Funny Old World

Being a gigging musician can be great fun. It gets you out. You meet lots of people (Some you're glad to have met and some not so much). You get to go to lots of fun places and people clap you.

The main thing I like about gigging is it keeps me busy. It gives me a reason to leave the house and do something vaguely constructive because like a lot of musicians, I don't like my own company. It's no secret that some muso's tend to be quite sad people. It goes with the territory. You come off stage to a standing ovation, pack up, go home and sit on your own. It's not a great feeling.

My own brand of sadness is a horrid thing that grabs me when I'm left to my own devices. If I have a few days off, I can always feel it coming. A horrible, self perpetuating feeling of dread. You know it's coming and because of that, it arrives even quicker.

When I was in my younger days, I fought a running battle with it. My first attempt at living on my own was a disaster. I quickly realised that I'm not good at it. I always felt that the devil makes work for a lonely brain. Give my mind some time on it's own and it will eventually try and cripple itself. So I moved in with a friend and it helped for a while but I still found myself alone a lot. I soon realised that I was doing this on purpose. My mind was trying to be sneaky. I think it got a kick out of being the centre of attention. I would find excuses not to do things. Not to go out. To stay inside and feel crap. 

How stupid is that?!?!?

Anyway, I eventually moved back from London to the coast and my family. Over the next couple of years, things got slowly better. I would have the odd dip but nothing like as bad as before. The real change happened when I began to gig again. I had played in bands all through my teenage years and stopped dead when I moved to London. Now I was back playing again and without me even noticing, my mood improved.

Unfortunately, nothing lasts for ever and over the last year or so, feelings have started to creep back. Insidiously changing moods and outlooks. Subtly undermining confidence and drive. Removing light and encouraging doubt. All these things will be familiar to many and I know that I'm no different. I'm just angry. 

Why does the mind want to self destruct? It's a stupid thing to do. Bloody ridiculous, if you ask me.

No one likes to feel sad. No one wants to feel sad. People just get that way sometimes.

The way I deal with it is by keeping busy and pretending it's not there. Rather that than go back on those bloody drugs. Gigs are a great way of doing this because they are a commitment involving others. You can't be selfish and decide not to go. You'd be letting the rest of the band down, not to mention the audience and venue etc. I'm sure someone with letters after their name would call it a coping mechanism but that sounds weird. It's just life. Same as everyone else's.

In order to stop this post being a massive downer, I'll finish on a lovely Woody Allen quote. No one made the neurotic human condition as funny as he did.

"I was in analysis. I was suicidal. As a matter of fact, I would have killed myself, but I was in analysis with a strict Freudian and if you kill yourself they make you pay for the sessions you miss."

 Pub, anyone? ;)

For Those About To .......

I wrote an entry a little while ago about having toothache which seemed to touch a nerve (ha ha!) with a few people. It gets mentioned quite a lot so the memory of that weekends gigs is still pretty fresh in my mind. Last night was the first time that I have returned to the venue of the 'toothache' gig.

Driving down there, Ian and I joked about the hilarity of my previous suffering and that this time it was Friday the 13th so what could possibly go wrong? Oh what funny scamps musicians are...

On arrival, we walked in to the pub to be greeted with the smell of a school canteen. Not what you expect from a pub but we went with it. The 'stage' area was still covered with tables, empty glasses and (funnily enough) drinkers. It's always annoying when this happens because you hope to god that the landlord or whoever is going to sort it out because you don't want to. Having to move tables, chairs, glasses and people, can be tricky for musicians. If you have ever seen the inside of a musicians house, you will know that its usually filled with tables, chairs, glasses and people so we are not used to moving said items. Instead, we just piled up all our gear in the corner hoping that the tables and chairs would notice and wander off of their own accord. They didn't so we went and found the barman.

After the burger that was on the floor had been cleaned up (by the dog) we set about setting up. A jolly ritual that most bands have down pat. Witty banter is tossed back and forth, comments on decor and clientele are avoided and interaction with the locals is kept to a minimum. After all, we are professionals. Then our friend appeared.

She was a lady in her forties. Slim, long hair, a bit weathered but most importantly... alone. She seemed to have no problem with talking at us. Not necessarily to us but at us. She did ask what sort of music we 'do' but that was it. She talked about all the bands she knew, how often she drinks here, who the good bands were, how often she drinks here, all the bands she knew, how often she drinks here etc. Luckily we had stuff to be getting on with so she was kept at arms length. After soundcheck was a different story.

The break between soundcheck and performance is a horrible one. So far, all you've done is move half the pub around, take up a lot of room, make random drum noises and annoy everyone. When you have finished doing that, you usually have half an hour to kill. You go to the bar, maybe have a fag and then sit as near to the gear as possible. Avoiding eye-contact with locals who think that you are too loud. In this case, we actually sat on the gear (the PA speakers anyway) and waited for our start time. There we were chatting away when our friend comes over. She ploughs straight through us looks me in the eye and says, "Don't be nervous".

Now I've been playing in bands since I was 15 and nerves aren't really something I suffer from so this came as a shock. Do I look nervous? Was I acting nervous? Oh god! Now I'm nervous!

"Don't be nervous. I've seen loads of bands. You've got nuffink to worry abaht" she slurred. I think she might have been drunk. Just guessing. The rest of the band are in fits of laughter. I suddenly feel about 12. After she has repeated this phrase about five times, we manage to turn her away. She slinks back to her seat in front of Ian (thank god) and we get ready to start.

Half way through song number three, our new friend gets up and starts dancing. This is quite tricky to 'Black Night' but she's giving it a go. At one point she stacks-it and rolls around on the floor for a bit. I think she was trying to be provocative but it was kind of hard to tell. Either way, no one in the band openly acknowledges her movements (although I have a sneaking suspicion that Ian was enjoying it) and we continue on through the set. We make plenty of references to this being my first ever gig and how nervous I am. We must have been convincing because several people said how good I coped, considering it was my first time. Bless 'em.

It is tradition in our band to finish our first set with the epic and preposterous 'Stairway to Heaven'. Don't ask why, just accept it. Anyway, we are reaching the climax of the song, I'm going on about 'winding down the road' when I notice that our friend is throwing up... a lot. She is sat at her table vomiting. Mostly on the floor but her aim isn't that great. It's very hard to concentrate on singing when you see something like that. The poor people sat near her are staring open mouthed, unsure what to do. I have to tear myself away so we can do the big finish but when I look back she is now slumped on the table in a heap. Oops!

During the break, mops spring in to action (just like in Fantasia) and everything is cleared up. The poor woman is escorted outside and that's the last we see of her. It is worth noting that this is the second time in recent memory that a woman has thrown up in front of Ian at a gig. 'nuff said.

The rest of the gig went really well. The place got packed and everyone was thoroughly entertained. I was left however, with an odd feeling about what had gone before. It made me wonder how a person allows themselves to get in to that position? How other people can allow someone to get in to that position? She was obviously lonely. I don't know why she was lonely but loneliness is a horrible thing for anyone to endure. Music is meant to bring people together. To unite and bring cheer. It's always sad when that doesn't happen, even for just one person. It makes me think that we must all try a little harder.

I'm not entirely sure how to end this so I shall just quote Lord Chesterton,

"No animal ever invented anything so bad as drunkeness - or so good as drink."

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.

The Tooth About Gigging

As I have made it clear to anyone who will listen, read, text etc. I have had a bad toothache for the last week. When I say bad, I don't mean Michael Jackson bad. I mean actually bad.

When people think of toothache, it's usually the humorous picture of someone with a bandage round their face, like a head scarf. Usually done up with a bow on the top. I'm not sure what good the bandage did but it was a useful visual clue in the age of silent movies. At one point during one of my many sleepless nights, I did consider trying it. What the hell? I'd tried everything else. Then it occurred to me that I would probably forget I was wearing it and pop down to Co-Op looking like a right dingbat. Maybe not.

The truth is, toothache is one of the worst pains (a man) can get. I have to say this because apparently, child-birth beats it in to a cocked hat. Along with back pain, which can leave even the fittest human being lying in a foetal lump on the floor, it is the great agony-leveller. Anyone can get it, no one is immune and in the short term, there is nothing you can do about it. Even if you have a dentist appointment in 3 hours, those three hours seem a bloody long way away. I booked my appointment on Wednesday for Friday lunch time. I thought, "I'll cope"......

... I didn't. I am officially a big girls blouse.

48 hours of excruciating pain, followed. At first, ibuprofen worked. After a while, I needed to take paracetamol as well. By Thursday night, they had both become totally ineffective against my monster tooth pain. It was slowly taking over my mouth and jaw. Creeping towards my front teeth and edging backwards to my ear. Who would have thought that sticking your finger in your ear would be a toothache remedy? Thank god no one saw me.

My visit to my (new) dentist wasn't what I had hoped for. In my head, I had imagined marching in there and telling him to just pull the BA*TARD out. In reality, I sat in the waiting room for half an hour, reading the dental equivalent of 'Most Wanted' posters. When I finally got in the chair, I noticed how the Dentist made sure he didn't make eye-contact with me. How could I put my foot down when he wasn't even looking me in the eye. Clever git! He checked me over, did x-rays etc. and then gave me a prescription for some antibiotics. That was it. He didn't run out of the room and call for back-up. He didn't say, "We need to prep this man for surgery immediately". He didn't even say, "Ooooh that looks nasty". I was gutted. I was told to start taking the pills straight away and invest in some codeine. Ok but how does this help me now? Apparently, there was nothing they could do until the infection had gone but not to worry, the drugs will start working in a few days.

A FEW DAYS!?!?!

I went home and started thinking about the 4 gigs I had over the next 3 days. One friday, one Saturday and two on Sunday. Oh god! These pills had better work.

Being a musician, you get to rely on the 'Adrenaline Effect'. This is the great free-pass your body gives you in order for you to do a gig. Basically, you can feel at deaths door but as soon as you get on stage, you cope. It's like doing a deal with your body. "Give me these two hours and then you can have my body back and make my life miserable". The problem is, you usually feel worse than you did before, once the gig is over. This is exactly what happened on friday night.

I spent the entire journey to Folkestone in the van with Ian, running through different scenarios while clutching my face. What if I had to stop half way through the set? What if I couldn't start? What if I couldn't sing? What if the cocktail of drugs turned me in to a space cadet, half way through 'Rocky Mountain Way'?

None of these things happened. I got through the gig, cried all the way home and went to bed with enough codeine, paracetamol and diclofenac to kill a rhino. Job done. Only another 3 to go. Bugger!

By the time I was on my last gig of the weekend on Sunday night, the world was a bit of a blur. I had taken so many different pills I was rattling like a tube of smarties when I walked. Lyrics were becoming 'interesting' and my ability to stand up straight had flown south for winter. I don't think it actually made that much difference to be honest. Anyone silly enough to be in a pub on a sunday night deserves to witness a few casualties. It was just a bit of a shame that one of them had a microphone.

Whatever happened (and I can't remember large chunks of it), I got through my weekend of gig hell and came out the other side. The drugs started working after my last gig finished (Oh, very funny, God) and I finally managed to eat solid food again. No more tinned spaghetti and cup-a-soup for me. I had a slightly cadaverous appearance but what the heck. At least it would make a good blog entry.

Half Way Through

It is the midway point of the Christmas season and the same old problems arise. Too much food, too much sitting around, too many late nights and maybe just a tiny bit of drinking. This all leads to a huge feeling of slothfulness that is very hard to shake off.

The desire to sit and do nothing is compounded by the stacks of books & DVDs that I have received. Do I go out shopping or watch another episode of 30 Rock?

Actually, come to think of it.... why am I even writing this? I have 2011 Ashes DVDs to watch...

Cheery Bye!

Wind, Rain and Delivery Men

I sit here, waiting for yet another delivery and wondering if this whole internet christmas thing is such a good idea. Yes, you can find pretty much anything on the old 'super-highway' but it isn't without its own problems.

I first started ordering gifts online about seven years ago. Within a couple of years, "Sorry your present hasn't arrived yet" became a familiar chant in the Cookman household on December 25th. There were always two or three gifts that remained MIA until some time in January. There was also the danger of it being the wrong thing/size and the problems of sending it back. In the old days, you simply kept the receipt and handed it over to the person (in my dads case, he simply gave my mum the receipt and not the present as he thought it would be quicker) so they could go to the shop and exchange it. It's not that simple with Amazon etc.

This brings me to the modern joy of christmas. The Delivery Dance. It's a series of complex moves, carried out between you and the postman.

Firstly, don't even think about ordering anything from a company that doesn't use Royal Mail. These other delivery companies seem to be on a 'no-delivery' bonus system. The more times they fail to deliver your package, the more money they get. That can be the only explanation for it. I've seen them writing out the little "Sorry" cards while still sat in the van. I don't think the packages are even on board. Just stacks of "Sorry" cards. This is after you've taken a day off work to sit right next to the bloody door. Hand hovering by the door-handle. Flask of tea and a bucket for emergencies, by your side. Too scared to get the washing out of the machine that you stupidly put on hours ago and will soon need re-washing. The online parcel-tracking software telling you it left the depot this morning at 6am (it is now 3:30pm). No matter what you do, you WILL miss the delivery. This means a trip to their depot in Aberdeen to get your matchbox-sized parcel, that was apparently too big for your letterbox but it's only open every second wednesday.

This brings me on to the Royal Mail and Parcel Farce. They have the bonus of having (at least at the moment) sorting offices all over the place. This is very handy. You miss your delivery as you knew you would because the postie now comes at two in the afternoon instead of early in the morning but you get one of those nice red cards. I'm lucky that my sorting office is only a few streets away (at least at the moment) so you would think that it's all plain sailing. Wrong.

The nice card informs me that I can pick up my "packet" any time after 24hours have elapsed, between the hours of 8am and 1pm, for the next 7 days accept sunday. So I inform my boss that I'll be late to work and next morning, head to the sorting office. The queue stretches out the door, down the ramp and along the side of the building. This is at 8am on the dot. Luckily I am english and therefore, good at queueing. At around 8:30am I get to the front door from where I can see people talking with the staff about what their parcel might look like, who might have sent it and why they can't come back tomorrow to do this all again. It's then I notice a sign on the wall about Christmas Extended Opening Times........ 8am until 3pm ...............

*takes a second to calm down*

The reason people miss their delivery at 3 in the sodding afternoon is because they are still at sodding work. Keeping the sodding sorting office open for a few extra hours in the sodding afternoon isn't going to make one iota of sodding difference. If you work for a living and can't pick up a parcel at midday, what difference does three in the sodding afternoon make? There's a queue around the block at eight in the morning. Does this not tell you something?

*slow intake of breath*

Anyway, the gigs are going well. Three this weekend and a few more over christmas. Hope to see you at one or more of them. It's ok, I'm calm again now.

.....Oooh, is that the door?