-walker, pockets full of Kendall Mint Cake and black hash. I took a circuitous route, as this constitutes my daily exercise, as well as a trip to M&S to buy cottage cheese and chives. 

"Hey! Great T-Shirt!"

A passerby had clocked my "Future Days" top. Some days, especially summer ones, I think "Future Days" is my favourite Can album. It's light and frothy and sunny, but also symphonic and huge. It's Can's prettiest and most cohesive record. I've been listening to its complex wonders for thirty years and it never bores me. So who was this cool cat who'd called me out on it? A local promoter? A DJ? A Head at the very least, a dedicated crate dipper dripping with iconic cool? 

No. 

It was a little man with a bald head, a white moustache and a red ski jacket. He was giving me the thumbs up as he passed. 

"Oh, thanks, man." I said. 

"Who was it?" said the man's wife as they passed. "A band called Can." he replied, simply. And I thought back to the morning when I'd been doing my back exercises on the floor of the spare room. I'd been listening to "Future Days" then too. 

Found my tribe. 

Ski Jacket posse. Two thumbs up.