Thursday, 30 May 2019

Playing in fields to nobody


We played at a private party the other day, I won't say which one, nor where it was, nor who attended. It was suppose to be a festival but it lost it's license three weeks before and the bookers decided to hold a 'private party' instead as a thank you for all the people who had put in months of work. Having hired and erected all the tents and stages and sound systems and having to pay most of the bands in full even though they were sitting at home, they thought they might as well go down in style. So they organised a free bar and free food and 300 people poured in. A couple of bands (ourselves included) came and played anyway, if you're going to get paid you might as well. We were local and it seemed the right thing to do, either that or we hadn't inserted a cancelation clause into our contract, i can't remember which ;-)

We came up as a three-piece, our most adaptable guise, and by the lengthy exchange of emails it looked like we were going to need it. They had changed the schedule a bunch of times and we had the feeling that this could be a strange one. Now we play our fair share of weddings and private parties, some of which are well thought out and fall into place, but increasingly we find that people don't really know what they want; they have a vision in their head and they run away with it. It's like they've had an epiphany in the middle of the night that the band could play while everyone walks through the arch of wildflowers in the late evening sunshine and they just can't let go of that idea despite the logistics of running power out there and the fact that there is nowhere for anyone to stand because it's on a gravel path. They're adamant, especially young Mrs. Newlywed, and no amount of 
gentle persuasion can shift her. And even Mr. Newlywed, who understands the repercussions well but can't bare to let his wife down, he just waves his hands and says, "just do what she wants". And so we rig power all the way across to the archway and squeeze into the bushes, and people walk through and we play to them but there is nowhere to stand and so they walk away and we're alone and now everyone is standing around in an large marquee with absolutely no atmosphere because the band are 500 yards away in the woods packing up our gear.  "We need the band in here now!" exclaims a frantic Mrs. Newlywed. "Well I did try and tell you" says her husband. "Well can't you hurry them up then!" she orders and off he skips to help us carry our amps and PA across the field in the rain. 

We've played in the woods, on a balcony, on a boat, in the porch, in the garden, under the wildflower archway and ever more random places and sometimes it works and it's just like that dream image they thought up, but often it is a logistical nightmare and incredibly time consuming and anti climatical and it would have been much better to put the band on the stage in the marquee!
And this private party was no different. "We want you to play at the top of the field while people arrive through the gate so the first thing they see when they enter is a band playing, good hey!". Cue the intake of breath. Cue the gentle persuasion. But no, that's how it's got to be. And so we do as we are hired, we set up with our backs to the festival and begin playing to the gate. Enter the people, not in one mass clump as envisaged but in ones and twos and very spread out. They smile at the band but finding there is nowhere to stop they walk down the field to the tents. A few more people. A long gap where we are playing to nobody but the hedgerows and the gate while down by the tents people are milling about wondering what's going on. A few more people. Two entire songs to nobody. A few more people. A few more and so on and so forth. An hour later there are 300 people standing around at the bottom of the field and a band at the top that nobody can hear or enjoy. We pack up and walk back down to the organisers. "Thanks so much!" they chirp, "but we realised after a couple of songs that it would have worked much better if you were down here where everyone was gathering!"

You don't say.

The rest of day was rather pleasant. We got talking to the organiser who announced rather jovially that he had lost quarter of a million pounds. But thankfully a few of the headliners had made the trip and not just because they had forgotten a cancelation clause, but because they really wanted to play. And I take my hat off to that. And one such group are a firm favourite of mine, am I allowed to say their name? Oh sod it, The Staves, they are amazing, check them out here... And after their gig, after waking myself from a trance like a transfixed puppy dog, I wondered backstage and asked for their autograph for my partner, who is a bigger fan than I. We stubbled through some conversation, and with so many things I wanted to say about music, instead I made some small talk about the weather and newborn babies, tripped over my feet and spilt my drink on my scandals.


The three of us, all a little tipsy from the Negroni's soon realised we had no accommodation and would have to drive home or sleep at the bar. So we drank builders tea and ran around the field with a football to try and sober up. The decision to turn our back on a free bar and a night off was a hard one to make, the 'shall we stay or shall we go' conundrum was long and painful. We said goodbye, changed our minds, had some beer, changed our minds and said goodbye again and then ran around the field to sober up, saw the sunset, that was nice, so we decided to stay after all and cracked open a beer but soon changed our minds again and poured it away and ate flapjacks until the light faded. We didn't say goodbye this time and just left; piling all our gear into the little hatchback we'd used to save £20 on petrol even though the wear and tear to the vehicle far exceeds it. "Should have taken the van!" said the piano player wedged in the back with an amplifier on his knee. We spent the entire drive back arguing whether we had made the right decision or not. Went to bed, woke up in the morning and didn't regret it. You never do straight away. It's always a month or so later when you're missing your bandmates and cursing the realfuckinglife that gets in the way. It's then that you think, 'Yep, should have stayed at that party and enjoyed the time together'. But you learn from experience.

Or perhaps you don't.

And perhaps we should be wedding planners?

'So I had this idea that the band can play up a tree while we're cutting the cake!?'
 

Monday, 8 April 2019

Saint Pat


Where’s the blog? They kept asking. Was it hard without Oscar? We can't find the blog!? They said. I said, hold your bloody horses. Let’s let the memories sink in a bit shall we? Nobody wants a rushed romantic entry. Scribbled in a wave of nostalgia. I’ll write a real account when I’m good and ready, I said. 
 
And I did. And here it is. And it was hard without Oscar. Bloody hard. Hard for us but hard for the fans too.
 “Where’s Oscar?”
 “Aw we miss Oscar!” They’d chirp.
And it’s not that they didn’t like Pat; they loved him. Loved his humour and his humility.
 “Bring them both next time!” was the common denominator.

The whole time I was worried about the music and that never suffered. Not one note. Pat slotted in perfectly. As comfortable as an old shoe. It is a huge testament to him and his preparation and ability that I never missed Oscar musically. I missed him as a person. As a traveller. I missed his wit. His warmth. His pragmatism. But the music was good. By the end we were as tight as a drum. It’s always the same and it's always a shame that we arrive home in top form and then don’t play again till the summer ;)


* ... It begins with a bad back. That classic injury when you push a highchair closer to a table. No? Maybe it’s just a Dad thing then. No? Maybe just me. It begins with a rushed chiropractor appointment and my response to his advice to rest up for a few days is to set off on a 2000 mile tour through 5 countries in a 3000 ton truck with 700 kilos of equipment on board. Penzance is everything I love about this band and to showcase it in your hometown is special. Strange to play with Oscar and then to leave without him. Strange for him to play with us and then let us go. Pat is parachuted in.
Incoming... Saint Pat
A smooth landing. He arrives knowing 20 songs and we throw another 7 at him that afternoon. He laps it up and carries on purring. Newquay is strange,  we are all a little loose. Nothing to inspire us. There's an angry wind that whips the scarf from your neck and blows your hat away. It's another storm. An Irish one, i've lost count of the names. Bristol is busy; the stage is small and we are carefully placed like figures in a miniature doll's house. It's fun and fancy and at times bordering on the boisterous. We have an afterparty in the van and drink some obscure sprit that tastes of fireworks. It's a lazy morning spent trying to find ways to dodge the emissions zone. It's quite apt that on 'climate change day' we are forced to park our big diesel bus on the outskirts and pile into Mr. Ali's mini cab with all of our gear. London is strangely subdued but we still kick up a fiesta for our Italian fans. In Folkestone the key breaks off in the lock and that's a little scary until we find the spare but by then we've missed the crossing. We arrive in Lille a little late and it's a hard set up, trying to rig a PA we've never used and squeeze into a space that's barely big enough for a duo. The crowd are big and bouncy and there's a lot of drunken singing along to the tunes without knowing the words so we just sing 'la la la' and they seem to love that! Pat's on fire now, throwing off the studious approach, spending less time looking at his music stand and more time with his eyes closed pulling bass faces. We drink some whisky and raise a glass to Saint Patrick; a Cornish band playing an Irish celebration in France! Is that 'odd' enough for you? I don't get swept up in this Americanisation for one minute; it's a massive tourist trap with everyone wearing green beards and giant guinness hats. Instead I raise my glass to Saint Pat, our very own Irish bass player, who's actually from Boston. I drive down into Germany, defying Chiropractic orders, and steer the van over the Eifel Range. It's picture postcard views from every window as we plait around the mountains. Up and down steep valleys. Slow on the hairpin bends and when the wicked sun flashes across the river and blinds you. Rabbit in a headlights. Mosel is a perfect evening; a concert hosted by a generous eccentric in his 400 year old house on the banks of the river in the heart of the Riesling wine country. It's well attended and well received. Jan is a perfect host, sharing his stories and his home and the contents of his wine cellar. We have a day off, spent exploring the vineyards, shooting a music video and drinking more of Jan's wine. Every time we try to go to bed he produces yet another bottle "even more special"
 and it feels somehow rude to stop. Bonn is next, but not before the German Polizei flag us down and demand we hand over our drugs. 
They snoop around the van, threaten us with dogs, check our passports and reluctantly wave us on. We meet Hendrik, host number two, he's got his work cut out trying to match Jan's hospitality, but he succeeds admirably despite the fact that he doesn't know any of us. A friend of a friend mentioned we were looking for a gig so he booked us one, opened his house, made us 5 little beds, fed us, watered us and arranged that his folk band support us to pull in a crowd and then refused to take any of the hat. He is a kind and gentle man and another example of the generosity that make these adventures possible. We are stopped again in Cologne, the polizei check the van's paperwork and then check it again, narrowing their eyes trying to climb into our minds and psych us out. Snooping around the boot convinced they'll find drugs or immigrants. Then they soften, return our paperwork and agree to come to our concert that night. It's a good crowd but a bad pot. We play as well as we can. This is as good as it gets. We're starting to purr now. But money is down, slightly, but just enough to make us think. We're chased out of the city the following morning, an emissions warden asks to see our certificate and I just drive off praying that he hasn't clocked the registration number while the rest of the band pile into the moving vehicle like we're escaping a robbery. 

We head north to Utrecht
, following a lead for an impromptu gig, and as we are just shy of our estimation, we decide to busk for a couple of hours to top up the pot. We make more in this charming city than we did playing to a full house the night before and it's fun to dance around playing Hound Dog and Hard Days Night. The gig never materialises and so we head to Zelhem a night early. Super-hosts number 3; this is the oasis in the desert, the calming pitstop on the long and bumpy road and it's come at just the right time. Tensions are high, fatigue is kicking in, we have a 10 day hangover and everyone is in need of a rest. And it's like summertime here, a full day off without the threat of Jan's wine cellar. We eat and shower and lull around the large garden; playing cards, fixing organs, reading books. The gig is beautiful, our hosts are perfect, creating the most visually inviting house concert yet. We depart well fed and rested, the last leg of the tour, onwards to the boisterous beer capital of Belgium. Antwerp has long been our favourite haunt, the only venue we return to every year, but lately the magic has been muted, the pot, once healthy, has been falling and perhaps we have overplayed it, outdone our time. But for that first sip of Ename Tripel it will always have a special place in our hearts, and those faded walls are full of memories. 5 years ago on our very first European tour it seemed like the holy grail. We got the biggest crowd they ever had. But the bar was set too high and the years that followed were less fruitful. We play well. The music is good. Well received. Good beer. Good cheer. Hosts number 4, the best of the bunch? Could be! Jan and Lieve, our old friends and they know how to throw a party. A house concert follows at their home in Berchem and it's well attended, well organised and well placed. But it's a strange one, and looking around at my bandmates, eyes closed, ensconced in the songs, I can't help but feel a little sad. The last one. I look across at Saint Pat, owning every note like he's the one that's been playing them for 9 years. The piano player's fingers skipping along the keys, with his eyes planted on me, in the moment, in the music, connected. The drummer, as steady as a clock, the heartbeat of the band. The accordion player, focused, theatrical, charismatic, like a magician; 'and for my next trick I will play the trombone and the shaker at the same time!' We all seem bound to the music. 'Banded' together. 14 nights in a row and the songs are playing us now. And then in a matter of minutes it's over. Put down. Packed up. And pushed back to England... *

It ended with a bad back; seems the Chiropractor was right, skipping off on tour wasn't the best medicine. We arrived back in Penzance at 5am, 14 days later. I was bent over like an elderly man. Shuffling up the road like an old camel. But memory is a medicine too and in the days that followed I found some comfort in the messages that flooded in, the swell of support, the fact that we pulled off another miracle. 

So here's to the hosts, all of them, all opening their homes and their hearts, giving out for sake of it, for the love of music. Here's to house concerts and bustling bars, to Bristol and Belgium and Bonn. Here's to beers and bad backs and band mates and being blown away when they made a speech to thank me and gave me a bottle of rum. Here's to recognition after all these years of feeling like a lone wolf. It bought a tear to my eye, in the quiet time. And that will never sleep. And here's to luck, cause you need it. And faith, that you can do it. Here's to friendships and followers and favours. Here's to the future. Here's to climate change and cherry blossom and the criss cross of canals. To police and van parties and playfulness. And here's to Saint Pat, raise your hats, the most professional musician I've ever met with the most disorganised band, a match made in hell. And here's to Oscar, it was like leaving home without your bag and all your stuff and all you know. It was a hard one, this one. But they all are. In their own way. They're the best and worst of all we know crammed into a fortnight of living on the road, on the edge of the seat. Glass half full. Hold your head up. Play your heart out. Tell your stories and once again it's the fallout that's so humbling. Almost more than the applause ringing out in the moment. That's why I never write the blog straight away. You've got to let the memories sink in. Cause there's medicine in them.


Sunday, 27 January 2019

We are The Old Folk

I've lost count the number of times we've been introduced as The Old Folk, it's become a running joke now, and we've long had plans to dress up and shuffle on stage with a zimmer frame, or push the piano player on in a wheelchair. But we really are getting on now; 8 years is a long time and it's not just realfuckinglife that's slowing us down, it's our body's too. The bass player has just recovered from a major shoulder operation and now the piano player is about to have hip surgery. And that's not artistic license, that's the truth! The drummer phoned me the other day to say he was selling his motorbike cause it's wrecking havoc with the arthritis in his fingers. And the others; despite running a gardening company the guitar player has long suffered with tendonitis in his left knee and the accordion player, his erstwhile replacement, he's got a bad back and he's the only one of us under 30, not yet over the hill. In June we will have fathered 7 children between us and brokered 4 mortgages! Looking back we seemed so young and naive; me and the guitar player had just turned 27, we were carefree and single; pre children and debt, in the innocent spring or our lives; young enough to make mistakes, or change our minds. The piano player was barely 22, living at home with his mum, no income, yet to hold down a job. The bass player at 23, fresh out of university, blissfully unaware that in two years his life would change forever when he agreed to dep at our album launch; he's only missed 4 gigs since. Even the drummer was youngish back then, well mid 30's, my age now, which is actually feeling rather old. The accordion player was still a teenager! 200 gigs later, we're all a bit jaded, worn down by misadventure, weathered by the storm.

Morgan, Shelley and Oscar discussing their 20th album


Usually in January I write a detailed account of the year that was, some of you love this I know, others think it's a tired attempt at a blog, regurgitating 12 months of chapters and condensing them into one. You'd much rather we talked about the year ahead or the piano player's latest misdemeanour. My grandfather, the author Denys Val Baker, was criticised for exactly this towards the end of his life. He'd publish whole books full of material from previous releases. It was a sentimental but unimaginative approach; perhaps because of age, because of pining for the good old days. It was his way of dealing with growing old, to surround himself with memories of his youth. And perhaps we do the same. It's hard to think of the year ahead, easier to remember the one that's been. Forever nostalgic aren't we? Always looking back. Scared of the future. Scared of another year. 7 children seems like a lot to carry.

I thought I'd try something different this year; I won't stick to type and write a paragraph on every month, list the gigs in bold, count them up and clap ourselves on the back. Instead i'll write a single entry on what was our 7th year and then I promise I'll talk about the future and the time the piano player went to the gym in a pair of steel toe cap boots and overalls.


2018... The bass player moved to Berlin, that lasted 6 weeks. The piano player tried to move to Berlin and ended up in Portugal and then fell in love. The band toured, our biggest one yet, in the crisp month of march, 3000 km in a broken van; 10 gigs in 10 days, home with a profit. We stopped. We recuperate. Didn't play again till June; Fire in the Mountain festival, main stage. Took the family. Spent the weekend in the sauna, mmmm.. St. Just Town Hall was a strange one, dressed up as cowboys, hmmm..? Opening Golowan Festival was an honour, we had a bigger crowd than The Herbalizer! Ale and Anchor in Mousehole for the 6th year in a row. Standard. Port Eliot again, that was nice, despite the rain. Then we discovered Lott Festival; back to Germany for the best weekend of our lives. We played a wedding in Cornwall; that was the best weekend of the couples lives... hopefully!? Open air in Penlee Park was special, as was playing in the woods at Kerris. And The Mexico Inn, well that was as rowdy as ever. Merry Folking Christmas sold out a week in advance, beyond capacity with a waiting list of 95. It was a year of travel, adventure, a year of change. The year of the wags, someone said. "You're all shacked up!". It was 24 gigs. Shall we clap ourselves on the back now! Boy's done good. 

And now, as promised, I guess it's time to talk about the future. Talk it up a bit. The year ahead. 2019. I don't know why I find it so hard, and I wonder if my fellows furrow their brows as much as I? January is a strange one; famous for it's optimism and resolution but universally considered the most depressing month. You would think talking up the future is as a good a tonic as anything to combat the blues but it's hard to find your voice, almost like you haven't quite woken up yet. In truth I have no idea what we are doing, whether we'll play 24 gigs or 5 and predicting the future is a fools game. But here goes... we're still haggling over our Brexit Tour, a little like the government; we can't quite get the right deal. A couple of venues have let us down and we're not quite over the line with it... yet! But the will is there, so we'll find the way. For the record, The Odd Folk think leaving the EU is lunacy. We're better together. And after that? The third and some say, final, album is due this year, which means it should be released in 2020, just in time for our decade. It's not that scary really. The future. You just need to get your head in the right place. Hope for the best, expect the worst, and take what you're given. Oh wait, I forgot about the 7 children and the hip surgery and the arthritic fingers. 


We are The Old Folk ;)

Saturday, 15 December 2018

Shelley

The piano player turns 30 today and I thought it would be a good chance to look back over his time with us, now totalling 8 years. None of us can really remember the beginnings too well. Myself and the guitar player started the band at the tail end of 2010, initially as a duo, but that format quickly became boring and it was suggested that perhaps we trial my young cousin, someone I had long earmarked as a future bandmate but someone I was unconvinced was quite ready. He shuffled into the room with a keyboard under his arm, a mop of unbrushed, unwashed hair sprouting up like broccoli. He mumbled a little, something he still does to this day as he set up his piano stand and tripped over the wire. We played through our repertoire of 5 songs and tried to coax the shy boy into singing harmonies, which he only did with his eyes closed. "He's pretty good" said the guitar player, after he'd gone home leaving his piano leads behind. "lets sign him up!"
"I'm not sure he's quite ready" I countered, "he doesn't drive and he lives in the middle of nowhere, and I'm not even sure he owns that keyboard?".
"Sign him up" he said again with a wry smile, "it'll be more fun this way. Keep us on our toes!"

And it certainly has. But it would be wrong of me to start this tribute with a list of misdemeanours and all the trials and tribulations that come with having such a maverick member in the ranks. So instead i'll start with the positives, of which there are many. Blessed with a wonderful ability to create music; he can pluck the most exquisite melody from the air, that's never been a problem, it's his ability to remember it that has! He's a world musician, a true musician. And yes he can't read a single note, give him a page of music and he'd probably use it to wrap his lunch in, but hum him a tune and he'll write you a song. From the ear, from the heart, like the best of the them. When it comes to 'jamming' he's in a league of his own; blessed with a speed of thought and a change of pace, unmatched. Rhythmically he's exceptional, far better than many professional drummers I know. He's got groove and stamina but most of all he's got feeling; whether creating some uplifting solo or just simply laying two chords together in such a way that you well up inside. His playing is at times inspired, evocative and infectious. I've said it before, immortalised forever in the film How NOT to be in a Band; but 'out of all of us he is the true musician'. And a few people have bought me up on this since, as though perhaps it has irked them that I have put him above even myself. But what I mean is this; he is somebody that lives and breathes music, his life is a song and a dance, it is all he has ever wanted to do, and when playing, it brings out the very best in him. It's the parts before and after playing where he can sometimes come unstuck, often with hilarious consequences. It's easy to laugh about it now but every time he's turned up to a gig without his piano leads it's like being smacked in the gut. And there's been 7 of them. We should have known it on that very first day in my kitchen when he shuffled off leaving them neatly plugged in next to the toaster. Leads aren't the only thing he forgets. Plastic bags containing clothes, bananas, his passport, a bankcard. He's left coats and jumpers and piano stands, he even left his shoes at one venue, and once famously left my chainsaw on the Edinburgh train, instead arriving at the station with a lady's bag full of makeup and toiletries. He's messy and untidy and was even mistaken for a tramp at one gig. He's clumsy and

disorganised and at times utterly infuriating. But he's charming too and cheeky and charismatic and people love him, he has an innate ability to get a 'little extra' out of everybody, whether it's a free meal or an extra drink, or a second chance. He is the 'odd' to our folk, he has shaped our trajectory, lost us a few key battles but won us many admirers. And it's worth mentioning his journey and growth over the years. From that tousled haired young boy that couldn't sing in public and could't play out front. Who'd disappear at the end of every gig to avoid pack-down. Who'd forget structures to songs and even his own lyrics. Who was shy but desperate for the limelight, a fierce contradiction of wanting it but not knowing how to get it, and attempting it in all the wrong ways. I realised how far he'd come when at Merry Folking Christmas last year, in front of 300 people he stepped out onto the stage and played 3 of his own compositions, sang from the heart and bought the house down. And although he still hasn't learnt to drive and is as reliant as ever on the lifts of others; at least he's left home, moved house, changed job, gone traveling, found love. He's been knocked down countless times, mostly from his own doing, but he's always picked himself up, brushed himself down and come again. Like a terrier. He's adapted. Reinvented himself. And yes, he can still go awol and his diction is terrible, he still forgets piano leads and turns up late, but at the end of the day, when all is said and done, I have no regrets about hiring him. He's flamboyant and funny and mischievous, he embodies the spontaneity of this band. He's enthusiastic and eager; the dreamer, the believer. Head in the clouds, feet in the clouds, the melody maker, the mover, the shaker, the inspiration for this blog, he's the one that makes us 'odd', with a different velvet jacket for everyday of the week. With a dancing smile and dancing feet and a pirouette like a ballerina.

So raise your glass, and raise it high. To Shelley! 

Tuesday, 2 October 2018

Dreckly

"So are we ever going to do another album?" the piano player's been like a record on repeat all year. We've been pacifying him. "Dreckly" we'd say, which translated from Cornish means; an unspecified time in the future, a little like 'maƱana' without all the rushing about. It must be the fifth or sixth time this year, and we're sitting at Battery Rocks in that late evening glow, feeling the tingle of the salt on our skin, looking out across Mount's Bay.
"We just need to do one?" he says out of the blue.
"Do what?" I say
"A third album!"
I roll my eyes "We haven't got any money!"
"That's cause we keep spending it, the band's paid us well this summer!"
And it's true, we've had a fairly productive year, we could have kept a cut aside for the band, like we used to, before we became greedy, before the guitar player quit and left the finances to me. Instead we've been trying to make a living off it, trying to use it as a means of income, when it always used to be pocket money, loose change, chicken feed. I turn to him, his eyes wide and innocent with that look that says anything is possible.

"You're right" I say. "You're riight, we'll do it, we'll save up and do it"
"Great, we'll get the bass player to record it, he'll do it for nothing..." he says
I laugh out loud incredulously, but it does little to break his flow.
"... yeah it would great, and we can have guest appearances from all the people that have played with us over the years, just imagine it!"
And I can and it would be absolute mayhem; half a dozen drummers and the guitar player's 5 replacements, all wanting a solo! There'd be too many cooks, and no room to breath!

I do imagine a third album.
I always have. 
Number 3. Homemade. Organic. Local. And I guess I've been scared to push for it, scared to commit to another chapter. We all have. But since we announced we were ending, since we did our big farewell concert two years ago, we've been stronger, we've actually gigged more and better. It seems to have had a galvanising effect. There is new material, some of which has found it's way into the live shows, some half written, some half forgotten. Some old classics never been captured, twice overlooked, wanting their day in the sun. 
"We could use Brooksie, all the Brookes'; Aaron, Jamie..." he's still talking and I smile as the late sun hits his face, making his beard even redder. 
And it is a good idea really, to get some of the old faces back, they all bring something unique. They're all good musicians, locally sourced.
"... yeah I can imagine a brass section of you and both the Louis', and Daisy on the clarinet..." he continues, his head bobbing around like a goldfish.
But I'm nodding too now. We'd do it here, we'd do it at home and we'd do it our way, without a big shot producer running the show. It's no secret we suffered a bit of a sophomore slump with 'the dreaded second album!' because we lost our voice and got swept up in the game. And I know there are many of you reading who will disagree and might champion Haul Away over The Sweet Release and that's amazing, but it's had a mixed reaction and it's split the fanbase down the middle, like a jar of marmite. But a return home for number 3 would be welcome, and of course we'd have outside ears, there's enough of them around to guide us. I start to feel positive, his enthusiasm is infectious. We're both sat there smiling like schoolgirls.
"...imagine the launch party!" he says "4 guitarists, 3 drummers, 2 bass players! They'll be more of us than them!"


Later on that evening I sit with an old friend nursing a cool pint of Portland in The Lamp and Whistle. The very same friend that told me to start this blog way back in 2013 and has diligently read all 59 entries. "It seems to me that there's a certain nostalgia creeping in" he sips and smiles. "I knew it would. You were all so young when this started, it was a comic throwaway, each entry was a disaster, a sort of careless abandon, and now it's got serious. You've grown up with it and it's become a way of life. It's your release, all of you. And without it you would be lost. It's not just about us, the fans, anymore, it's about you. You need it and whenever there's doubt it creeps into the writing and it's fucking beautiful man, it pulls us in emotionally, and we live it, these ups and downs, we live it!" and he leans in, "like when Oscar is moving to Berlin, I mean that's touch and go, man, and I feel your alarm. Cause you can't carry on without him. He's so much more than a bass player, he's irreplaceable! Not like when Brooksie left, which was hard enough but you were clever then and got Louis in, changed the sound!" I'm speechless so I take a couple of gulps of the pale ale, but he's right, even though I can't imagine half the readership getting this swept up in the subplot. But perhaps you are!? Perhaps Dondu Cort is emotionally 'pulled in' over in Turkey, and the Third Britannia Royal Anglican Regiment in Suffolk, they follow this blog, perhaps their all feeling trepidation about the bass player's move to Berlin! 


"I can't believe Oscar's moving to Berlin!"

It is certainly food for thought and both of them are right; this has become something much greater; a platform to express ourselves, a vehicle to travel. It's become a release from realfuckinglife, a way to meet new people, and a way of discovery, not just of new lands, but discovery of ourselves. When we took a bow at Lott Festival in Germany this summer, just the three of us, I realised how far we'd come and it was emotional, cause you never know how long you've got left, how long you can keep going, keep juggling babies and business' and mortgages and marriages. "Then make another record!" said my friend as he ordered a pair of pints. "That's another chapter right there!"

And I smiled. "Dreckly" I said.


Friday, 17 August 2018

Luck

"Don't play the bongo while we're driving!" I barked as we sped along the autobahn. "I'm not" said the piano player from the back seat. I looked across at the bass player sitting co-pilot, "I heard it too" he said as he turned down the music. And then it dawn on all three of us, our necks snapped back in unison, the boot was wide open and the bongo had fallen out! We skidded to a stop, cut the engine, dreading what else had fallen and what damage it could have done to innocent drivers trying to dodge bass amps and trumpets. We chanced our way to the back of the van, cars thumping past us like angry wasps, the heat of the tarmac was like walking on a hotplate. A quick inspection found nothing else missing. We glanced down the highway, standing perfectly upright in the middle of the road was the bongo. The bass player bounded off, his orange hair like flickering flames in the heat distortion. He tiptoed into the blaze, scooping the drum into his arms like it was a runaway toddler. "It's only a scuff, she still plays" he said after slamming the boot so hard the van nudged forward. "We were lucky."

And we were. During the whole of the 1200 mile mini-tour to Lott Festival, we were lucky. Lucky to be able to borrow a decent affordable van. Lucky that the bass player's work didn't put a spanner in the our path. Lucky to be able to travel with good friends through beautiful lands and get paid to do it. Lucky to be looked after so well by our friends on the continent. Everything seemed to fall into place in just the right way. 




Weeks ago when we gatecrashed Lafrowda Day and played a gorilla gig almost in protest at being overlooked once again, there was an air of defeat as we shared out £40 from CD sales between the four of us. Scant reward for a day's work and scarcely worth the fuel down. Luck seemed a long way off then. But you speculate to accumulate, and a few days later a fan got in touch, he'd seen us play and wanted to book us for a festival in Truro. And it just so happened that the day they offered was the day we were beginning our latest adventure and so a slight detour to a children's circus was well worth the while, particularly for the much needed revenue towards our many, many miles ahead. 


Later on in Bristol; noodle soup and a bad horror movie; we stole an early night and rose with the dawn. Despite getting to Folkestone early we missed our connection by faffing in the service station and arrived in Calais behind schedule. We were further delayed trying to find a petrol station and drove around a small town 3 times before a mobile baker took pity on us and led us there in convoy. Tanked up, we hit the pencil straight roads like an arrow and clawed back some time. Antwerp's roadworks were navigated with relative ease and we pulled up outside Cafe Den Hopsack for the 2nd time this year. Unload, un-pack, set-up, trip over the wires, get in each other's way, drop the keyboard, forget to tune the instruments, eat a plate of food, drink a beer, drink another, smile to the friends, count the crowd, play the songs, forget to sell merchandise, order a round of drinks, then another, stand at the bar and sing songs with new fans, arm in arm like old friends, wobble out into the warm evening and roll in at dawn. Night's in Antwerp usually follow the same patten. It's our 4th time here in 3 years and each time the welcome's warmer.

The next morning we're all a little listless;
 we we need eggs. We ride the tram into the centre looking for the perfect spot and then bundle into a cafe under the scratch of a hangover. A round of orange juice takes the edge off but the boiled egg is a frustrating option; it's like peeling a hot coal and it's over in a mouthful. We order another which only seems to makes the problem worse and does little to alleviate our hunger but it's all we can afford. We head to Den Hopsack, load up the van and then post the key back through number 11, amazed and honoured that we are entrusted with the keys to a cafe with 800 beers behind the bar! We say goodbye to our Belgian friends and head south, not stoping until the bongo falls out on the autobahn. God know's how long the boot's been open, perhaps that's why the petrol is disappearing faster than normal, we could have been driving like this for miles, unable to see the car's flashing us cause of the bright sun, unable to hear their horns cause the wind is blowing in and the music is on. Hot and bothered, we pull off the autobahn and climb up to an old volcanic crater lake called Pulvemaar. We can see people swimming so we strip off, duck under a cordon and slip into the clear waters. It's only when we are getting changed again that we read of people disappearing in the whirlpools in the centre and that you must only swim in the designated areas. Oops, seems luck was on our side again. The last few miles are breathtaking as we cross the Eifel Range and arrive at Lott Festival. We meet Geia, the booker, she has kind eyes and we warm to her immediately. Her first impression of us might be slightly tested though as we turn up late, bare foot and without any of the correct paperwork. She sends a runner off to collect our hotel keys cause we've failed to read any of the emails instructing us to do this on the way. But there is a warmth about her as she talks to us and she smiles a lot. "You have to buy into the spirit of this place." she says waving her hands around like a painter. We take a beer and a plate of food and walk around the site, sitting up on the hill that focuses down onto a huge stage. The evening light is done and electric beams flash out across the sky, a huge roar welcomes a band on stage and suddenly the peace is broken and thousands of German's gear themselves up for another night. We slip off to our hotel, back down the mountain, to the banks of the Mosel, with it's steep vineyards, past fairytale towns with castles on the hill.
  
Lott Festival

The next morning I wake up early and print off all the relevant documents, determined to be more professional. We arrive in good time for the sound check and remember to tune our instruments. The sun's out and people are starting to surface. I'm worried that we're just going to disappear on that big stage; we'll be lost; too static on the box drum, too limited to a single kick. If ever we needed the numbers this was it. 19 people have donned our colours, if only we could have just one of them now. "We've gotta trust our sound" says the bass player and he's right. No point worrying about what's missing. Focus on what you've got. I take a deep breath and climb the stairs to the giant stage, imagining the reception you'd get with an evening slot at this place. It's hard to say how many people are out there, they are all spread up the hill, lolling about in the sun. It's a lovely view from up here. We bring them down, a nice crowd forms at the front as we play through our songs. We finish up and take a bow, then sell 14 CD's at the merch desk at the side, talking with new fans and soaking up the praise as humbly as we can. Geia is pleased, "You guys should stay and play for the crew at the party tonight!".
I set out to persuade the others; postpone a work commitment and change the crossing home, but we're all keen. We take a few beers and skip out into the sunshine, dancing to the next band, in the dry heat, with the happy people. We sit with Geia up on the hill in that golden hour, late afternoon, rusty coloured. "The festival finishes early today, and then it's our time" she smiles, a culmination of months of work no doubt. "6pm and they all go home" her hands are painting again. "Tomorrow the kids go back to school, it's realfuckinglife again!"


And she's right, the last band bow, there is a huge cheer and then thousands leave, the hill empties and we are left with 300 crew. We set up at on the grass, powered by a 4-way extension lead, totally unfazed by the impromtu; immune to the demands other bands would make, able to play at the drop of a hat, spontaneous, on the grass, in bare feet. So perhaps our spirit is rubbing off on Lott now. People dance and cheer, the sun dips and flickers. It's a wicked light. Others join us; on violin, on harmonica, on hand drums, and then we step aside and they use our instruments and we watch them. 6 tractors pull up with large trailers and people run to greet them, "Jump on" says Geia, "this is a tradition at Lott" and so we oblige, squeezing into one wagon with 30 others, and holding on tight as we lurch forward up to the top of the hill. We sing 'whisky drunk', we raise our bottles at this extraordinary scene; in the purple dusk, with quads like terriers at our feet, kicking up the dust. 6 tractors on the hilltop, like drunken 
tractors in the dusk
pirate ships swaying and singing songs at each other across the bay. This is the spirit of Lott. In the twilight, here amongst strangers fast becoming friends. I catch the bass player's eye, no words, a look is enough. This is a moment we won't forget. We party with them; the people of Lott. We dance and make merry and then we ride a taxi home, back down the mountain to the fairytale town.

It's farewell to Geia in the morning and we're grateful to have met her. "You're taking the spirit with you!" she smiles and we set off on a 13 hour journey back to 'realfuckinglife'. The way home is hopelessly long, insufferably hot, but we are all smiling at another great adventure. Blessed that this is our job. That that we can bring our music to weird and wonderful places, to meet beautiful people in strange lands and have a little money at the end. And it's hard work, but it is rewarding, and it reaffirms your desire to keep going. Keep adapting. Keep learning. Not just as a band, but as people. 
And we'll keep that 'spirit' too.  And here's to luck. You play your part. I'll tip my hat to you.

And the boot stayed closed all the way home.    

Monday, 9 July 2018

The Odd Folk Spreadsheet


The bass player overtook the guitar player as the third most decorated in the band. This was a rather large milestone that received no fanfare and was lost somewhere in the backwaters of Germany. I still can’t get my head around it as the latter founded this outfit and played for two years prior to him even joining so to be usurped already means our output must be very top heavy. 
With this in mind I thought it could be fun to take a look at the old spreadsheet and see what other interesting facts there are? The drummer tries to leave the band every 30 gigs or so, does that mean he’s only got another 10 in him as he approaches 90? How many festivals, weddings, tours? How many times has the piano player actually forgotten his leads? What’s the biggest audience we played? The smallest crowd? The highs and lows are all marked. We’re famous for our disorganisation, forgetting instruments, getting lost, doing things the wrong way round, but when it comes to logging it we’re on point. Every little detail, every whoopsie is filed and saved for a rainy day... or a heatwave!

So, what's the most popular gig then? Well, unsurprisingly our hometown of Penzance is our most frequented. It tops the list at 22. Exactly half of them have been at The Acorn. Incidentally the guitar player’s home of Zennor is on 12. The bass player’s home of St. Just is fast catching up on 9, while the piano player’s home has seen only 1 solitary gig. For the record the drummer’s birthplace of Grimsby has seen no action and it is highly unlikely to either.
Festivals are the next most popular location for an Odd Folk gig at 21, while 18 people have requested us at their wedding. Bristol and Europe are locked in forth place on 15.

Our biggest crowd? Indoors we regularly sell out the Acorn at 320 and that’s about as many as we can manage. But we have played more; The Guidhall with Johnny Flynn holds the record at 490 people. Outside is an unknown science; Don't Wake The Fish has up to 600. Shambala Festival; who knows, how do you count a crowd? Best attended pub gig would have to be The Mexico which resembled a pack of sardines, without the smell. Of course we all thought playing on The Great British Bake Off would expose us to 13 million but we were victims of the cutting room floor. 
The Islington, London, was a disaster played out to room of 7. The best paid gig is £1500 (they offered!) while the worst is one of the many freebee’s we’ve done, which end up costing us in fuel. The Islington, above, actually cost us £40! But the biggest loss came at The Cube in Bristol, which cost us £81, despite being sold out!?

How about the most popular formation? That throws throws up interesting findings. I wonder what people picture when they imagine The Odd Folk - apart from a piano player panicking because he’s forgotten his leads while we zip in half an hour late and launch into a 100 mile an hour set with 100 different styles. But how many of us are there; 5? 4? 3? Probably four you’d say. Well you’d be wrong. It’s actually the quintet at 72, with the trio literally breathing down its neck at 71. The quartet is miles off the pace with only 15. Don’t be fooled by our previous guise, The Sam Brookes Quartet only had three members!

And as for the piano players leads; he's lost or forgotten them on 8 separate occasions and been bailed out in 7 different ways. 


1. His father nips home to fetch them
2. Borrows another band's keyboard
3. Uses the the out of tune piano in the pub
4. Plays a ukulele instead
5. Nips to a music shop in Bournemouth 

6. Orders next day delivery on Amazon
7. Doesn't play the gig

They have been left all over the place too; in a field at Mr and Mrs Panbottom's wedding, at the Eden Project, in the basement of The Gladstone Arms in London (now demolished), in a dance studio in Arnhem.

Over the last seven years we've taken around £51,000 in payment, which when you look at it is a massive amount of money for a hobby. But when you split it over the 174 odd gigs it only works out as £290 per performance, and that includes getting there, and considering some the gigs are 100's of miles away and there are 5 of us, it isn't much of a wage. £57 pounds for all the admin, practicing, driving there, unloading, performing, packing up and driving home. It's more often than not a full day's work. Obviously some of them are well paid, but a quarter of them were done for peanuts, and many of those for free! But it's never been about the money, if it was we'd be a covers band and stick to weddings and corporate functions, or better still write a pop song and all dress the same and use autotuner, and buy 'likes' on Facebook.

Other facts; we've been on 7 tours, played in 7 countries, used 15 instruments, 19 members, played such a variety of places; in pubs and clubs, arts centres and cafes, in galleries, in churches, in a castle, in a field, in the woods, a leaking marquee, the corner of an old barn, somebody's living room, somebody's kitchen, a sawmill, a vicarage, in a cinema, on a bus. 

And I'll leave you with one last fact, and probably my favourite; every single gig has come from our own hustle, every song from our mouths, every opportunity has been crafted by our hands. So to achieve as much as we have and been on as many adventures is a nice reward for all the graft. And one we've earned. And the £57 is a bonus! :-)