For
the latest date on our never-ending tour (of Stowmarket) we in The
Picturehouse Big Band have decided to freshen up the set, and to this
end had convened at The Drummer’s house to run through a couple of
new songs. And by ‘new’ we mean “From !979”. With a nod to
modernity, the other one was from 1982. No-one can accuse us of
complacency or not knowing our audience, at least. During the
meticulous deconstruction process at rehearsal we had discovered that
the chords to the verse of the former rather neatly matched the intro
to the latter, which at least narrowed down the number of different notes we’d had to learn, and the order in which to put them.
At
the pop show itself we had a hearty turnout, bolstered by a number of
familiar faces – The Other Guitarist wonders if, since we’d organised
our diaries with each other and the landlady, perhaps the audience
could do similarly, and then we’d all know where we were going to
be, and when. This seems sensible, and we resolve to sync our calendars. We are also joined by a number of members of the Young Farmers Club,
who are celebrating the birthday of one of their brethren and are intent
on hearing some Fleetwood Mac. Happily we are able to partially
satiate their needs, and relieved to learn that the acronym of their
organisation is no to be applied, as so often in the past, to us
collectively as a result.
Everyone
is on good form, and quips and rejoinders are soon bouncing around
the room in what some might consider a totally unprofessional manner.
Even The Keyboard player (normally taciturn to the point of hermitry)
regales us with a good one about the pair of shoes he bought off a
drug dealer. I am not yet fully aware of how fortuitous this act will
eventually prove. At one point there is a small issue with the input socket
proving to have a Norman Collier-like effect on the growling output
of the amp during my stint on the bass, and which can only be
ameliorated by tippy-toeing, twisting a hip and resting the lead on
my thigh. The resulting pose could probably best be rendered as 'effete Phil Lynott'. At the time I considered that this would be the campest
thing I’d do all weekend.
To
be honest, a couple of the re-lifed additions to the set* haven’t
really worked as well as they could have done, and we are reflecting
on this in the car park, post-performance. “I’m not sure” says
The Singer “...that ‘Go Your Own Way’ really worked. I think it’s
probably the singing”. “The
playing didn’t really help pull it off” I add, remembering the
solo which was probably less Lindsey Buckingham than Lindsey Lohan in
its execution. The
Other Guitarist wanders over. “We think that ‘Go Your Own Way’
didn’t really work” The Singer repeats. “It’s the vocals”. “And
the playing” I add. There is a pause as we consider the ramifications. “The
lights were good…” offers The Drummer.
In
the meanwhilst I am happy that my signature big power ballad showcase
- ‘Take It On The Run’ by The REO Speedwagon big haired big beat combo - has
gone as well as it has.
Fast
forward twenty four hours and I am outside a bar in Brighton**, about
to drop into a Karaoke night organised and hosted by two flamboyantly
coiffed and be-sequinned drag queens. I am unsure of where I fit into the current heirarchy in
the grand scheme of things. “Am
I a Bear?” I enquire of my wife, upon whose invitation the pair of us are here. “No.
Phill Jupitus is a Bear”. She pauses somewhat deliberately. “At best you’re
just a man with a Beard”. I think she’s doing it on purpose.
Unsurprisingly,
the evening is a hoot. Toward the the end of the night, I am aware
that there are moves afoot to coax me on to the stage in order
that I can better be exhibited for the delectation of the throng. Mrs Skirky is being badgered to provide
intel on something I might be prepared to perform for the crowd’s
enjoyment. In order to try and stave off my blushes she thinks of the
most heterosexual number - which they will absolutely, definitely not have in
their library - that she can. “He
sometimes does ‘Take It On The Run’ by REO Speedwagon” she
says, which is why, five minutes later, I find myself on stage about
to perform for an archly critical audience. We are, to paraphrase
Dorothy, not in Stowmarket any more. I am handed a microphone, and
the crowd hushes expectantly.
“So”
I begin “I bought these shoes off a drug dealer...”
*We
played basically the same two sets throughout our 2018 residency, but
to be fair that was once every four months rather than twice a
weekend straight for a year as some of our peers do.
**Long
story.
