Behind all this, of course, lies a tale. And, indeed, a tail.
We in Helen and The Neighbourhood Dogs have been engaged by a third party to perform our blend of folk, country, blues, pop and hair metal - a genre we have self-styled ‘East Angliacana’ - at The Duke (formerly the The Duke of York, previous to that The Grand Old Duke of York and satisfyingly half way up and half way down the hill on which it is situated). Three fifths of Picturehouse, the equally self-styled three hundred year-old band are also Dogs, and we are used to pitching up on a Friday night and performing loud yet reverent versions of popular hits of the nineties to people determined to drink away what would have been referred to in the self-same decade as a wage packet in one sitting, and so the prospect of performing ballads about (say) the second-oldest lighthouse in New Zealand or a country heartbreak song based around a popular spa town in the north of England is clearly giving Mr. Wendell, for one, the heebie jeebies. As if the poor vegetarian, left-handed, colour blind soul didn’t have enough to worry about.
I am on my third trip to the car park - as has been noted, I am laden with more gear for the nice little acoustic band than I take out for the big, loud covers band - I decide to hold the door open for Stephen, who is wheeling a large keyboard up the load-in ramp and Gib, similarly bass-laden, while I balance an amplifier at an angle against one leg, have a foot in the door with the other and try to keep the guitar slung over my shoulder from slipping off and breaking the plate glass, which is when the larger of the the adorable, if hefty, pub dogs decides to investigate what’s going on in the garden. I probably should have made the extra trip, as at least then I’d have been carrying the amp, and it wouldn’t have toppled over on to the patio slabs.
Still, once we are in and introduced to the charming bar staff (who make a point of welcoming us with a complimentary first round) we go about the business of setting up. We still haven’t played long or often enough to have the routine down and so there is quite a bit of jockeying for position, not least with Tony, who requires a bar stool for the evening, what with his new hip still playing him up.* Furthermore, although we are gratified that there is a house PA, our de facto sound engineer is also the chef, and he’s currently busy producing a number of extraordinarily delicious pizzas from the kitchen. I am advised of the limitations of the radio mics and regard the iPad screen doubtfully. This is not the steam-driven knobs and sliders technology I am familiar with. Nevertheless I go into Maverick mode and start ordering people about in a gruff and perfunctory fashion. “You - give me a lead from that, I need a stand here, and you - off your phone, I need you in the room”. Sensing that, as the saying goes, too many cooks may complicate culinary matters, I am left to get on with it although, ironically, in this instance one specific extra cook may have come in handy.
Once everyone else is at least line checked, I arrange my array of weaponry and plug it in. There are two electric guitars - one a Gretsch which I am complimented upon at least twice during the evening for its looks alone, and one an open-tuned Telecaster with which to perform a number of songs in the key of G, which in our set are legion. All songs played on this guitar are in G, although not all the songs in G are played on this guitar. Irrespective of the looks or weird chord inversions involved, neither of these guitars is making any noise. I run through the usual idiot checks - volume up, power on, leads in, effects pedal batteries sufficiently charged, leads changed, toggle switches um, toggled. By this time the floor is littered with so many tangled and discarded leads that in order to check the volume on the vocals I have to trace one by hand from the microphones through the spaghetti-like pile at my feet and up into the wireless power amp. You can denote the channels by assigning a label on the screen, but I didn’t get as far as that in the manual. Is there somewhere we can put the cases?” asks someone. “I put mine back in the car” I respond, a touch tetchily, having also just tripped over a lead and sent Helen’s mic stand flying. “My car’s not here”. “Well put them in Gib’s!” The non-amplifying amplifier is starting to become an issue. And then I remember the dog.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried checking the seating of half a dozen Sovtek Blues Junior vacuum tube valves by the light of a phone in the saloon bar of a pub with half an hour to go before the set is due to start, but it’s not as relaxing as it sounds. Thankfully, Gib has remembered to unplug the amp before we go in so there’s a good chance I won’t electrocute myself during the process. Unfortunately neither of us has brought a Philips head screwdriver, so there's quite an element of digital contortion involved. Nevertheless, after no little wrangling, we plug in, turn on, and the comforting hum of a functioning Fender amplifier fills the silence. “I” I announce “…am going outside, I’m going to finish this pint, and then I think we should soundcheck”.
Gratifyingly, even the soundcheck gets a round of applause. We start on time. First night nerves mean that all of our best and most carefully rehearsed stage banter is employed, from the banjo jokes***, ‘the first rule of songwriting’, the explanation of the assisted passage policy of the nineteenth century New Zealand government (see above) and the [Trad. Arr] introduction of our intermission.**** Thankfully, it turns out that the audience are well up for a bit of East Angliacana, and although my rather tart rejoinder that the cases can go back in the car was relevant at the time, it is when I need a capo mid set that I remember that where I keep mine is now safely locked away, and in the car park. Fortunately both Mr. Wendell and Mr. Tony have remembered theirs and not all three of us will be using one at the same time and so, much like the loaves and fishes, there are enough to go round. It’s a miracle. That I didn’t break a string is similarly fortunate as my spares are with my capo. Mr. Wendell is not as fortunate. I didn’t hear the ping, but I experienced the fall out. “Carry on without me” he says, heroically. “I’ll only hold you back”.
By song’s end, he is back in the game, although apparently considerably more flustered than beforehand. Even as Helen is emoting the final, breath-defying coda I can hear the octave-spanning tightening of an errant D string. Or G? Both? From the gloom at the back of the stage, our unfortunate string-snapping friend, who not only has had to get rid of both ends of a torn and frayed length of steel core and phosphor bronze, find a replacement, retune it, and who shares a condition with one in twelve of the male population, hisses “They’re fucking colour-coded!”
And to to return to the socials: Well, a big hello, thank you and massive tip of the hat to our new best friends at The Duke Ipswich who took a punt on putting on a six piece band mostly playing songs they’d made up out of their own heads on a Friday night, provided a PA, a welcome drink and had two dogs roaming the floor in case punters’ attention wavered at any time. When we did get to the cover version it was equally as gratifying to experience the hush that fell over the pub as Helen started her acapella intro. Even the bloke who left early put some money on our tab. Thank you to Dave Markwell for capturing most of most of us in one photo, and to everyone who came, stomped, clapped and encouraged us all the way through to our third encore. We could do it without you, I suppose, but then what would be the point of that? 💕
* This does, however, provide for a wonderfully declamatory version of his “What’s the Moonlight For?”** wherein he is able to essentially perform the song as (ironically) a stand up routine.
** If not for love?
*** The term ‘joke’ is included here for illustrative purposes only.
**** “We’re going to take a five minute break for ten minutes or so - we’ll see you in quarter of an hour”. Thank you Shev for that one.
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