“When it all comes down…”

 “Thanks for coming out to see us on Valentine’s Night, we’d like to start with a song for all the lovers - this is ‘The Bends’…” We are back in Radiohead mode, having had a bit of a squad rotation in terms of set lists recently, and the freshen up seems to be working. Pre-show I am chatting to an old compadre who hasn’t seen us for some time. “Are you doing anything new?” he enquires. “Ah” I say “Define ‘new’?” Some of the between song bantz have, after all, been handed down through generations. Sure enough though, before too long it’s time for us to bring things “Right up to date…if you were born in 1964” with some Tom Petty. It’s so new we don’t even have a funny intro about it

There’s a story that Petty, upon finishing the recording of ‘Refugee’ (for it is this essay which occupies us) bumped into the legendary Jim Keltner in the corridor outside and asked him what he thought. “Needs a shaker” replied the later drummer of The Travelling Wilburys, whereupon he was issued with said percussion, ushered into the studio and told to show them what he meant. Once you’ve heard the shaker, it’s very difficult to concentrate on much else that’s going on, from the swelling organ, intricate licks and, well, it *is* Valentine’s Day.

Our version is a bit more power-chordey and a good deal more guitar-soloey than the original, which does give me a good opportunity to wig out on the Em pentatonic and oh yes, we changed the key as well. We were all probably concentrating a little too hard on the shaker. Spoiler alert: We don’t use a shaker. Nevertheless, I am gratified to receive a mid-set acknowledgement from my partner-in-chord The Other Guitarist regarding the non-existent guitar solo I have just extemporised and indeed everything seems to be going very much to plan until The Bass Player produces an uncharacteristically dissonant note to close our version of ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ (the Green Day song, not the Tony Bennet one) as a result, it turns out, of a particularly hefty darts trophy - one of those big, thick oak ones the size of Alan Partridge’s dinner plate - being dislodged from a shelf some feet above his head by the resonant frequencies of the closing power chords and landing on his head. This, as you might expect, has come as no little surprise, as has the blood now making its way across his forehead in a Terry Butcher-esque display of what happens if you hit a rock with a hard place. We adjourn, first aid kit blood pad in hand.

After a suitable break to confirm that he is neither concussed nor still shaking in shock (and a restorative whisky) we decide to return to the endeavour at hand. “Will you be able to play keyboards?” someone enquires solicitously. “Well” [Eric Morecambe look to camera] “I couldn’t before…” he replies. This, if not an epochal turning point in our relationship, has nonetheless endeared us and our spirit greatly to the audience, and so we carry on where we left off in terms of set list, buoyed by further good vibes. Also,they’ve had an early interval to get the beers in, so there’s that. It’s an interesting diversion in terms of performance duration in that rather than two forty-fives, as in a football match, it’s much more the short set/long set support act-styled arrangement, which allows us to build from the back (to continue the sports metaphor) which, by the end, we all agree was a generally more satisfying experience. Maybe something to think about in future..?

In the morning, anxious messages are despatched toward our wounded comrade. “I didn’t sleep too well” he replies on the (literally) Group chat. “I dreamed that I’d won a trophy. Turns out it was all in my head”