The Only Way Is Essex.... gigs.

As a musician in a local band, the options to travel to exotic places are limited. The odd gig in Hastings or The Isle of Sheppey are about as exciting as it usually gets. This all changes however, once every couple of months when the band travel to Saffron Walden.

To fill everyone in, SW is the home of our drummer (one of them, anyway) who for the purposes of this blog, we will call Chris. Chris has lived in and around Saffron Walden most of his life but doesn't often get a chance to show off his drumming skills, such as they are. As caring band-mates we realise that this is a problem. All musicians (except folkies) have a natural desire to show off and especially when their friends are watching. Therefore, once every couple of months we take a trip up to the land of Oliver (Jamie, not Twist) and make a lot of noise.

Saffron Walden is a lovely town and I'm sure has a great many delightful shops and cafes etc. Unfortunately, I only see it from the window of the van or first thing in the morning, slightly the worse for wear. Thus, my judgement is somewhat lacking but as far as I'm concerned, it's the bomb.

We play a small pub just out of the centre of town. It's got a hundred tellys all showing Sky Sports and the Landlord supports West Ham. Don't know why that's relevant, it just is. They don't have regular live music so it's always a bit of a shock to the locals when we turn up with PA cabs and drum kits etc.

Trying to set up in a pub that's not used to bands is always fun. The locals become hugely territorial. They stand their ground, pretending not to notice the encroaching 'gear' just behind them. You eventually have to say 'Excuse me mate' so you can put down the half ton bass-bin that you're holding in front of his face. Even though you erect the musicians force field (mic stands) they still weave their way through your gear as it's the quickest way to get to the smoking area. Sound checks are greeted with defiance. "I refuse to acknowledge that a loud band is playing behind me and I will continue my conversation despite the fact that the person I'm talking to a) can't hear me anymore and b) is now staring at the drummer."

Once we start playing everyone becomes an instant Kellys Heroes fan. That or they leave pretty sharpish. It's about 50/50. The low ceiling in the pub makes for a good (if somewhat noisy) atmosphere and all of Chris' chums come out to support him. We get drunk dancers, wobbly essex geezers, mad old men, orange women, drunken ladies trying to touch me (again!) and all in the space of two hours. I'm never quite sure how many people in the audience at these gigs are aware of Lynyrd Skynard's body of work but they whoop and holler to 'Freebird' as if their Saturday nights depended on it. A certain amount of the irony that Kellys inject in to a set gets lost in translation but who cares? We love them and they love us. At least, the drunk woman who can't really focus, loves us anyway.

After the gig, we pack up and move on to Chris' luxury pad above a pizza restaurant. By the time we get there, half of the town seems to be in the front room, smoking and drinking and dancing and generally having a jolly old time. This is where it gets awkward. The average age of our band is deceptively old. We may throw ourselves about on stage with gay abandon but we have to go and have a lie-down afterwards. One of our number doesn't even drink... I know... A musician who doesn't drink..... what's all that about?!?!?

Anyway, we sit at the back of the room., chatting to people far more drunk than we are. I silently debate whether it's worth trying to catch up with them all. I decide it's probably not a good idea. We eat kebabs and drink beer instead. After a while it becomes apparent that none of the party goers are going anywhere for quite some time. This is not good news for the tired band members who are due to be sleeping on the sofas. I know it's not very rock & roll but what can I say? The days of all night shenanigans after gigs is waaaaaaaaay behind (most of) us and the thought of not getting to sleep until the wee small hours strikes fear in to the ageing heart.

After a little conversation, we decide to pile in the van and head back to Kent. Luckily one of our number doesn't drink (did I mention that already?) so driving is not a problem. Falling asleep at the wheel is still a problem but at least he'll do it sober. We make our excuses, hug everyone and leave the party in full swing. Starting the engine on the bassists van, we notice that the fuel gauge is on zero......... Balls!

What follows is the slowest journey to the petrol station that you have ever seen. We decide it's about 20 miles to the nearest (open) gas station so we had better be careful. Creeping along unlit roads at 3:30am is not helping the sleepiness of the band. I pass out and wake up to the bright lights of the petrol station. Alive. We made it this far and it's not that much past 4am. The rest of the journey goes off without a hitch and I finally crawl in to bed at some time after 5am.

As I lay in bed thinking about what has gone before (for the the five seconds before I fall in to a post gig coma) I realise that had we stayed put, we would probably be asleep already. This tickles me but not as much as the knowledge that I'll be waking up in my own bed and in my own pyjamas. I'm not sure if our Essex mates would approve. Does this make me old? I'm not sure but if it does, pass me the Horlicks.

One's Too Many And A Hundred 'Aint Enough

We did a gig last night, in darkest Faversham. A lovely little market town, just down the road. Up until about a year ago, we didn't play in Faversham at all. It was a real dead zone for bands. If anyone wanted to see a band, they had to drive out to Baddlesmere, which is about 5 miles away. There are lots of towns without music. It always amazes me because I have grown up in the musical surroundings of Whitstable, where there is a huge support base for musicians. Heck, I know musos who manage to make a crust by just playing the pubs of Whitstable.

Anyway, getting back to the story. This particular pub in Faversham used to have a wee bit of a reputation. The sad thing about pubs is, they tend to hold on to a reputation long after the 'trouble' element has moved on. This place is a case in point. We turned up and as we set up, we noticed that there were quite a few 'refreshed' people knocking about. Now this is 7:30pm on a friday. For most people, work only finished 2 hours ago so to be this far gone so quickly was impressive. As we sound-checked, several people offered to play our instruments for us or even sing in to our microphones. Sweet gestures but ones we had to politely decline.

This sort of thing always puts a band on edge. The passive/aggressive behaviour of a lot of drunks can be very hard to predict.

"Can I have a go on your drums?"

"No"

"Why not? Go on mate. I just wanna have a quick go on your drums?"

"No"

"Can I sing a song, then?"

"No"

"Why not?"

"Because we've turned the P.A. off."

"I just wanna sing a f**kin' song."

"Well you can't."

"Whatsyerfucki'problemmate?!"

(drunk persons chum wanders over. Looking just as inebriated)

"Don't worry about this fella, mate. He's pissed."

...etc

It always brings a bit of spice to the preceedings when you dare not turn your back on your equipment for five seconds, for fear of what might happen.

Once the gig started and the pub filled up, the band relaxed in to the evening. We were loud and stupid and full of the joys of a friday night.

....until the drunks started dancing.

A drunk person dancing is a very dangerous thing for a musician. It means that not only are you concentrating on your own performance (performance? Pah!) but you also have to keep one eye on Mr. McStumble in front of you. Most pub venues don't have the luxury of a stage so you set up on the deck at one end of the room. This means that all there is between you and your 'public' is the invisible barrier created by your microphone stands. This is usually enough but not when there are drunks dancing. Drunks have no spacial awareness. They twirl around, dancing like prats, never spilling a drop. They tend to be right at the front because they genuinely believe that they look cool and everyone is watching them. Bless 'em. After a while, the inevitable happens. They will loose balance and 'whang' in to your mic stand, sending your microphone crashing in to your lips and teeth. Thank you, Mr McStumble. You now have to spend the rest of the song wondering if you are going to have to go back to the dentist (see previous post) and if your gob is bleeding. Meanwhile, pissed-bloke is happily dancing away, unaware anything has happened.

Other things that happen with drunks include; drunken ladies trying to dance 'sexily' in front of you and mouthing the words to songs they obviously don't know. People trying to request things in the middle of a song (shouting in my ear while I'm trying to sing is not going to endear you to me). People trying to touch you for no apparent reason. Oh, and people telling me what songs I should know/do.

You get used to this sort of thing but it never stops being annoying. It turned out that there had been a couple of big funerals in town that day. Most of the drunk people had been on the lash since 2 p.m. so I'm not surprised they were a tad merry. I'm glad I didn't put my foot in it by making some badly-worded comment over the mic. That happens far too often as it is.

After the gig finished and we were packing up, we got a selection of well wishers wanting to shake out hand. Most of the band are polite but not indulgent. I say most because our guitarist feeds off the attention of middle-aged women so we leave him too it. He's a specialist in drunk women of a certain age and takes some pride in the fact. It's quite handy really. The rest of the band are quite shy so we can pretend to be aloof and leave the P.R. to the lothario in our ranks.

By the time we are ready to go, most of the crowd have departed and what we are left with is the VERY drunk people. The people so desperate to keep talking that they physically hold on to you. You have to peel their fingers off your arm and walk away while they carry on talking. Don't ever expect them to stop. They won't. They follow you out to the van, still rambling away. They watch you get in the van and then talk to you through the door. I'm sure if I were to go back to the pub now, they would still be there. Chatting away to anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact.

So there you go. Another Kellys Heroes gig done and dusted.

Funny thing is, I wouldn't change any of it for all the tea in china.

...Well, maybe just the dancing.