Come with me, gentle reader, to my combination of annual retox, spiritual retreat and festival of all things Americana; The Maverick Festival, held annually in the heart of swinging downtown Easton. Once again I am entrusted with stewardship of The Travelling Medicine Show - unadvertised yet programmed (that is to say I mostly know who’s turning up, but no-one else does) with enough of the Glastonbury secret glade vibe about it to make it a favourite of both the artists who don’t fancy the croissants in the Green Room and people who just need a bit of a sit in the shade. Sometimes these people are the same humans.
The stage itself is small, perfectly formed, and of a vintage rustique nature which makes it simultaneously manageable to wrangle if you’re a crewless pirate of the sound waves, or a main stage artiste who just wants to blow off a bit of steam in a leafy enclave without being too concerned about how this set is going to affect your Spotify stats. You’d be surprised how many of us/them there are. One of my early clients are Mick and Stretch, a pair of larrikins who have already moved their tour van so I can set up my tent in the Artist/crew camping field. Stretch temporarily removes his rub board* to bend it into a more comfortable playing position. “I’m just tuning it” he remarks as an aside, before selecting a couple of spoons with which to perform his art. “Might be a bit muffled - this one’s got burn marks on it…”
Just after Stretch has asked for lots of reverb on the melodica, he leans over to scan the vintage** mixing desk. “Everything okay?” I enquire. “Yeah, it’s just that when they say they’re giving you a sound man, you don’t know if it’s a sound man, or just an accountant who fucks about at the weekends”. It’s like being asked for your CV by Tim Minchin (during his imperial ‘Upright’ phase). “I” I respond, with all the faux-dignity and gravitas I can muster “…am actually a Production Planner fucking about at the weekend”. “Are you gunna be here all set?” “No, I’ve got a nice meal booked in Woodbridge, they’ll only hold the table for two hours, so I’m going to set your faders and fuck off into town. Why should I ride your levels?” “Well you’re riding me”. Stretch is one of my favourite human beings on the planet right now, and that - written down - goes nowhere half to explaining how much fun he is. “Why’s this monitor fucked?” loses everything on the page and gains everything in the delivery. I guess you had to be there. All weekend Mick never passed me without a tip of the hat or a “G’day”.
I had a relatively quiet night - The Weeping Willows apparently first played Maverick on The Medicine Show in - what - 2018(?) and were back to complete their full round of MavShow Bingo by doing The Green on Saturday. Later, Joe Martin - a literally jaw dropping songwriter - would be temporarily discomfited by my greeting of “You’re even more handsome than you look in the programme” and quietly grateful at the number of people who had been asking me “Will he be here later?” since he’d played the stage formerly known as The Peacock and mentioned that he might be doing a short set later. Look - I’ve seen a lot - a lot - of songwriters, and not one has convinced me they’d been an actual Daimler-driving habitué of Beverly Hills who is now reduced to begging for chump change until this kid showed up.
Saturday brings new challenges - ten in the morning until ten at night is a long shift in terms of comfort breaks however the Production Manager*** has very thoughtfully relocated from the floor of the Playgroup to the Air BnB not a sticks’ throw from my workstation. Hence I set the stage up and then go and make myself a fried egg sandwich rather than queue behind civilians in order to hand over my half portion poker chip to one of the (universally charming) traders. This also explains why I entered the arena on Sunday morning with a lovely slice of toast and jam rather than a coffee and a hangover. Although, coincidentally, I also had those. Again, everyone was charming and compliant. The Bondurants were as fun as ever, Lewis Pugh delivered a Braggesque polemic of a set, and I’m back at the bar, eating cheese, playing “Who’s your favourite builder” and discussing K-pop (not all of these concurrently) before you know it.
Having woken up at 5:30 on Saturday morning, I’m looking forward to being able to have a leisurely coffee and packing the tent down on Sunday before ambling over to The Barn for our opening set with Helen and The Neighbourhood Dogs. I pop my head out of the tent. The rest of the band are passing up the concrete path between the stables (“Some of these horses bite”) - more worryingly, so is the stage manager. If I were sponsored by Waitrose wet wipes, now would be the time to run playback on the Ad. As always, the crew are attentive, on point, and - as the kids say - all over it. In a good way.
There’s something about a great sound, a good rehearsal and comfortable shoes that usually makes for a great show. The shoes, the rehearsal, the sound and the planets align. It’s a great show. We are missing a Dog. “He’s at the vet’s” I explain. Nevertheless Indigo (bringing down the average age of the band by a factor of about five) plays the part of those extra session players you see tucked away to the side of the stage at arena shows for, say, REM to perfection. New (ish) keyboard player Stephen inhabits in those Benmont Tench spaces we didn’t even know were there, Turny Winn is out of his skin, Gibbon on bass is, well, Gib. Helen is transcendent. Afterwards, I bump into Stretch. “Great show” he says. “See yah down the road”.
*here’s one. https://youtu.be/IbixfEJpjQU?si=Fh-F2lkQFznHhY9W
**Old. Very, very old
***”After eighteen years, I finally get a flushing toilet”
No comments:
Post a Comment