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.
I love this. I have such clever children.
ReplyDelete