"The King is dead! Long live The King!"

 

I roll up at saturday  to the works open day, where we have been employed to provide a musical backdrop to the raffle, a selection of stalls, some tours of the factory and a surprising number of scouts, some of whom are desultoraly wandering around having accessorised their uniforms with sneakers, skinny fit jeans and long keychains and have doubtless already achieved their 'emo' badges, very probably with distinctions. 

The Suffolk School of Samba are occupied drumming, dancing and generally enhancing the hangover experience under the bright sunshine and not one, but two trailers have been lined up side by side to provide our stage. Another band have provided PA and are also to play and are soon battling with the other attractions, not least a display by the company fire officers, who are regularly setting alight a pan of chemicals and then demonstrating how best to extinguish it, which on a site which expressly forbids the use of cigarette lighters and mobile phones for fear of igniting an explosion seems cavalier at best. Luckily there are also some members of both the Territorial and The Salvation Armies at hand, so all bases seem pretty well covered in terms of providing extra assistance in case things do go awry. 

Marvista, for it is they, play a punchy set of rock classics punctuated at every tween-song break by the dulcet tones of the site announcer urging folk to take the tour, buy some raffle tickets or visit the site waste disposal area over the PA before reminding them that they are being entertained by the band who are playing "in a pub style". The New Drummer suggests that we all go and have our faces painted and perform our set as tigers, an idea which is given serious consideration before being politely declined, as is his second suggestion that we engage in some Greco-Roman wrestling prior to the gig to stir things up a bit. At least he's contributing. 

The band finish and clear the stage of their equipment including, unfortuntely, the mics for the drum kit and guitar amps and also the vocal mics, however we have our own bag o' leads to hand and jury-rig a quick backline sound. This does rather leave The New Drummer having to make himself heard acoustically over the noise of the PA through which everyone else is playing, but he seems unfazed and approaches the task at hand with gusto. 

It's a nice day, we're on a trailer, we're having fun, and so who really cares if the car park audience are mainly transient? The lure of the waste disposal area has clearly become too much for a few people, and the lure of afternoon tea too much for a few stallholders who, some tired of handing out leaflets for free gym sessions (we weren't sure if we were being deliberately targeted but the exchange "Are you fit, then?" - "No, Tracy's the fit one" - "I beg to differ my dear..." was another of TND's contributions to the afternoon's entertainment) start packing up. 

The Scouts, to a be-woggled girl, boy and man, bravely hang on to the finish. As we prepare for our final big crescendo the announcer, who has been AWOL throughout our set, reappears, elegantly coiffed and resplendent in pastel green slacks, matching socks and wearing sandals to announce that it is time for the raffle to be drawn. 

Our stint, apparently, is over. Well, it's been a nice day out, I've earned more in an afternoon from the company than I have from the previous six years' performance-related bonuses (whether that says more about me than about the firm is a moot point) and so we pack up, up and away, content that for once we'll be home in time for tea and Final Score. The TA have loaded up their lorry, the winner of their own personal competition gets to ride the Steve McQueen-esque camouflage green motorcycle home, the last of the balloons in the balloon race are released to the skies and the afternoon has one, final, glorious postscript. The winning raffle tickets are announced over the public address speakers and prize recipients come forward to claim their booty from the stand. "....and on the yellow, winning ticket number 173. Has anyone seen Mike Hunt....?"

"...and on that bombshell....."

We have another wedding reception to play. As per normal we have strongly advised both bride and groom to come and see us in a pub environment prior to the big day and warned them that, possibly minus a bit of Radiohead and plus a bit of Beatles, that's what they'll be getting. We're not a cabaret band, we don't do requests and we don't turn the PA back on after we've finished so that the chief bridesmaid can make an announcement. Not since that time one of them slurred "But i's very important - jes' wanna tell evryone tha' I splept with th' groom las' week...." although, believe me, we were tempted. Especially after The Bass Player said "Did she say 'the groom' or 'the bride and groom'?". These details can be important. So we turn up at the appointed (and anointed) venue, a decommissioned church, still used for spiritual matters but doubling as a conference, exhibition and meeting centre, although according to the sign outside "Revelations is cancelled on saturdays for further notice". The Bass Player is comforted by the inference that tonight's gig will be mercifully undisturbed by any apocalyptic horsemen, not least because I imagine they'd leave a terrible mess on the carpet. We have arrived bright and early to set up but find that the stage is already occupied by the pub rocker's sworn enemy and only natural predator - The Dixieland Jazz Combo. The Drummer is freaked out enough by clowns, so you can imagine what the sight of half a dozen MU members in blazers and toting such things as banjos does to him. They affably explain that they didn't know that there was another band playing tonight, but they'll be off at eight, which will give us plenty of time to set up before we start at nine, and there's still time to catch the second half of the England game at the nearest pub. This all sounds terribly reasonable and so we retire for coffees and cigarettes and a discourse on Peter Crouch's scoring record, at The Plough. The Drummer also has something on his mind. He has a beautiful gifted and attentive partner* and is charged with the care of three beautiful children, all of whom he hardly ever sees, has a way stressful day job to which he has to devote many hours of his own time, and on top of that goes out several thursday, friday and saturday nights a month with a bunch of guys who make him play 'American Idiot' and then 'I Fought The Law' in quick succession without a fag break in between. And at his age? Something's got to give, not least because it's rumoured that his golf handicap is also suffering. It's been building for a while and so we are not entirely surprised when he announces that this will be his last performance with the band for the forseeable future. And he might be losing his hair, but he's got great eyesight. Coffee cups are clinked. We go back to the venue and set up. The Drummer points out that this place "sucks the bass out of things". It's not a metaphor, the sound is odd. Three songs in we play a John Lennon song we've learned especially for the occasion at the Groom's behest and I shudder quietly to myself at how easily a "no requests" principle can be quickly neutralised by the application of ready cash. Perhaps it's the venue (although the huge organ** intro to one song sounds especially dramatic given the surroundings), perhaps it's occasion, perhaps it's the sunshine the starlight or even the boogie, but I keep drifting off. Regular viewers will be aware of my penchant for shape-throwing at pertinent points of shows, but there really is something especially wonderful about windmilling a chord in a Who song and having a wild drum fill punched into the crowd by The Drummer at the same time. We don't do any Free, but sometimes when I've been hitting a hanging barre chord on the Les Paul (roots ad fifths only, no thirds) leaning close up to the hi hat and locking in with the bass drum I really have thought "Were Kossoff and Kirke like this on Top of the Pops in the seventies?" - that we were probably playing 'The Bends' at the time needn't impinge on my reality, any more than the stuffed moose's head hanging from the ceiling over my head had to. During a slow Coldplay number I remember that when I did my first ever stand up solo singer-songwriter gig it was supporting The Drummer's band*** and when we finish I'm sorry that it wasn't in a frenzy of thrashing guitars, bass drones and Moonist fills around the kit, just that we had served our purpose for the evening and foks had mostly either disappeared for a cigarette outside or gone on to a club. And so this is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with a wedding. We are in the town centre, and rowdy crowds pass us by on their way to club land as we are packing up, many seasonally underdressed. Two girls dressed as Playboy bunnies totter past unsteadily. A man in a wedding suit nudges The Other Guitarist. "You can see their tails from here.....". Back in the venue, a very small boy clambers on to the stage, unsure of himself and looking for reassurance from his father, who urges him forward. The Drummer hands him a set of beaters, settles him on the stool, and watches happily as the child swooshes a few cymbals, delighted at the noise. I can see him thinking to himself - "My art will go on".



*Hi Trudes. x
**Oh stop it.
***It's alright, he doesn't die in the end, this is all just flashbacks. He's fine.

"Hi, I'm Johnny Cash...."

The Drummer has passed a late fitness test and announces his presence from behind the kit by launching into a couple of choruses of 'Ring of Fire'. All is well in the Picturehouse world as we are restored to full strength and amplifiers settings are rotated clockwise just a little further than is ordinarily considered polite. This evening will be a testament to the power of rock (country skiffle covers notwithstanding) and we have already seen off a great many guitar-based numbers so far tonight by the simple expedient of thrashing the merry hell out of our instruments at somewhat extreme volume. It's fair to say that after a series of party gigs, decibel metered-power cuts and enforced periods of acousticity, built up tensions are being released. 

They're not the only thing close to being released, as it occurs to me that the cold sweat I am generating may not be simply down to the pressure of trying to remember the riff to that Coldplay song we haven't done for a while but may also have something to do with the extended dinner I enjoyed last night with an old friend, the artist formerly known as The Behemoth of The Bass, and his lovely partner which ended up with us sitting over pints in the garden of a pub which hosted some of our finest moments back when we were someone, pointing out where the monitor engineer sat in a sort of "this were all backstage when I were a lad" fashion. The Behemoth mentions that he bumped into Fruitbat out of Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine in a bar in London recently and drunkenly reminded him that he'd supported him in Ipswich once. Fruitbat was either compos mentis enough, or polite enough, to recall the gig as a good one, and there is much discussion over the correct sequence of the lyrics to 'Sheriff Fatman' as a result. 

This was all terribly good fun at the time but it occurs to me that it's a good job that tonight's venue is no-smoking as having a naked flame anywhere near my pores just at the moment would be tantamount to inviting the local council to close the place down as an unwarranted fire hazard. Tonight I am playing the role of brooding guitar sidekick, and the resulting Peter Buck shapes being thrown, at least in my head, perk me up to the point where my unsteady passage to the microphone to front my first featured number of the evening is not quite as terrifying as it would have been ten minutes previously. While the audience is expectant, I am still feeling mildly expectorant, nevertheless the song passes without any embarassing evacuations, either by them or me. The healing power of REO Speedwagon is an underrated one, I find, nevertheless I am grateful to retire once more to the shadows and return to my imagined desultory air of mystery while the front pair pump up the volume. 

By the time The Drummer has introduced his Johnny Cash turn we are all positively playful - there are a couple of injoke riffages and The Singer's sense of urgency is infectious - every 'tween song break is punctuated by an agenda-setting purposeful "right...." before he announces what we're doing next, to the point where I idly speculate that "I predict a 'right'" may be the way forward for my next go at the microphone. As it is, some anthemic choruses bring forth a display of mobile phone screens in lieu of waved lighters, audience members shake tambourines and egg-shaped shakers (one returning said eggs with a leered - "It's alright, I didn't get them wet....") and by the time I'm feeling perky again it's all over bar the encores. 

The Other Guitarist does his party-piece "It's The End of The World as We Know It", we fade down the faders, switch off the electrics and retire to the garden for a contemplative post-gig cigarette. To paraphrase, doing a gig is like making love to a beautiful woman - you have to turn up on time, bring the right equipment, know what to do with your hands and leave 'em gasping and wanting more. 

Obviously, getting a round of applause is a bonus. 

"The call came through at three fifty nine and by four you were on your way....."

I'm at work, and the inbox message flashes up on the screen with incoming. It's not Stalker Bertie (recently redubbed Bertie McFly) or Ophelia, two of my more my regular correspondents, it is The Singer. The Drummer is unwell and it looks like we will have to either cancel tonight's gig at The Pickerel or (and this where I feel my enthusiasm drifting rapidly away) "Let's do it country". Let's face it, it's friday night, it's raining, Ipswich Town are on the telly and we have no drummer - how much fun could this be? Really? He says that The Other Guitarist is going to call in on The Drummer for a late fitness test and then call the pub and will text me later. I reply and sign off to The Singer's email "fingers crossed". I imagine that we have different reasons for hope, after all, I've been invited out for dinner.
As it turns out, the gig is on. I pack the electrical guitar just in case we need a bit of extra oomph and slip a CD into the car stereo for the journey. It is the (originally a) tape that The Singer and The Other Guitarist made some twenty or so years ago of acoustic whimsy and leftovers from their other bands that at the time simply begged to be put down for future generations to enjoy. They called the band Picturehouse. There was no MySpace back then, and everyone we knew was in a band with oft-copied cassettes and hastily zeroxed fanzines as the only way to spread the word. The music is brilliant, all twelve strings and echoey piano and drum machines and naively double-tracked vocals, and I hear 'Stringman' as I pull up into the pub carpark and (in the words of Jackson Browne) I remember why we came.
We get kudos in the first place for turning up at all, but then we are faced with the issues of what to actually play. Luckily the frontline boys have a few numbers up their sleeves with which to calm the beast which is a Stowmarket pub audience and luckily The Bass Player is a master of improvisation and can provide some low notes. Oddly, they take to us and our never-say-die spirit (of actually turning up) with enormous enthusiasm. The Picturehouse Small Band renditions of singalongs like Lazy Sunday and California Dreaming bring forth glass-clicking approvals and lusty audience chorus joininginery. By the time we have exhausted our enforcedly limited repertoire the audience are bellowing at us not to leave. But leave we must. The Bass Player and I have shared the remaining SM58 like proto Paul and Georges, he has played guitar, I have played bass, we've both tried our best to fill in for The Drummer's inimitable harmonies and a very pretty girl leaps upon him after the gig saying she loves bass players - they're the best and coolest, ever. The Other Guitarist reflects sadly that chicks never fancied the bass player in his day, that's why he swapped.
Back home, I put on the Picturehouse CD again. And again.

"...and now, please welcome on stage - Nun's Gussets....!!"

It is the third and final day of our three day tourette, and we are in the garden of The Steamboat Tavern in sunny downtown Ippo readying ourselves for an acoustic session in the sunshine. Thing is, after the privations of the previous couple of days The Other Guitarist and I have sneaked a couple of amps and electric guitars on stage, "just in case". The Singer whacks his acoustic through his pedal board, previously employed as the world's most digitally complicated guitar tuner, fiddles with some buttons and pronounces himself satisfied with the resulting fuzztoned buzz. 

The Bass Player regards his now-redundant elaborate two speaker cross-wired acoustic guitar foldback system sadly. It's nice in the barn-like shelter and we are happily playing, free from the restrictions of decibel meters and themed gigs, able to take ourselves wherever our whimsy guides us. Naturally, this means that we play a couple of Eagles songs and revisit the Noel Coward-does-The-Clash experience of last night, chatting to the happy crowd and inadvertently being rude about a couple of other local bands. "If there's anyone else you'd like us to have a go at", I quip, "Write their names down on a piece of paper and we'll do it in the second set". 

The so-called acoustic gig is becoming louder by the minute, much to the chagrin of The Drummer, who has stuck to the party line and just set up the minimalist kit he was playing last night, having treated himself to a couple of extra cymbals which give it a nice sense of symmetry if nothing else. But like The Ghurka kukri, once it is unsheathed it must be used, only with less deadly effect (usually). It's much harder to play a small combo than a big one and still make it sound good, especially when The Singer announces a number which traditionally starts with a big roll round the (missing) tom toms. He improvises masterfully before discarding the soft sticks and bringing out the 6A hickory big guns. 

Still, there's food, a bar tab, and a number of our collective offspring milling about, doing colouring on the patio and each other with thoughtfully provided chalks and complaining about having to sit through Dad's old rubbish again when they could be watching Star Wars. Kids today. They don't know they're born, eh? A number of small children seize the opportunity of the break to familiarise themselves with the percussive possibilities afforded by the stripped-down set up as he looks on happily, safe in the knowledge that he is creating an army of junior batteritistes which will one day surely take over the world, led by their spiritual leader, a sort of pied drummer of Hamelin. 

There is a faint sound of nervous squeaking as the dockside rats convene to discuss the inevitable forthcoming putsch. An all-girl cabaret trio set up, plug in their iPod and perform a number of swinging close-harmony songs with stage props and hat changes a-plenty. Someone has clearly been listening to our stage banter however, and hands me a piece of paper. I unfold it to read three words, the name of the group, The Nun's Gussets. Some of the children look a mite confused at their introduction and there is a degree of dread amongst the grown ups about having to go through the trio's moniker before Gusset number two helpfully points out that it is, in fact, a cocktail of sorts. Mainly involving Guinness, I believe. 

I was quite taken by the blonde one in the jaunty stetson actually, but there is a strong suspicion within the group that I'm not her type. My wife seems sure, anyway. High on chilli, caramelised sausages, chicken wings and sunshine, we retake the stage, blast out a few more less-than-acoustic numbers and bid our adieus. It's been a funny old weekend, but I love a happy ending.

“Turn ‘em all on, then turn ‘em all down...”

 

I am loading the car when the phone rings. It is Stalker Bertie who is already at tonight's gig and mysteriously offers the advice that I should pack an extra acoustic guitar. It seems that the venue has had a council-approved decibel meter installed, wired irrevocably to the power supply. Upon arrival it transpires that the previous night's band managed one thwack on the kick drum before departing in high dudgeon, and ominously The Drummer has set up only a bass, snare and hi hat ensemble and is regarding the soundchecking Singer mournfully. 

Sure enough, our saturday night out loosing the hopes and cares of the working week through the medium of loud rock music is to be skewed slightly and we settle down on stools for an evening of overly polite strumming, battling both the ever-present draconia of the amber light on the meter and the ribald revelry of the lads just to our right who are exploring the social possibilities of massive lager consumption, mobile-phone related humour and raucous repartee, some of which regularly threatens to trip the light not-so-fantastic without any of our help at all. I bet they're having no trouble washing away the week's cares. Still, needs must, and The Singer, who is currently resting between engagements, is keen to uphold the showbiz maxim that the show-offs must go on. And so we do.

After the third power cut in three songs we have found our level and worked out that it is the harmony vocals which seem to be both triggering the electrical blowouts and keeping us going through them, and for a band that prides itself on its harmony work this is clearly going to be an issue. Gallows humour takes over as we try to entertain (after all, that's our job) as well as salvage our dignity - a 'London Calling' lyric is subtly altered to report "London Calling / and I don't wanna shout / 'Cause every time I do / That fucking thing keeps cutting out" before the Noel Cowardesque reading of the songs slides to a jazzy denouement involving the call-and-response backing vocals originally found in 'The Monster Mash'. It's not supposed to be a joke band, but the temptation to play up to the audience is overwhelming on occasion. A popular Kaiser Chiefs' anthem is presented as 'I Predict It's Quiet', and 'Smile' is taken at a steady swing jog. 

We are forbidden from playing past eleven, which is a blessed relief and we gamely throw in a polite 'Fat Bottomed Girls' to close the show. That The Drummer, bereft of his usual armoury of percussion, manages to trip the power by vocally freestyling the big drum fill is the final ignomy. There is a gentle faux-Who trashing of kit before we accept defeat. And our gig money. Stalker Bertie sympathises as his uncannily similarly-featured father slopes up and stands next to him, giving us a collective Back To The Future-esque vision of Stalker Senior handing over an envelope containg the words "....and if you get to the band on friday, tell them to cancel the gig and go out on the town instead." 

I receive a text from my friend James, who is at the festival I would have gone to if we weren't gigging. Glenn Tilbrook's doing Squeeze songs backed by Fairport Convention and "...it sounds great!". I don't know what the weather's like in Cropredy, but here it's just started raining.

A Long Weekend (part one).

The High Barn in Great Bardfield is part venue, part studio, part web-based conglomerate, but all situated in a beautiful 16th century barn (hence, um, the name). It is a lovely place to play and three-fifths of the combo, plus occasional stand-in drummer Frisky Pat and our friend Shev have signed up to play one of their occasional acoustic showcase tribute nights - on this occasion performing the music of The Eagles. 

We have been forewarned that a couple of people have dropped out at short notice and so we have decided to play what Shev terms 'the Jack Charlton card' and a last-minute rehearsal has bumped up our repertoire by three songs, two of which are not strictly Eagleish, but do have strong family connections, hence the term. Thus it is that Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" for one, will receive a gentle acoustic makeover. 

Upon our arrival we are designated a table and invited to line check the instruments; that is, plug them in and make sure they're working, a full soundcheck being precluded both by the rapidly filling auditorium and the absence of Pat, who has phoned ahead to say he's just finished work and may be a while. There is a hastily convened set-list huddle to switch things about as we are supposed to be opening and closing the show which is settled amicably and I will be up to sing the first song - one of the ones we put together last night - the opening track from 'Desperado'. 

With this thus resolved we retire to the sold-out hall where a little old lady has taken residence at our assigned table. "Who's she?" whispers Shev and I, manfully avoiding the temptation to repeat Ralph Brown's beautifully drawled line from "Wayne's World 2" ("that....is my old lady") confess that I have no idea. From table N comes a cheery wave from Louise, one of the other turns (and who will sing very well later on). We leave the little old lady to her place at table M, retire to the artiste's seats and resolve to buy some of those earplugs the drummers favour these days. 

We are called to the stage, which has been meticulously cleared of guitar cases, guitar-stand bags and all other detritus by soundman James, or "Slacker" as we have been referring to him, since his was one of the bands that dropped out, and are mildly peturbed that our opening jokey line of "So, who here owns anything other that The Eagles Greatest Hits?" is greeted with baffled silence by the well-heeled assembled and we prepare to open our set with an album track from the band's most poorly received outing with no little nervousness. 

Three songs later and we retire, having been encouragingly well received and wait excitedly for both the rest of the evening and for drummer Pat's arrival. James's perceptive comment of "I like the way you repeated that mistake you made with the slide guitar so it sounded like you meant it the first time" is treated with the opprobrium it deserves, ie none. Well spotted that man. 

There are ups and downs throughout the course of the night's entertainment - 'Hotel California' is delivered without it's signature guitar solo, one comment from the stage of "We're going to do a little something different with the next song" is greeted with an arch whispered "What did you do - learn it?", there is some discussion around whether the world is ready for a cod-reggae version of 'Desperado'. 

Pavlov's Cat deliver a storming open-tuned version of 'Seven Bridges Road' which is worth the price of admission alone, and also serves to gee the assembled up into a form of anticipation for our second set. With Pat now firmly in place behind the kit we kick off with "Take It Easy" and the by now well oiled as well as well heeled seem happy that there is a five piece band doing four part harmonies and delivering songs they know in an instantly recognisable form. A couple of us are even in checked shirts.

 It's not so much radical reinterpretation, more sub-tribute band but we are, in the parlance of the business, giving the people what they want. So much so that by song three there is a conga line of women of a certain age making their unsteady way to the front of the stage, seemingly fuelled equally by chardonnay and HRT patches, where they remain for the rest of the night, swaying, singing along and making requests for Shev's hat - it really does make for a terribly fun party atmosphere which at the generally austere and 'listening' barn is a novel experience. 

By the time we've encored with the Jack Charlton-carded 'Rocky Mountain Way' we are all happy, some of us are very slightly drunk, and Shev is in the middle of a melee trying to retrieve his hat. Next stop, The Royal Oak in Ippo for a full band gig, unencumbered by the niceties of being party entertainers or not having electric guitars to whack up during the solos. 

“Seems like a dream now, it was so long ago….”

We are at The Singer’s house working our way through a number of Eagles songs in preparation for a “An acoustic evening with…..” at a rather splendid venue of our acquaintance, The High Barn in Great Bardfield. We have done a couple of these things before – our REM performance was received in awed silence by those who were either enormously impressed with our reworking of “Don’t Go Back to Rockville” or were perhaps previously unaware of the existence of albums like “Reconstruction of the Fables”, or indeed very much outside of “Everybody Hurts” if we’re being honest about it, and that included some of the performers. 

We declined the opportunity to participate in the ‘unplugged’ Simon and Garfunkel night, or the evening of ‘unplugged’ Bob Dylan (I know, I know what you’re thinking…) but we’ve piled enthusiastically into this one, principally driven by my guilty-pleasure led adoration of the seminal ‘Desperado’ album. 

This was an early influence on my burgeoning career, courtesy of a copy of my elder sister’s boyfriend’s vinyl record which I played a great deal, so much so that I went and bought the book of the music so I could play laboriously along. Everything I know about songwriting I owe to JD Souther….. (this was in the days before you could just download the chords, lyrics and an MP3 of the tracks and start getting on with it. Or even an MP3 for the backing tracks and start performing it in pubs). I strongly suspect that there were very few covers bands being inveigled into The Eagles via rough and ready versions of ‘Twenty One’ and ‘Outlaw Man’ at the time, and certainly no others that rehearsed in a tomato shed* in Newbourn that I was aware of. It’s not a big village, mind. 

Well, I say “we” when referring to our current night’s work – “we” appear to be short of a drummer and a bass player for this side project, who perhaps don’t quite share my admiration for the early works of Bernie Leadon, and so we have co-opted an old chum of ours who plays guitar, sings and (rather handily) used to be in an Eagles tribute band, and also regular stand-in drummer Frisky Pat, both of whom are sadly not able to contribute to the set list discussion as they have rather better things to do this evening. We are thus also denied their contributions on whether that tricky lyric in verse three of “Doolin Dalton” is “laughed” or “left” – in Don Henley’s world the received pronunciation is identical. You can see why I needed a book. 

There is some acoustic guitar strumming, a fair amount of falsettoing, some rudimentary harmonizing, a bit of playing of CDs and a couple of cigarettes in the garden – all fairly standard Picturehouse rehearsal procedure – and we are reasonably happy with the way things are going before we realize that it is approaching ten o’clock.In the civilized world, if you carry on belting out “Take It To The Limit” with three part harmonies on the choruses this is about when the neighbours tend to start politely mentioning that you may have ‘had some friends round’ when they next bump into you over the garden fence and, more importantly, spouses who have work in the morning start to get a bit snippy with your guitar strumming friends, and it’s probably best to not wind up Mrs Singer anyway as her planned waterskiing expedition has been cancelled today as it is “too wet”**. 

It occurs to us that since it is Wednesday night, a good friend of ours will be hosting his weekly radio show from Central Ipswich about now. DJ Simon was our producer when we briefly entertained megalomaniac aspirations and had our own show – “Your New Favourite Song” - on Ipswich Community Radio a couple of years ago on which we played a wide ranging choice of selections and had regular features such as Drummer’s Corner (The Drummer plays a song which features an exceptional piece of percussion work), Charity Shop Record of The Week (vintage vinyl purchased that very week for under 50p) and, of course, Your New Favourite Song, which on one occasion was an eight minute Camel track about foxhunting (as far as we could make out) – The Bass Player’s choice if memory serves me. 

We call the show up on air and ask if they need cheering up with a song and ten minutes later we are in the studios of icrfm.co.uk and on The Urban Sofa Radio Show playing a rather dubious acoustic version of a Razorlight song, plugging some forthcoming gigs and being rude about co-host Matt Marvel’s t-shirt and closing with The Jags’ “(I’ve Got Your Number) Written on the Back of My Hand” which provides Simon with a splendidly cheesy link to a station ID, to Matthew’s audible disgust. “Don’t knock it mate” replies Si - “that’s going on my showreel….” 

 * ‘For the storage of’, not ‘constructed with’ or ‘painted the colour of’ 

**Again, I know….

"I've never been yachting....I've been dogging, does that count...?"

 

In such fashion the other guitarist attempts to engage the assembled at The Felixstowe Ferry Sailing Club, where we have been called in at short notice to provide the soundtrack to the climactic party of Deben Week, a seven day festival of fun, frolics and messing about in small boats.

Upon arrival T.O.G. and I are astonished to find a fully set up drum kit on stage. Astonished as this is most unlike the man we have come to refer to as Our Late Drummer, whose comfort zone for setting up is considerably shorter than, say, a good-length version of Sweet Home Chicago (whether there is actually ever such a thing as a good length version of Sweet Home Chicago is probably best left to a later discussion). 

We set up around the drums, a novel experience for all of us, and await his arrival over thoughtfully-provided hot meals. For a party that promises a buffet, live band and the experience of being there or being square it does seem that a goodly number of our nautical chums have opted for the latter,, however we kick off as advertised at eight thirty and play our first party set, principally to a confused looking young girl and her friend, who is enthusiastically practising her handstands, their elders and betters mostly preferring the safety and distance of the bar. 

There are a good few dancers later on, but the interval arrives without hint or happenstance of major frugging. Puzzling. Still, we're by the river on a balmy night and so a mid gig constitutional is a pleasant alternative to huddling in the car park over a marlboro light, and we listen appreciatively to T.O.G.'s party CD mix. The second half starts similarly desultorily and our habit of swapping instruments around doesn't do anything for a seamless segue of songs but gradually a few pogoers start to thrash about to the livelier ones and by three songs from the end we have a respectable melee going on. 

By two songs from the end of course, they have all disappeared again, but then return en masse for the last number to bellow their appreciation and demand an encore. It's a very odd series of comings and goings, but apparently we have gone down very well in the other room, where perhaps the comfort zone afforded by the pool table and the ability to hold a conversation without damaging one's chum's eardrums have proved more conducive to a jolly night out. 

It's odd though, like being the house band in a caravan park's social club (I imagine). But being terribly civilised, it is reasonably early by the time we're out and on the way home, with promises of more social functions to come - they're happy, which is the idea of the game after all, and it remains only to dodge the pavement traffic and the roadcrossers of chucking-out time as I wend my way home. It’s  been an odd sort of evening. Still I guess sometimes you're the wallpaper, and sometimes you're the wall.

"No, Matron! I said prick his boil....!"

We are engaged to perform for a number of student nurses at their end-of-exams shindig. The Other Guitarist upon receiving the initial call was told the location of the venue, how long we were expected to play, and a considerable amount of cash was mentioned. Upon hearing what the occasion was he paused and asked a further question. "That all sounds fine..." (there is the briefest of pauses) "...but could you give us a couple of weeks to raise the money...?". 

The venue is an out of town hotel's function suite and we are invited to be there at an early hour so as to be set up and out of the way by the time the putative Florence Nightingales arrive - we are, and meet the opposition (as it were) a couple of mobile DJs who are unexpectedly friendly and accomodating and not at all given to territorialism about the stage and where things are to go. This is a pleasant start to the evening and so we set up soundcheck and disperse, leaving them to it as we are not required until after the meal, to which we are sadly not invited. 

The Drummer and The Bass Player go home, The Other Guitarist, The Singer and I retire to a local fast food dispensary, all the better to shoot the breeze, admire the families picnicking in the car park on their friday family meal out, and direct a lost couple to the party at which we will later be performing. The Singer surveys the menu discomfitedly - he's not really a Burger King kinda guy, vegetarians rarely are. "A bunch of grapes and half a dozen doughnuts?" I suggest helpfully. He regards me mournfully and sighs. When we reconvene, the dinner is thankfully progressing on time and DJ number one gives us a cue to start playing. 

The party is dressed in their finest, although one could be forgiven for suspecting that there is a fair amount of recycling going on - a proportion of the room resembles nothing so much as an episode of bridesmaids revisited, but they are an affable lot and are soon frugging enthusiastically, with no little kicking off of shoes and nervous tugging up of bodices during the faster numbers. Thanks to the soundcheck and the extra boost given by the hiring in of some extra PA to give the bottom end a bit of sturditry, we are sounding quite good tonight, and the first set concludes with the traditional shouting of requests including 'Dirty Dancing' (The Drummer responds pithily "..that's not a song, it's a film - what are you going to request next - 'Jaws'...?"), the inevitable 'Mustang Sally' and (a first for us) "...anything by The Smiths...".

The half time analysis is that it's been a good first period, and helpful DJ Number 2 suggests that he cues us up with something from Dirty Dancing to get the dance floor good and full before the second set. These chaps really are rather affable and a pleasure to work with, notwithstanding the regular musician's complaint that all 'they' do is turn up with a couple of turntables and play records, which they have neatly sidestepped by simply turning up with a laptop with everything loaded onto it, which is even less gear to hump about, a point not wasted on The Drummer who nonetheless is upbeat enough to lead some synchronised dancing onstage before getting behind the kit and playing along with the digitised Bill Medley. 

The second half is looser all round, both from band and party people, as as well as a dancefloor conga line (it may even have been during 'American Idiot', which is something I imagine Billy Joe wasn't expecting when he wrote it) there is an outbreak of what can only be described as Boob Juggling on the part of one young lady, who cleverly utilises her friend's decolletage in an enormously entertaining fashion. Fortunately for everyone's peace of mind and decorum, spillage is not forthcoming. 

The DJs wind the evening up with a hardcore party favourites set, the likes of which will be familiar to anyone who's been at a wedding reception these past twenty years (Grease megamix? - check, Baggy Trousers? - check, Come On Eileen? - check, Wham? - check) but throwing in a couple of cheeky cross fades - we are collectively moved to congratulate them on their slick Pussycat Dolls/Seal mix, which has inspired one young lady to straddle a chair in a fashion which I'm quite sure Matron wouldn't approve of at the day job, and which fully utilises the slashed-to-the-thigh style of her best posh frock. 

We scurry about the stage unplugging leads, winding cables and hoicking bulky musical equipment out of the way and out the back door while the nurses and their beaus are distracted, all the better to effect a speedy departure. For like Cinderella, we always go to the ball, but you can be sure we'll have to be up and sweeping, washing and cleaning the grate out at home in the morning. Momentarily we wonder if we should take one of the many discarded shoes piled up around the dancefloor and perhaps tour the wards of the local hospital, looking for the owner and promising to make her a princess. But then we quite sensibly surmise that that would be just bloody stupid.

“Could the owner of the Mercedes blocking the car park entrance please ask their au pair to move it …”

 This weekend we are off to a local golf club for a combined wedding anniversary and birthday party. We’re not sure which anniversary it is, but it’s one of the big ones hence, presumably, the golf club being booked and not simply a marquee being installed on the lawn. The last big anniversary/birthday combination number we did was in a big tent on a lawn, and was ceremonially opened by a gentleman who arrived by microlite. As you do. There were canapés being served by black-jacketed waiters, there was a chocolate fountain being minded* by a man who’d been made redundant from BT, there were champagne cocktails being quaffed by creamy-skinned teenaged girls, the price of whose frocks (we were to learn later) seemed to be in inverse proportion to the amount of material actually used in their construction.

There was a DJ, who played a Cliff Richard track and then a Wet Wet Wet one. “We’ve had Cliff, we’ve had The Wets, what’s next?” enquired The Drummer as he nervously added another four-way extension lead to the bulging single available socket near the dance floor. The DJ regarded him in an impassively bovine manner. “Cliff” he answered simply. And so it turned out. There’s a surprising amount of mileage to be had in the old two-CD player/two-Greatest-Hits-albums trick for the enterprising mobile DJ as it turns out. We often find that the folk who throw the sorts of parties where the south terrace has been covered with a sprung dance floor, the atrium garlanded with soft lighting and the pool warmed up especially for the occasion are absolutely charming and attentive, can’t do enough for you and make a point of ensuring that you’re fully fed and watered before you go on stage. It’s mostly just their friends and kids we can’t stand - there’s always one in a kilt, for a start. 

One is never more aware than at these sorts of gigs that one is definitely an employee, but at least when they’re holding the party at home there’s a fair chance that we’ll actually be allowed in. At one golf club we were positioned outside the back door of the kitchen being fed leftovers from the main table (literally) like some sort of Dickensian orphans until set up time, as we’d had the temerity to turn up at the front door wearing jeans and it turned out the club captain was in. I know – I bet the Ivy Benson Big Band never had this trouble. 

Conversely, at the microlite do, The Singer and I paused on our way to the immaculately-maintained mobile lavatories (tastefully shielded from casual view by the shrubbery) to enjoy both the spectacle of a fully ball-gowned deb enjoying the Olympic-sized trampoline, and three proudly de-ball-gowned fillies enjoying the Olympic-sized outdoor pool. Our spontaneous round of applause at the latter was greeted by a series of perfectly executed slow-motion aquatic forward rolls in response, which were either a manifestation of their contempt for our behaviour, or a rare and earthy ‘come and get us’ gesture – we weren’t entirely sure, and being married chaps, we hastily made our excuses and stayed a bit longer, just to make sure before wandering off to pack up the gear. 

In the old days, mind, well….. In the old days, of course, we were full of vim, vigour - spunk if you will, and would never have hung around dry long enough to be mooned at by posh girls with trust funds the size of our mortgages – back then, of course, we didn’t actually have mortgages for a start, but as time has gone on we have either become more tolerant or more benevolently indulgent, or more worried about the mortgages themselves and such behaviour is as water off a swan’s back to us. It is surely a sign of passing time that we still see 50th birthday parties as the preserve of the Crumblies, and carefully set the amp settings on low and vow to start off with a couple of sixties singalongs to get them in the mood, forgetting that we are ourselves, if not actually cruising on the highway to half a century, then at least fiddling with the SatNav in order to find directions to the slip road. 

Simple maths shows that anyone who is 50 this year was 20 in 1976 and was thus ideally positioned to take full advantage of the opportunity to engage in the punk wars, or at the very least to be in position to be a non-com observer. Thus it was that at the black tie, medals and patent shoes posh frock ball, the first song that got the dancefloor filled and rocking and the throng baying was our version of The Clash’s “London Calling. “We”, we thought to ourselves, “are a two-car garage band”. Talk about turning rebellion into money…. *”mound” ?

"Hi, Robert! Loved your 'Addicted To Love' video....."

We weren't all born into covers bands you know. Scratch the surface of a contentedly strumming pub rocker and you'll surely find the soul of a burned-out singer-songwriter still bitter that they came second in the 1989 Battle of the Bands competition and as a result never got the acclaim they so clearly deserved then, and still deserve now, to tell the truth. That "Three Lions" line about "thirty years of hurt" barely comes close. We're talking twenty five years of seething indignation here. And it's not just us. I've seen the drummer from T-Rex playing "Alright Now" with Suzi Quatro's guitarist in my local, and the brothers from Scarlet Party glumly covering "All My Loving" at a pub barbecue. If, in Loudon Wainwright's words, it's better to be "...a has-been, and not just a never was" then the distinction seems to have been lost on some of us. When The Singer went off for a trek around California for a couple of months and we had to cover for him there was a point where we we ran out of servicable cover material and had to resort to playing some of my stuff - The Bass Player and The Other Guitarist were also (and indeed still are) in the band with me and so it made sense, and the songs were gratifyingly not pointed out as imposters in a kind of "What's My Line" fashion by a throng of faming torch-bearing locals demanding more Who covers. Still, our bread and butter is reworking the familiar and, as with many many other bands in our line of work, if occasionally we close our eyes and drift off imagining that it really is us up on that festival stage well, who could blame us? Picturehouse itself started off as The Singer and The Other Guitarist's pet home recording project - that was way back in the days before MySpace made it easy to get your stuff heard across the world at the click of a mouse, and so the cradle of the Pub Band behemoth that we have become is now archived carefully in four track cassette recordings of psychedelic whimsy and half-remembered chord changes. Of course we've all kept up in dabbling in the self-produced but when it comes to what pulls in the punters they'd generally rather hear The Kaiser Chief's "I Predict A Riot" than (say) Songs from The Blue House's "Waste of Angels" in the pub on a friday night. And who can blame them? So it was with an enormous sense of combined relief, elation, disbelief and joy that I found out this week that the band that Me and The Bass Player are in and that our friends The Singer, The Drummer and The Other Guitarist sometimes chip into, namely Songs from The Blue House have won a competition and will be, at this time next week, opening The Cornbury Festival for Robert Plant, The Waterboys and Deacon Blue. It's like the penalty shoot out finally went our way.

Where the dream begins, Westerfield.

We have been employed to provide the entertainment for a private party. Unfortunately, it’s one of those “Oh, you can do pretty much what you want” parties, which sounds great in principle, but musicians, like golden retrievers and professional footballers, work best under instruction. “We’ll go out and play for forty five minutes, then we’ll take a break for fifteen to review the first half performance” is a mantra recognizable to most of us, although it’s fairly unusual these days for one of us to be pulled off at half time*. Similarly, in the case of sweaty-fingered drummers, “Go and fetch that stick for me, would you?” is a not wholly unfamiliar phrase. Ours coincidentally also has a very nice coat and spends a lot of the gig being told to sit, and if you’re very nice he might let you tickle his tummy. Ahem, moving on before we get too involved in the simile, if you were going to let me do “pretty much” what I want to at a party then it’s a fair bet that each gig would start with a twenty minute version of Neil Young’s “Powderfinger” before we raided the beer stash and passed out under a pile of coats, and there are very few paying hosts that need that in their lives. There are also a disproportionate number of musicians in our band who need that sort of thing - disproportionately small, in my view, but there you go. In the case of at least one other band member (no names, no pack drill), I can well imagine that “doing what he wants” would involve smoking a fatty on the sofa while sprawled in front of the sort of DVD you can only get via mail order while an oiled flunky collects his gig money for him and pops it through the door, and to be fair you can see his point. The Other Guitarist, however, thoroughly enjoys these get togethers on a purely social basis and so we feel constrained to turn up in person, whatever the weather, especially since on this occasion our hosts have been kind enough to hold over the party from last year purely on the basis that we and the hog roast man couldn’t make it on the same evening. Not a biggy for the vegetarian wing of the band, but considered a splendidly considerate gesture by three fifths of the line up. That it now coincides with an England world cup game is little inconvenience. It’s an afternoon kick off and seems unlikely to require the sort of creative excuses needed when you simply have to catch the end of the game, half an hour’s extra time and then a penalty shoot-out before taking the stage. On that occasion we were at least embarrassed enough to give half the money back, given that we didn’t start playing until about twenty minutes before closing time, and we didn’t even get a pizza ad out of it either. Thanks a lot, Southgate. (On the upside, the hen party that had gone out on a Wednesday night purely in order to avoid having to watch the football at home were patient enough to hang on for us, which was nice).
It’s unusual for this kind of thing to happen – after all, you wouldn’t expect the Sultan of Brunei to hold off for a year because (say) Keith Richards had fallen out of a tree and couldn’t make the gig, however improbable that sounds – he’d probably just get Sting to do it instead**, and so we approach the show with all due diligence and preparation – ensuring that we know exactly when the food starts, and where the free bar will be situated in relation to the performing area. Knowing your timings and having a pre-prepared route can be vital in shaving vital seconds off that tricky interval-based refueling session. We also ensure that everyone is available for the gig and will be at least in the right post coded area on the night. Last weekend I caught up with an old friend who now does this sort of thing much more successfully (and in a far more lucrative fashion) than we do, who admitted that within his circle of concern there are around five bands of the same name circling the Home Counties at any one time, all drawing from the same well of musicians and faxed set lists. Blimey, we had enough trouble when The Singer went to The States for a couple of months and we filled in as a four-piece without starting to try and organize ourselves like a Sunday league cricket club (“You don’t mind opening today do you, only Ginger’s away with the first team in Tring…”). I imagine that’s why we have the fun we do at parties like this. And why folk’d rather call the whole thing off than go ahead without us. There ain’t no party like a Picturehouse party.


* ker-tissshhh!!!
** I used to work at a video duplication company who got the contract to run off a few copies of one of The Sultan’s kids’ birthday parties. You get more than a few balloon animals and a goody bag with some refreshers in at one of those things, I can tell you. Mind you, if we get annoyed when someone insists that we stop the set half way through to sing “Happy Birthday”, imagine how Bryan Adams must feel.

"He's not Gene Simmons, he's a very naughty boy..."

Back when I was someone, I often took

to the boards sporting a rather fetching pair of Blues Brother-esque faux ray-bans. Intended to imply a mysterious, elegant and mildly threatening aura, the real reason, purely and simply, was that I was absolutely terrified for most of the time I was on stage. The protection afforded me of not having to open my eyes for a large proportion of the set meant that I could enjoy making the noise for which I mostly responsible for authoring without any of that tedious mucking about to see if anyone was actually enjoying it or not, which most of the time was a serious blessing. 

I am reminded of these more innocent times as The Drummer suggests that we don shades for a couple of numbers at The Pickerel. It’s partially the response of one lively audience member that reminds me that as well as my burgeoning confidence as the early days wore on meaning I was able to throw off the shackles of self-imposed myopia I also had another reason, and one which becomes clearer with the passage of time. I don’t suit shades, and I look (to coin a recently expressed phrase) “like a dick”. Which is a shame, because audience watching can be a most enjoyable way to spend an evening, not least if you have the protection from identification as a pseudo-stalker afforded by your sunnies and can remember to move your fingers at the appropriate junctures so that it looks like you’re concentrating. 

If you’re much less a flamboyant showman than a dutiful sidekick you can pretty much spend your entire career this way - it helps whiles away the hours between solos, for a start. Drummers, from their seated position at the back, frequently have the best vantage points in terms of frock-spotting* and over the years one can come to recognize an unexpected and insistent double bass drum flams not only as an ad-hoc contribution to rock’s rich history of syncopated rhythms, but as an indicator that a girl in great strappy sandals has just walked across the front of the stage. On the downside of course they do generally have to spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the singer’s backside, and in the world of the Rock Dad which we surely inhabit, that’s not always exactly a cakewalk in the park**. 

The keen audience-spotter should never underestimate the level of irritation that may be afforded to the (frequently burly) partners of such spottees however, and so it is important not to stare overtly if you can help it unless you have either a car running outside throughout the show just in case, or have studied advanced microphone-stand combat techniques to at least Second Dan level. Also, it’s best to not bother at all if your spouse, fiancée, lover or same-sex hetero life-partner has come along to lend you moral support. Not even the most supportive wife will believe you were really going to comment to her in the break about the slutty girl in the red dress and how she was surely going to catch her death in weather like this when they’ve been watching your eyes follow her around the room for the entire first set. You only need to learn that once, I can tell you. 

Not that this necessarily precludes the fundamental basis of all stage/audience interaction – after all, the vanity factor which first drove the musician to stand on a stage and proclaim to the world “look at me, look at me, I’m fabulous!”*** but is now so deeply buried beneath a grubby patina of sticky carpeted pub gigs and overflowing ashtrays in the artist’s mind can easily be re-enflamed by the merest hint that a girl in the audience actually finds him physically attractive! Here, as in all things, caution must be exercised. 

The onstage / offstage interaction scenario is complex and arcane in its execution. As long as everyone remembers that it’s make-believe then it’s all great fun. Talent is a harsh mistress, but still probably a better one than that lass in the halter top who’s been eyeing you up during your solo in Hotel California will be. Unless, of course, you want to meet her boyfriend/husband and/or Mum later on – any combination of which can be terribly distracting. Mind you, if that’s your bag, as it were…. 

Anyway, all of this came to mind as I watched the tall, leggy redhead in the strappy top and the cowboy hat dance in her heels at the front of the gig last week. That and because someone shouted at me “take your sunglasses off indoors – you look like a dick…..”

 *this should not be confused at all with “logo spotting” which is an experience wherein an audience, or proportion thereof, will crane their necks at a forty five degree angle in order to be able to tell what make of guitar you’re playing, what effects you’re putting it through and, in some advanced cases, what’s next on the set list. This frequently requires spinal double-jointery and should be attempted only by extremely seasoned gig goers. And those who don’t like surprises. Remember to warm up thoroughly first. 

 ** It’s what we in the biz know as MacArthur’s law of returns. 

 *** And this we refer to as the Rufus factor.

"Blimey - look at the estate of that..."

We have been engaged to perform at what can truthfully be described as an estate pub. Custom built to form a social nucleus at the heart of the community it serves, we have been enduring chicken-wire-in-front-of-the-stage jokes from fellow musicians for some time now. The principal theme of these remarks is that we should take our own, just to be on the safe side. However, a gig’s a gig and so we dutifully roll up at the appointed time just to hear the end of the story about the glass that hit the landlady last Saturday night – “….and if she’d been any taller that wouldn’t’ve bounced off her, no”. Said landlady looks remarkably chipper despite her recent brush with glassware and welcomes us in to her domain. The estate is a close-knit community and the pub has the air of a social club – you wouldn’t necessarily travel to drink there from further away than, say, the other side of the Norwich Road, and as a result everyone knows everybody else and strangers are generally either taken to the bosom of the family or regarded as some sort of alien force which must be subdued, by force if necessary, but at the very least by sustained badinage of the like not experienced by the unwary since Sam Tyler went back to the seventies in ‘Life On Mars’.

 Indeed there are several gentlemen who appear to have come straight from their day jobs as extras on the show, as well as an impressive array of tattoos, stubble and ill-fitting sportswear (and that’s just the women – boom, and indeed, boom) however they seem interested enough to sit down and pay attention as we attempt to entertain them. The band vibe is much as it must have been for the concert party in ‘It Ain’t Half Hot Mum’ – we are clearly fey and artistic and they are clearly hard as nails and not about to have their Saturday night out twatted about with by a bunch of artsy fartsy musos who can’t cut the (English, obviously) mustard. After the first couple of songs though, it seems we can, and both sides relax into the evening. We have an ample playing area although we are playing at lower volume than we’d prefer (“phasers on tickle, lads”) and as a result the room sounds a bit thin and weedy. It’s always the room, you see, never the array of impressively be-knobbed and lit equipment with which we are playing – although you rarely see a lounge bar with a tone control, musicians are adept at finding a myriad of ways to describe why ‘the room’ doesn’t suit them – it’s our schtick. 

The screaming solos whimper, the chunky chords wither in the air and the jingle jangle comes mournfully following through. Our new friends the audience are all listening though, all clapping, and hardly anyone is busy txting at all. The glittery in house disco lights somehow suit the pomp of Coldplay and Snow Patrol in the circumstances and we feel each other out (not literally – that’ll get you glassed quicker than you can say ‘Mrs Robinson’ around these parts) and our preconceptions fade gently away to the point where we are relaxed enough to jam along with the interval music (techno, I believe they call it) being piped from behind the bar before running through the second half like carefree spring lambs. I believe they’re generally unaware of the possibility of imminent slaughter too.

 The clock ticks on to time. We say our goodbyes. And in the words of Steve Miller, take the money and run. “Well” I say, “weren’t they nice?”.

The Wedding Swingers….

Ah yes – the wedding, the happiest day of your life, the day flying by in a blur, the family and friends coming together in a glorious celebration of love and matrimony….meanwhile, out the back, the band are probably huddled around, furtively smoking roll ups, scarfing down your buffet, or taking advantage of a slightly tipsy and emotionally unstable bridesmaid. And on a good night, all three. The sound that comes to mind when you hear the word ‘wedding’ may be one of any number of things. The chiming of church bells, the subtlest rustle of an ivory-coloured wedding dress passing down the aisle, the sob of a discarded suitor, the rattle of rice on church path, the howl of a confined infant…. to a band, the sound is ‘kerching!’ . To be fair, it’s not just the band – the venue, the caterers, the dress maker, the tiara-wrangler, the butcher, the cake-baker, the folks supplying the bar – a wedding booking says nothing to these people so much as “get thee to the travel agents, you’ve just paid for your summer holiday”. And to be equally fair, it’s always the band who are first on the list of people to call when the budget needs trimming. “Do you think you could do it for less by any chance?” is not an unfamiliar call to receive a few weeks before the big day when you’ve turned down all those social invitations that looked so much fun because you’re gigging – to which the answer is, quite correctly, “have you asked the others?”. And no-one ever has. Fortunately, being the kind of band we are, we have to put up with this sort of malarkey infrequently, as most of the nuptials we get to soundtrack (“Here’s to the happy couple, we hope you’ve had a great day and this is ‘The Bends’…..”) are as a result of folks having seen us in the pub and considering to themselves that we’d be a great addition to their special day (see previous posts on playing parties for details). It’s either that for them or they book a DJ who will either empty the dance floor, or who is so hang-doggedly soulless after three decades of these sorts of gigs that you might as well make your own compilation and stick it on the CD player between sets. Indeed this is what we’ve suggested for this weekend. C’mon, we’ve all seen the Peter Kay sketch…

In our case, the actual playing at weddings you get for free. We enjoy each other’s company, it’s a night out, and hey – who doesn’t enjoy watching a beautifully made-up girl in a posh frock whirling around barefoot on the dancefloor, literally letting her hair down in the process. I love a wedding, me. No, what you’re paying for is the hour we have to hang about at the start of the evening because the speeches are over-running, the dessert hasn’t been served and the coffee isn’t ready – not so bad when you’re greeted by a clearly relieved best man who apologises, points you at the kitchens and hands over the brown envelope of used notes, much worse when you’re invited to wait outside because the club rules don’t allow denim in the bar, invited to park around the corner as they need the front of the venue for the photos, told that no, refreshments are only for guests (bear in mind that we’ll have been asked to be there at anything up to four hours before showtime so that we’re “out of the way before the guests arrive”) or are shown the four-foot square allocation of floor we have to set up in because the DJ has rather cunningly turned up really early and nabbed the best spot in the middle of the stage and gone home to put his feet up in front of Dr Who for a couple of hours while his mix CD soundtracks the buffet. None of this is made up. We once turned up for a party to be asked by the DJ what sort of music we played as he, rather sportingly, didn’t want anything to be duplicated. Upon discovering that we did a version of ‘Twist and Shout’ he delightedly rummaged in a flight case and produced a battered seven inch single. We held our breath. “I play that one!” he shouted triumphantly. “Take long to work it out?” asked the Bass Player drily.

You’re also paying for the turning down half way through the second number because people “can’t talk”, the requests for things we don’t do - “You must know it - it goes do do do de do de do…I’ll sing it for you!”, the occasional breaking up of fights and, of course, having to stay up until two a.m. before packing up because someone’s decided to have an impromptu karaoke session using your PA. I know, sounds terrible, doesn’t it? And me with this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left hand side. And so why do we do it? Well, for a start, obviously we have holidays to pay for too. And it’s always nice to be asked to play for someone’s big day – it brings the best out of us. The Bass Player has recurrent nightmares that years after one of these gigs people will not be talking about the dress, the weather or that unfortunate incident with the hog roast in the night time, but “…do you remember…wasn’t the band shit…?”. And there’s always something about these shows to take home and reminisce about. The time The Singer broke up a fight with the simple barked phrase “Take the moral high ground!” for instance. Admittedly it wasn’t the sudden impact of reason that stopped the fight but the incredulity that accompanied hearing such a suggestion in the midst of a quasi familial war zone. In Lincolnshire. Anyway, we have a wedding gig this weekend. We’ll be the ones at the back, furtively smoking rollies, scarfing down the buffet and, well, who knows……?

“Sometimes the bear eats you….”

I am rather looking forward to an evening at The Steamboat with the band when the telephone rings at the day job. It is the singer – but not with news I was expecting - that he has finally mastered both the tricky timing for the riff from Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” and the low harmony in Graham Coxon’s “Freakin’ Out” (which are both due to be unveiled before an audience for the first time this evening - we are nothing if not eclectic in our set list choices). Sadly the artist fondly known as Wendell has picked up a gig-precluding chest infection – or at least his physician has advised him to avoid smoky rooms, straining his lungs and heavy lifting, which are pretty much all par for the course in terms of pub gigs. On the bright side, he’s got an official doctor’s note telling him to lie around and watch DVD’s rather than (say) take the bins out so, y’know, every cloud and all that. We enjoy a short discussion on how gentlemen of a certain age (i.e. us) will have an unexplained stabbing chest pain one minute and then the next find themselves on an American website at three in the morning (coincidentally the time at which most heart attacks occur) looking at descriptions of coronary symptoms and trying to remember what CPR stands for.
Luckily, Val at The Steamboat is another pub-running old chum, who refers none-too ironically to Picturehouse gigs as her “Radio two nights” given as she is to mostly providing the youth and punk of our town with a much-needed platform to perform at weekends. There are also the occasional forays into jazz and blues shows, where grizzled veterans of the pub rock wars extemporize at length on (for instance) how much they enjoy living in Chicago, frequently expressing their fondness for The Windy City through the medium of various minor scale solos - you don’t want to be in there when an under-age punk show audience has got a diary date wrong, I can tell you. She is more than likely to be sympathetic to our plight, what with us only playing this evening after we helpfully shunted our last gig around to help her with a double booking. Whether we resolve the situation through swapping some vocals around, throwing in some original songs (The Bass Player, The Other Guitarist and I have parallel careers in bands who are self-sufficient in material) or, and here’s where the touchstone of all bands comes in, the obvious solution – we do “Jazz Odyssey”, I’m sure we’ll pull through.
As it turns out, The Other Guitarist has cunningly constructed a set list which both utilizes the vocal talents of the other members of the group – he has bravely stepped into most of the breach and is due to sing some new stuff, has adopted some others - and retrieved some archived material from the recesses of his memory banks. We start gingerly (this is an in joke for those who know us) and ease into the spaces left by our errant singer. The audience are also easing into the spaces in the pub, and there are plenty of them, and Landlady Val is presumably easing into whichever bar in Brighton she has decamped to for the evening – bugger – her post-gig chillis are legendary, and it seems that we shall go home hungry tonight. That’s the nature of being a performer, I guess – everybody’s got a hungry art. Gradually we stretch out, and a few of the holes are covered – the bass player is donating some fine unrehearsed BV’s, I get to do my Waterboys turn (“Ah’m gonna tug at Ma tetherrr…”), and The Drummer pulls out his “Driving With The Brakes On” party piece. Creditable as it is, it somehow isn’t quite the same, somehow - there’s a gap onstage which can’t be filled simply by bluster and bravado, however nice it might be to be able to hear all the intricacies of my guitar parts in full for a change. The compact and bijou audience are enjoying themselves enormously, as are we, but when they start amusing themselves by trying on each others’ glasses you just know that they’re not quite as lost in the moment as they could be. There is a period of distraction as drunk guy number one starts hitting on first Mrs Drummer and then Mrs Skirky, always a dilemma for the working musician (at least when they called for someone to move a black Corsa as it was blocking someone in three songs into the first set she was still able to handle it without recourse to my driving skills, and at least she didn’t disappear outside with the guy – that’s guaranteed to take the edge off your big solo, I can tell you). Drunk guy number two pulls him away for a pogo as we close the set with The Clash. The guy who wanted to have a go on the drums at half time and did manage it – we are blessed with a patient drummer who encourages all exponents of Le Batterie, from four year olds at weddings to drunks in pubs – has long gone, the whiff of Burberry trailing in his wake. Unfortunately he got a bigger cheer from his mates than we did. There is no encore tonight. I have a bottle of Port at home for some reason. We remake our acquaintance, like old friends do. I raise a glass to The Singer.

A Personal Milestone.

 

 

It has become apparent that the group are on a bit of a run of form at present, and so we approach Sunday’s gig with light hearts. For a start, it’s the day before a Bank Holiday and so no-one has to work in the morning (the irony of announcing this later onstage is not lost on The Singer, who is currently resting between engagements, as it were). 

The pub is also a home game for us, being one of the first to embrace our current incarnation with offers of work and has a long and happy history of band / pub interaction. I am musing over this with barmaid Tink, who has taken the night off in order to properly appreciate the performance, and reminiscing fondly about previous theme nights, parties and post-festival raves we have enjoyed over the past few years. There was the World Cup night where we all played in football kits, the Beach Party night (the Bass Player very much enjoyed expressing his Beckhamesque side in a sarong that evening), the Pyjama Party night (you had to feel for the only audience member who joined in with that one) and, of course, the School Disco night, the motivation behind which may have had something to do with the bar staff’s enthusiastic participation in joining in with us in dressing up for all of the previous. 

 

Sadly, the pub is due a change of management and so this is our farewell performance for the current staff. They’re already down from 14 to five ales on the hand pumps…. With it being the nearest thing we have to a band local, and with the public holidays being what they are, we have a healthy brood of close friends, relatives and neighbours in attendance, all buoyed by their being-able-to-drink-until-they’re-sillyness, free from the rigours of having to get the kids ready for school in the morning or, in my case, fresh from a rather generous late lunch with the neighbours. All are in high spirits, not least the lady who is helping The Singer in with his gear when I arrive, and flips an enthusiastic finger in response to my playful car horn-bibbing upon my arrival. “Who is she?” I enquire. “No idea, but she’s very helpful….” responds the equally mystified vocalist.

 

The set begins with the rousing big drum fill from Phil Collins’ “In The Air Tonight”, which is odd, because the first number on the set list is “Take It Easy” by The Eagles. We have agreed to set off in this fashion to please a couple of friends and because it seems like a good idea. This is indicative of both our relaxed state and the relaxing power of a couple of pints at lunchtime and a glass of red over dinner. At this stage I am unaware of the extent of this, but it’s not long before the solo is upon me and I find, very much as if I’ve taken a wrong turn whilst walking a route I know quite well – to the corner shop, say – in that although I know where I am, it’s going to take a bit of backtracking to get to where I actually want to be. 

 

This will occur with much more frequency over the course of the evening until by the time we’re closing with “Fat Bottomed Girls” (which has now expanded to include snatches of U2’s “Bullet The Blue Sky” – don’t worry it all makes sense at the time) I’m not entirely sure whether it’s the G before the A or the A between the C and the D in the middle eight. I’m guessing it all went okay in the end as I don’t remember any harsh glares, although all my gear did seem to be piled up in the middle of the stage long after everyone else had cleared up and out. There is a brief period of irony-free Slash / Keith Richards posing on my behalf during the encore before it occurs, even to me, that I’m probably looking slightly less like a rock legend and a bit like an overfed Dad whose self perceived cool and élan is being heartily betrayed by the squint caused by smoke from his racily-angled fag actually going in his eyes throughout the verse. So I stub it out on the carpet. Well, it’s not like it’s our mate Ady’s any more, is it?

 I must remember to call to see if I left my guitar stand there….

"....I've got a word for Ricky Martin - 'Spuckwit'"

Yet another in the seemingly endless number of beartrap variations for the casual pub rocker - the anniversary party. Like engagements, weddings, birthdays and wakes, a family party of any description can be a trial for both the fingers and the psyche of the casual pub rocker. Invariably, you will have been spotted in the pub at some point by an over-refreshed bride, groom, forty-year-old or widow to be who will then bring to mind that great night they had falling over in The Milestone, when considering the entertainment they need for their celebratory function. It will not occur to them that they'd not gone out for a beer with their Auntie Sheila that night, who doesn't like anything recorded after Elvis went into the army and is disappointed at the clear and present lack of Guy Mitchell numbers in the set. At such a juncture it's always nice to have a bit of rock eytemology up your sleeve and be able to pull out a less-than-pristine, but servicable version of "Singin' The Blues", by the way - (or 'playing the Jack Charlton card' as one seasoned performer used to refer to it upon shoehorning his usual set into a St Patrick's night gig upon the flimsiest of excuses. I mean, really - The Eagles?) - "She wore red Feathers and a Hula Hula Skirt" is usually beyond the remit of all but the most dedicated of cabaret artists which, although we stray, has remained just without our circle of concern. There's little more humbling than being the one thing guests remember about a wedding reception, and in a bad way, and on one occasion in a previous incarnation we've actually been glad that a fight broke out, if only to get people's attention (we certainly weren't). "Of course" I hear you say, "You could always turn it down", but the money sure does come in handy when you're explaining to your spouse why the Gibson Les Paul has a much better tone than the Epiphone and that's why we're not getting a new bathroom.

Parties for friends come with extra baggage in that they are frequently solicitous and helpful and have never done this sort of thing before, and so the space that they've allocated for the band is often large enough for a drumkit, but not as generous with the leg room as, say, the area devoted to the buffet and because they're friends and not simply a curmudgeonly Landlady and also because you're taking money off them and are strictly speaking now an employee, one tends to grin and bear it. It is with this in mind that The Drummer, who has forgotten that we had a gig that night anyway, ruminates sadly on which parts of his lovingly assembled kit are not going to make the cut tonight. Suggestions from the band about where the ride cymbal could go lead not so much to a decision on whether to agree but certainly a suggestion as to where it could be relocated and we squeeze into the space by the dartboard. On this occasion, our hostess is not only a friend, but indeed the landlady and extremely apologetic about the bass drum-shaped area she's squeezing us into, and so we dismiss the earlier promises of a marquee in the grounds and settle back to more familiar territory in that we are now about, in fact, to play a regular pub gig, albeit with some family members scattered amongst the regulars (or in the case of a quintet of octagenarians, seated around a special table round the back) . Pressure's off lads. And there's a buffet.

Secure in the knowledge that we're on familiar territory now, we start of slowly - a bit of Wings, a smidgin of Eagles - at the table by the side of the stage I can see my wife leaning over to her friend and mouthing "I fucking hate The Eagles..." which is always a confidence booster when you're in the middle of the solo on "Take It Easy" but, as on so many of these occasions, once we're up and running the earlier doubts dissolve away and we start enjoying ourselves. In a book-judging competition, if the only the covers were available for examination, I would, I'm sure, do very badly. Same with audiences. Know what the number that got them leaping up at the combined twenty-first birthday and silver wedding anniversary black tie ball we did last summer? - "London Calling". Know what gets the teen-somethings kicking off tonight? The Small Faces. We haven't written a set list and so what we play is determined very much by what instruments we're playing at any one time - the 'stage' is not best suited to quick changes and so since I'm wearing the bass at one point (we swap around a bit to accomodate both The Other Guitarist's talents in a previous life as a bass player and The Bass Player's penchant for keyboard noodlery) The Singer decides that we should play "All Or Nothing", followed by a bit of Charlatans which gives five-year-old Theo his first gigging opportunity as he is handed a tambourine and asked to keep time. He seems bewildered but touched by the applause which greets his stage debut and is fascinated, as all children are, by The Drummer and his repertoire of flams, fills and facial tics. This is also an expedient way of getting all the parents in the audience on your side by demonstrating our sensitivity - we firmly believe that children are our future....

By the time we hit the second set we've forgotten we are supposed to be working and are having a party ourselves. Requests being flung at us from the combined family and regulars, so often an irritation, are attempted with good humour on both sides - The Singer plainly doesn't know the words to "Smells Like Teen Spirit" (one could say that this doesn't especially mark the song out as unusual...) but improvises a verse or two any way. A toilet break provides the opportunity for him to entrance the punters with a solo singalong "All You Need Is Love", and by the time we're into the home stretch there are the corpses of several rock anthems twitching silently on the floor around our tangled leads. The by now traditional "Fat Bottomed Girls" set closer so overwhelms one lady at the bar who has been baying for some Queen throuhout the set that she launches herself karaoke-like on to the stage and grab a microphone, the better to sing along. Again, normally the stage is sacrosant, but what the hell - we're having fun. We retire grinning to the band table, by now littered with empty Chardonnay bottles courtesy of our travelling support and reflect that we have just played solidly for an hour and a half. Now if someone'd suggested that we do in the first place, we'd've had 'em put away. For the fourth time that evening I tell the joke I heard on the radio that afternoon. "Ricky Martin says his new album is 'Spanglish' - it's a combination of two words, 'Spanish' and 'English'....."