We
are already in a bus lane, and in a designated loading bay, when we
are aproached by the bagpiper. “Are you looking for somewhere to
park?” he enquires solicitously, having taken a break from
producing the stirring and skirling sound of the pipes - albeit,
rather incongruously, in the heart of swinging downtown Ipswich. We
agree that we are indeed looking for somewhere to park. “Just down
there” he indicates with a wave of his chanter before cheerily
resuming his droning on. We park up and I hurry toward the service
door, pausing briefly as I remember that Helen is negotiating a
darkened car park in three-inch red velvet stilettoes. “Keep up!”
I say brightly. “Are we in the right place?” she says. “Of
course!” I reply “There’s a white van parked out the back”.
And, I remind myself, a bagpiper parked out the front.
We
are at Arlington’s, where I’ve played before, at the behest of
the new owners, who are minded to launch their new venture in a hail
of free drinks, canapes and, as it turns out, the lilting sound of
sweet, sweet music. Which is where Helen and The Neighbourhood Dogs
come in. We have received an electronic mail inviting us to perform
at the soiree at slightly shorter notice than one might expect –
today being Wednesday and the mail having been received on Monday –
but by fortunate happenstance all The Dogs are free* and so we accept
the offer of a meal and a drink in return for two ten minute
performances about an hour apart from each other, Which at least
should give us time to get our small plate Tapas in between sets. And
it doesn’t even look like they want a fumble in the car park
afterwards, which is where quite a few dinner invitations have led me
in the past. Out by the bins.
Now,
I know what you’re probably thinking. “Two sets, an hour apart?
But what the very devil are folk supposed to do in between?” Aha –
you see, well, they’d thought of that too. We are but one of seven
turns to perform on three stages set about the ballroom in rotation.
Someone has clearly been watching too much Later with Jools… and
some seasoned heads in the organisation are already muttering to
themselves regarding timekeeping and logistics. Fixed upon my “Not
my circus...” mantra I am nevertheless slightly taken aback that
the promised eight channel PA does not come with microphones, mic
stands or monitors**. In these sorts of situations one hopes that the
fraternal and sororal nature of the musician’s creed will come to
the fore and indeed we are quickly offered the use of the estimable
This Machine Kills Fascists’ microphones and bass amp, Turny has a
spare mic with him, fellow troubadours Blues Brother, Soul Sister
lend a microphone stand, and before kick off TMKF even conjure and
set up a vocal monitor onstage. hat'll be where the van came in. Or, rather more accurately, what came in the van.
Waiting
staff circulate with plates of tasty morsels, the bar has a limited
range of complimentary beverages. It’s not exactly Queen’s New
Orleans launch party for Jazz, but it’s pleasant enough. Also on
the bill are a couple of conjurors, who have already been asked to
cut their sets as we’re running late. We sympathise, as this is a
not unfamiliar experience at these sorts of events. I bump into one
of them at the bar later. “Are you getting free drinks?” he asks?
“I’m about to find out” I reply. “Are you paying for these?”
enquires my bar steward. Miming playing an imaginary ukulele as the
universal sign for being slightly musical I respond that “I’m
with the band”. “Oh” she says, handing over my tasty beverage.
“I’ll have one of those” says my fellow traveller. “Are you
in a band too?” she asks. “No” he replies, whisking an
instantly fanned deck of cards from an inside pocket. “I’m a
magician...”
As
the evening wends its way toward an end, the genteel hubbub has faded
slightly with the thinning of the glitterati, the velvet among the palm fronds further between, and so for our second
set we throw in the sort of mournful ballad that you usually need the
rarified atmosphere of a folk club to perform. It’s clearly the
right move for that time of the evening. There are a couple of solo
spots before TMKF return to the stage with their scattergun punky ska
approach***, clearly having similarly assessed the vibe of the
diminishing crowd. “This is catchy” I remark in an aside to Helen
as we tap our toes along to the chorus of something lively. “Fuck
you, fuck you, fuck you!” they sing.
We make our way to our
carriages.
*This
is virtually unheard of. Even at rehearsals we can only usually round
up two thirds of us at best.
**For
the layperson, imagine that you’ve been over to stay at a friend’s
house and that when you wake up in the morning there’s a note on
the fridge which reads “Gone to work, frying pan in the cupboard,
help yourself to breakfast!” You open the fridge, and there’s
nothing in it.
***Listening
to them is akin to a experiencing tightly-condensed support bill at
Beautiful Days.
