It’s
been getting a bit embarrassing lately when folk stop you in the
street and ask if you’re “playing much?” to simply and frankly
answer “No”. More so when you’re in a radio studio, ostensibly
to promote your work and career, and you have to give the same
answer. A series of family commitments, unforeseen circumstances and
parish council prevarications have reduced what was looking like a
fairly healthy Summer schedule into a number of pop-up gigs and
guerilla appearances, and so when the weather forecast looked like it
was going to scupper our plans to perform outdoors at a fund-raiser
for Bungay Castle, we were only too pleased to find that it had
merely been moved to a nearby village hall for meteorological
reasons.
Gibbon
and I made up one travelling party, Mr. Wendell and the
returning-to-duty Turny Winn another, the final part of the transport
triumvirate being La Mulley, who was driving in from a wedding or a
family camping trip or something. We were on this occasion
Lockwood-less, suffering an absence of Lockwood-ness, in effect,
experiencing Lockwoodlessness. This had led to a quick re-jigging
(or, more accurately, de-jigging) of the set, which was further
trimmed once the final runners and riders were revealed in terms of
stage times. This also meant that we didn’t have to side-swipe the
drum kit in order to fit a vibraphone on stage, or clear an area the
size of Tunstall Forest in order to fit Fiddly’s stage effect rack,
although that would have given me the opportunity to lift a couple of
the tasty-looking strats that were already racked up to the side*.
Suitably
checked in, Mr. Wendell and I went in search of refreshment, for
although many of the audience had fully embraced the al fresco nature
of the original event and were even now tucking into buffet-sized
picnics and hip flasks of various warming nips, we'd not had time for us tea before we came out. Luckily, just across the street lay the village pub – a suitably flag-stoned, beamed den
of a place with three hand pumps on and a further half dozen ales
chalked on the board. “Are you from over the road?” enquired mine
host deliberately. I though back to my first Glastonbury, where we
couldn’t get a pre-festival pint in a nearby village for love nor
money due to being festival people. We were just over the
border, in Nelson’s County, so maybe we looked a bit too Suffolk
for their liking. Perhaps it was a different kind of metaphor
altogether – Mr. Wendell is a graphic designer, after all... “It’s
just that I’ll have to give you plastic glasses if you’re taking
them out” he concluded affably.
We
were third up, which meant that the team on sound had had time to
sort out any issues with the lights and wiring, but not to have
burned out from rigging and de-rigging the six turns scheduled to
perform. With my Maverick stage-managing experience still fresh I
ensured that we both thanked them from the stage and eschewed any of
that “How’s the sound for you guys?” malarkey that bands
sometimes like to engage with when faced with a room (or field)ful
of civilians. We even missed out the “Can you hear the banjo?”
lark that all but one of the group so much enjoy, although did mark
Tony’s absence from our version of ‘Love Hurts’ with the proper
respect that earned Bill Bruford a writing credit for the King Crimson track ‘Trio’. We also managed to shoehorn in a pub quiz
moment regarding the number of fire-fighters in the Trumpton Fire
Brigade, and Helen had her own Motley Crue moment prior to greeting
the crowd. “Where are we?” she hissed “I have no
idea!”
Fortunately
Gibbon’s pre-match quip about Earsham Boys – Hunter boots and
jumbo corduroys – had stuck, and I was able to stage whisper the
same across to her as she combined saying 'Hello' with rummaging around
in her flute bag**. “I think someone’s stolen my penny whistle!”
she exclaimed before simply improvising a solo on flute in the first number instead, as
those who are as such talented are wont to do. I sympathised,
indicating the apparatus that keeps my guitar from falling over when
I’ve finished playing it. “At Maverick I think I lost a stand
bag”.
She arched a perfectly Lady Bracknell-esque eyebrow. “A
stand bag..?”
*Of course I wouldn't. Not when there was a PAF-equipped Les Paul there as well.
**Not
a metaphor.
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