Merry Folking Christmas

As an actor, when meeting with your peers, we have an unwritten rule to leave your CV's at home, and perhaps that can be said with Covid too; it's even written in the initials. With 'big jobs' replaced by 'big tragedies', and although the word 'hit' remains, the meaning changes from success to a smack in the gut. But this isn't another heartfelt account of how we are in any way some of the bigger losers here, who gives a fuck, we're minnows in this ocean and other people's CV's are far more impressive, or depressive, and they are the ones that need attention and support. 

But there was one loss we did feel keenly, the final nail in the coffin of the year if you like; the cancelation of our Christmas party, and even writing it sounds petty and insignificant. Oh, poor us! We couldn't have a Christmas party! Boo Hoo. Most people couldn't have a Christmas full stop. Anyhow Merry Folking Christmas was canceled and rightly so, as cases even in the buoyant tier 1 of Cornwall begin to rise steeply as the big day approached. It was inevitable, but still it was sad. Over the last 7 years MFC has become part of the festive programme down our neck of the woods and losing it this year felt like losing a slice of Christmas. Almost like tucking into the lunch without any gravy; it felt dry and incomplete. And though the event itself is an enormously stressful process, culminating in a day of high anxiety that I wouldn't wish on anyone - I can with some confidence say it is the most stressful day of the year - and yet I have come to love it. It's like The Accordion Player said in his blog earlier this year; "it's the road we love, not the destination". And it's as though lockdown has made us pine for even the most arduous parts of our job.

But what is it that makes this day the most stressful one of the year? Well perhaps we should take a peek behind the scenes and you can decide for yourselves.

The lead up is stressful enough; committing £500 to the venue to hold the date before we even have assurances we can make it ourselves. Finding a support act isn't easy, certainly finding the right one, and curating the lineup, and over promising what you can deliver is a common theme with us. We talk eagerly of what Christmas songs to play and yet we've never arrived at the venue having ever played them before, let alone learnt them. 

The day begins at 9am with myself and drummer driving around on the hunt for some Christmas trees. It takes us to strange places that aren't even sure if they're open or whether they should charge us or thank us for removing their trees. The others arrive by 11am hopefully, but more like midday. Set up takes an hour, easily. Another hour rigging bunting and banners, faffing around with drawing pins and gaffer tape and trying to undo knots from last year when we did things up too tightly. Who's got the scissors? By this point the event has sold out, and not just that, it's over sold out, meaning the guest list has also been sold and we have very angry partners to contend with, some of which are in the building with us cutting thousands of little pieces of paper to make a snow drop, and fixing us with looks that suggest they might carry on and cut our balls off.

This is the first real stress of the day, and it happens every year without fail, we're so concerned with selling out before the event to secure the financial side of it, we always forget to keep back 30 tickets so the people we really want to come can come. Here begins a process of us having to 'magic' tickets from thin air, or calling people and asking if they'd mind donating theirs to our girlfriends. Meanwhile we still haven't even begun to address the Christmas songs yet, which is the whole point of the event, right?

Support acts arrive at their designated times but we're always running over so we ask them to come back later, often stripping them of their +1's in the process so we can recoup back what tickets we can. Lunch time has been and gone without so much as a crumb. The cup of tea The Piano Player made us still hasn't been drunk and it's cold. There's a problem with a wire, there always is, the sound man's desk is at the very top of the auditorium as far away from the stage as possible and he's up and down those stairs all day long, huffing and puffing like he's gonna blow the place down.

The phone rings, someone's asking for tickets. A swig of cold tea. Digging around the lead bag for that missing lead and then tripping over a Christmas tree on the floor or getting tangled up in the bunting and causing the whole lot to fall down. All of this happens throughout the day. People get ratty with each other. Snappy. We send the support act away for the second time and finally remember to eat something at 4pm. A packet of stale biscuits we found in the dressing room. Work on the Christmas songs eventually begins but most of us can't read music so we have to transcribe it in special made up fingerings which is incredibly long winded and time consuming and should have been done the day before.

The DJ arrives and we strip him of his +1. The cold tea has been replaced by beer and the phone keeps ringing with friends asking for tickets. Why can't they fucking buy them? The box office arrive and we argue about the guest list being sold. Then the manager arrives and takes pity on us and 'magics' a few tickets from the air and things finally start falling into place. We offer the DJ back his +1 and apologise. Finally the support act are allowed to soundcheck just as the audience pile in on top of them. 

We tuck tail and run, up to mother's house for a brief change of scenery. She's cooked for us and it's the first real food we've eaten since breakfast. We shower, or wash our armpits in the sink and find a shirt to wear before hurrying back down to the venue. We drink beers backstage and try to remember the Christmas songs. The support act finish. The crowd applaud. We take to the stage under the lights, facing a wall of drunken fans, high on Christmas spirit; loud and boisterous. It's not a gig for the delicate subtleties, they want to dance but they also want to talk to each other very loudly, there is always a big sound clash and it's actually quite hard to play. The atmosphere is good though and people are happy and that's the point in many ways. We manage to quieten them down for the finale. Only 3 Christmas songs this year despite promising a whole gig of them. We play carols on horns with audience members holding up the music because we haven't learnt them and we haven't got stands. The songs explode into ska or folk versions and the crowd go wild, especially when the snow drop opens and the air is filled with little pieces of paper fluttering down. And it's these stolen minutes in amongst a day of stress that make it all worth it. When you look around catching eyes with your bandmates in the moment and you realise that this is where you want to be. And nothing else matters. And then it ends, and just like that we're back in the green room talking in husky voices, sweating, drinking ales from the fridge. Smoking in the back alley. By the time we re-emerge there's only 15 minutes left of the DJ but we need that time to unwind, to declutter, to let go of a day's worth of stress. The night takes hold, it takes us where it wants and the morning is always achey, pack down is slow, not many words, just us methodically gathering our bits and clearing the old hall.

This year we filmed MFC in my living room, it took all day and we only played for 20 minutes. We defiantly experienced that arduous part of our jobs, this time without those stolen minutes where it all clicks. And without the much needed revenue it brings. But it was nice to do and it's been warmly received. If you haven't seen it yet here it is and there's even a virtual tip jar if you're feeling generous ;)

Merry Folking Christmas - Live in your living room!

Happy new year folks, we'll write again in January with our vows and resolutions. Thanks so much for supporting us and we're desperate to be back doing what we do, so much so we're planning on organising fake gigs so we get to do all those stressful things we miss, we'll keep you posted on that!

2021, here's to hoping  

Beer 52

At the start of Lockdown the bass player mentioned a particular craft ale company that delivered a nice case every month for said amount of money, similar to what you'd spend in the co op but with a selection far superior, plus, as he was already a member he could even give me a code for a free case! What's not to like? And so it began. I signed up, received my free case, enjoyed it immensely and awaited the following month. That case came, the money left my account, and the beers left the fridge within three days and I was back down the co op again. On the 3rd month I was offered 3 free cases to give away to friends, and just as the bass player had hooked me in, I too was now promoting Beer 52. I tactically sent them out to my partner (same address, more beer for me) and my mother (lives down the road, drinks wine, more beer for me). I now had three cases arriving every month, a fine array of multicoloured beers with strange names and increasingly hit and miss flavours like strawberry and olive and tropical punch and chocolate stout. The following month I came home late one night, tripped over the wall of cases by the front door and bruised my elbow. I made a note to cancel my order; my long suffering mother had now paid for a case she didn't want and my partner had been offered 3 free cases to give away to her friends; the net was widening, the inflection rate increasing; COVID-52 was multiplying. 

I phoned up and spoke to Keiran, a very cheerful Scotsman who was absolutely gutted I was leaving, and promptly offered me a free case for being such a good customer. I accepted and requested he cancel my subscription after that. He informed me that sadly they couldn't do that and I would need to phone up after my final case had been delivered. The following month the beers came again. By this point I had stopped drinking them and the fridge was still full. I stacked the cases up in the utility room and phoned Beer 52 again, this time I spoke to Callum, who was even more bubbly than Keiran and then moments later absolutely mortified that I would be leaving, especially as the next month was Dutch beers and "they were my favourite, weren't they!?" Very well, one more month and then I’m out. I wrote a note in marker pen on the calendar; CANCEL BEER 52 it read, and then I added, AND DON'T LET THEM TALK YOU ROUND THIS TIME! I might as well have thrown the note in the bin, I never read the calendar. When the beers came again I piled the new cases on top of the old unopened cases and phoned Beer 52; apparently I was such a good customer they were lowering my fee to half price. I paused just long enough for Connor to pounce, "In fact!", he said, "I can do half price till Christmas!" I hesitated again and he came in for the kill. "Just cause it's you!" he added, as he sank his teeth into my heart. I cleared some more space in the utility room.

I wonder how many more of you have been sucked in by this? I have told this story to a few people and heard them groan in agreement and recount their own woeful tales of Beer 52, and acknowledge that Keiran and co are just too fucking chirpy! And it's not just Beer 52, lockdown has seen a splurge in online subscriptions from cases of tea, to scented candles to monthly deliveries of indoor plants.  

Now you're probably wondering what an earth this has to do with the band, and the truth it doesn't, but then nothing else is going on, musically, this year has been as empty as a church. We are without both anecdote and adventure. We're clutching at straws here.

Usually at this time of year we sit down and write our annual review, a brief summary of the highs and lows, the progress and, more often than not, regress we've made ;-) detailing the latest brush with disaster in some German town and looking back over some of the eclectic festivals we've played up and down the country. We might talk about Mr and Mrs Newlywed tying the knot and us having to play, or reinvent, or ultimately, ruin their favourite song. We'll reminisce over the time we supported The Famous Band on their UK tour and mention that bizarre gig we did to open the village fete in Lower Bitchfield, and of course we'll wax lyrical about our yearly hometown Christmas party that's become so popular that it has a waiting list far greater than it's own capacity. But the truth is we've watched as all of them have disappeared, one after another, taken out like sitting ducks, chronologically, with Merry Folking Christmas the final one to fall by the wayside and roll into the ditch. 2020 has reared its head and completely wiped out our entire calendar year of live music and reduced us to writing about failed beer subscriptions.

"Do a live stream?" suggested my friend as we sipped a cup of Blue Tea; he was enjoying it immensely, I was wincing with every sip. "What even is this anyway?" I spat. "Good isn't it?" He smiled, "made with butterfly pea flowers! I get a case delivered every month!"

But no, we can't seem to get our heads around a live stream, we've never been particularly tech minded, despite the fact that the bass player is a leading audio and foley artist and the accordion player's meticulous approach to problem solving is unrivalled, we haven't even got around to uploading our albums onto Spotify 5 years after releasing them. Perhaps we're lazy. The idea of pre-recording something and setting up an online streaming service with a payment option sounds as complicated as the government guidelines on COVID. Film it here, but don't film it here, include a payment option but only if you can't pay for it yourself, support your local cameraman but only at a safe distance and only if they taking exercise outside

Back in February when all this began it was an inconvenience that might disrupt spring, possibly mess up a bit of early summer, but I certainly had no idea it would eat into Autumn and finally cancel Christmas. None of us are exclusively musicians, thankfully; our bread and butter is earned elsewhere, and the band has never seemed to pay us much money, but boy when when you take it away you realise just how much you depend on that extra few grand in your pocket. But it's mostly the release of gigging that we've really missed; music on the road has a wonderful unbinding and loosening effect and you often return recharged, despite the hangovers. The lack of creativity and camaraderie is keenly felt, I must say. Despite the massive progress technology has made in connecting us, bringing us into each other homes at the click of a button, there is nothing that can replace the magic of playing live music and so progress is slow. Instead we have immersed ourselves in other things, like family and bad DIY and writing that book we started on our gap year in Asia. Or, if you're the piano player, then launching a solo career in the middle of a pandemic and global economic crisis! 

This was supposed to be our decade year; the pinnacle of our game; with a tour of America; the crowning glory, the holy grail, not only of our musical journey but of our sheer determination and pig-headed stupidity. But no. Never left the ground. And what about finally playing Glastonbury!? Never happened. And the completion of our long await third album!? That too. And the bicycle tour of Holland and Belgium!? Nope. Opening the fete at Lower Bitchfield? Nothing.

Instead we've played twice; once badly paid, the other for free, and the piano player has effectively made himself unemployable by moving to Portugal. We've hardly even seen each other, and all of us dear friends too, and when you take the band away from us we seem to drift aimlessly like tumbleweed, and it's painfully clear how much we are bound by this vehicle, this haphazard little hobby of ours, this merry little dance we do; it's much more than the music; this is our friendship and it's bridged our lives from directionless youths to grown-ups with babies and death grips, and without it we're all a little lost.

And unless we get some actual gigs to sink our teeth into we'll be stuck writing about online subscriptions for butterfly pea flowers, or worse.

So perhaps you guys could write the blog next month? Seriously. Ask us questions and we'll answer them, we might even do a video blog. Anything you want and we'll lay the record straight, once and for all, and tell you what really happened in Berlin.

You can either write your question in the comments below, anonymously if you like, or email them in to theoddfolk@gmail.com

France 29

Now instead of talk about the second Lockdown that we all find ourselves in, 

I thought I'd take you about as far away from that as I possible can.

To the foothills of the Monts D'arree no less, along the backbone of Brittany, where there's a little slice of land that is practically the most important place in the history of this band, and we haven't even played there, indeed half of us haven't even been there. It's not a venue, nor the home of some famous producer, it's not a recording studio, it doesn't even have electricity and is so far removed from the buzz on which our lives are centred that one is likely to encounter technological withdrawal symptoms after the first few days of being there. Yet it is fundamental to our journey and without it I doubt we would be together now. Judi's campsite in France has played such an important role in the evolution of this band you could almost say we belong there. 

Now, I have been going for 29 years on the spin, Judi is my second mother, my link to the place is obvious, but what about the rest of the band? The piano and bass players have been a handful of times between them, though never together, and the others have never set foot in the place and yet it is as much a part of their musical journey as it is mine. Why? Because not only is Judi our number one benefactor, the patron of our arts, our philanthropical fairy godmother, but her campsite is the primary link to our friends across the channel. And I would say we are as synonymous with harebrained voyages into Europe in woefully inadequate vehicles as we are with a good old knees up at Cornish ale festival. Her simple campsite has seen thousands through the gates, and the majority of those has been from the Low Countries, and many of them have become lifelong friends, returning year after year, and crucially leaving with a copy of our CD thrust under their arms; and there to remain in their cars for the rest of time. The car CD player being the final bastion of tangible music. And that dear readers is why we first ventured into Europe 6 years ago and it's why we have returned every year since.

Now many of you won't have been there and therefore this entry could well be lost on you but I implore you to continue; we made a few of you cry with a tribute to our car the other month, let's see how we fair with an actual home. 

It's a simple place; largely unchanged since she bought it in 1991 and that's the beauty of it. At first glance there's nothing much to get excited about, a set of rusty swings at the top and a gurgling stream down the bottom and in-between various green openings with birch trees dotted about. There's a dilapidated sanitary block made out of faded larch with a tin roof that amplifies the rain. The bureau is an old painted caravan that looks like it's been snapped in two and stuck back together, badly. In the centre of the place is a large formation of rocks that once belonged to a Neolithic tomb and is the point at which two lay-lines meet, and is definitely haunted. And then there's the large wooden shed with mismatched windows, uncomfortable armchairs, communal cooking stoves and various useful things like crockery and cushions and books in different languages. Teenagers are bored within seconds, there is no wifi or phone signal, not even any electricity. Younger children love it though, once they have unearthed all the free bikes lined up under the trees and the colourful caravan that's full of old toys and books. But it is the adults that are most enamoured of all, and mostly for the very reasons above; no wifi and the kids are happy! In a world that is so screen oriented there is something so refreshing about taking a break, switching off and getting back to nature. Showers are hot, campfires are plentiful, evenings are lit by oil lamps and the milky way with a soundtrack of crickets and toads. 

Am I painting a picture yet? 

Families return year on year, unable to stay away, children grow up and become parents themselves and return with their own children. People have been married there and others have had their ashes scattered. It is a beautiful place that perfectly balances pin-drop peace and quiet with the raucous role of laughter and song. 

I would say it appeals to all walks of life, but there are some strange folk about that just don't 'get' it. They pull up in their giant motorhomes with names like voyager or privilege and immediately demand to be plugged in. They don't stay. 

But mostly it's made up of good folk who become firm friends. And much of the charm is down to the proprietor; Judi's most famous tagline is Elle le fait sans electricité, and though the campsite doesn't have any, Judi makes it in other ways.

And it's cheap. Beyond cheap. Once a family have returned a few times and upgraded from customer to friend, they have a battle on their hands to actual pay for their holiday. It's not uncommon for Judi to slip the fee back into their pockets as they walk to their vehicle. Or if they've been savvy and hidden it in the bureau they'll likely find it turns back up at their house in the post! 

And now it's sold. Just like that. Or rather quite the opposite. We've had several final years and then the absolute final one! where we had a huge farewell party, bringing back all the famous faces that have grown up and grown old here; they all came for that last big hurrah and then... it opened the following summer for another 'final' time. 29 summers in total; most of my life. It's my happy place. My hideaway. Never slept as well as I do at Judi's place, on a child's bed in a little caravan, hearing the faint roar of the stream, the murmur of voices from a nearby fire and the almost constant white noise of the crickets. This has been my world every summer and I will miss its simplicity and natural magic more than ever in this increasingly digital world. Walking amongst the trees that I planted with Judi when I was a small child and now seeing my own children playing under their shade I realise the cycle is complete. It's almost like losing a friend. Old familiar. Old reliable. And I know it's the same for countless others too. It is a place that has a lasting effect on people. 

The long list of relationships we have made as a direct result of the campsite means we could quite easily tour around The Low Countries and never run out of beds. These relationships have enabled this band to explore, and without these trips I know we wouldn't have lasted; we wouldn't have found the strength to persevere through the cut-throat, underpaid, treadmill of the yearly circuit without the annual adventure (and misadventure) our trips to Europe offer. And the campsite has been the access to that avenue. So in that sense, yes it has been our most important place, despite half of us never setting foot inside. Without it they may not have had a band to play in at all.  

Mind you, this year it's felt that like there hasn't been a band for anyone to play in. Our decade year has been as empty as a church. We did finally play our first gig of the year the other day. In October! A ‘heavily reduced’ capacity crowd were packed into the old art centre in our hometown. I say packed, it was hardly that, more like placed onto little cabaret tables 2 meters apart. The bar came to them throughout the evening like air stewardesses wheeling trollies around on a plane. We came onto the stage in world war II gas masks and made light of the mandatory face coverings. That set the tone nicely. Humour is always a good ice breaker. It was an enjoyable evening, full of songs and stories and despite the strange atmosphere the audience certainly did their best to make themselves heard. There is a stark lack of money in our profession at the moment, not helped by the fact there is no money for the venues either, the coffers are empty for both sides. Ultimately it’s unviable, so the reason we play is for the love, and we certainly felt the love. We’d like to do more but the reality is we’re increasingly forced to turn to the ‘other strings of the bow’ and stop chasing careers that are disappearing. I find myself up a ladder painting windows in the wind, listening to podcasts in my pocket while I wipe blue gloss spots from my face like teardrops. My bandmates all fair differently, from the unemployed to the working more than ever, but what we all share is the thing we cannot share; live music has dried up. Like a river reduced to a trickle. And the drought is set to continue friends. We're in another lockdown and we're all in this together, we've all lost out, made sacrifices, reinvented ourselves, paid a price, listened to the science, tuned in, logged on, signed up. 

It's times like these I really miss the simplicity of Judi's campsite, where we can't plug in, so instead we log-off. We sit back. We listen to the toads.

FRANCE 29

Going solo

It's the piano player here, reporting for duty. Late as usual. Blame it on the fact that I've moved over a thousand miles away to Portugal. Quite by accident too. I came over in January and then lockdown happened and I've been here ever since.

Plans, paths, Journeys, destinations they are all at the mercy of change and boy did that change come, for many of us our lives have been put on hold, turned upside down and shaken to the core, but as the old saying goes, the show must go on, and indeed it must, it’s just a different kind of show now, where intimacy and social contact is frowned upon, spacial awareness is heightened and it’s Groundhog Day at the masked ball. This being said it could always be worst; it has most certainly been a worldwide tragedy and there is the small matter of an impending economic crisis, but at least the birds are happy, and I imagine the Planet must be doing a little jig to the sound of emissions falling by 7 per cent (too little too late I fear), and anyway enough corona talk I’m sure you’re all fed up with it, even if i am trying to put a positive spin on proceedings, it’s becoming the go-to ice breaker for those awkward silences now, replacing the weather. 

"Lovely day today, not many new cases!"

"Ooo I dunno, there's always a lag at the weekend!"

 

So Portugal, that's where I was when the bomb dropped. Chasing the Mediterranean dream with my partner, bright eyed and bushy tailed, holiday's on the horizon to Italy and Germany booked and a solo EP getting mixed up in the kitchen; life was good, even if we didn’t know where we would be living in the months to come, we were happy searching, that was until the big bad wolf came knocking at our door. The change had come and it threatened to blow our house down.

Once we stopped listening to the news and accepted we wouldn’t be going to Italy or Germany, we decided to get positive. Determined to tread the path of self evolution and growth, I dived deep into the world of music to understand how and if it was possible to make a living from it, although we as a band have been gigging for ten years now, other incomes are at present a necessity, but what if they didn’t have to be I wondered, what if i didn’t have to sell my balls on the street, paintballs that is, or what if i didn’t have to get up at 6 in the morning to bake beetroot burgers for a market of meat and fish lovers, or scrape seagull shit off the walls and paint houses. Yes i have had many weird and wonderful jobs but none quite as weird as music.

It’s definitely not the easy option; would i recommend a career in music to my future kids? Hmmm I’m not so sure, but hey it’s been an incredible ride so far; just gotta be prepared for the financial struggle and get ready to juggle your eggs as i’ve come to realise it’s not enough having just one string to your bow in this life, especially if that bow is as fragile and unpredictable as music; but knowledge is power and I intend to learn.

 

What did we learn during lockdown? That we have an amazing opportunity to share ourselves to positive effect, I finally understood what an incredible tool social media could be, if used in the right way, from the artist support pledge to musicians baring their souls, it’s amazing what we can achieve given a little extra time. Myself, I can proudly say that lockdown has been one of the most prolific times of my life, writing more songs than ever and trying, if not always succeeding, to upload something everyday, I realised we had a power to make people smile and that was the biggest inspiration of all. The Singer even wrestled some time away from being a full-time parent to release some lovely solo videos, and The Bass Player pursued his love affair with the electric guitar, writing some African grooves for our upcoming album. The Drummer became a prolific beer bread baker and The Accordion Player, the last of us to emerge from lockdown, more resembling Robinson Crusoe! 

Robinson Accordion Player

"Rumour has it you've moved to Portugal to go solo, is this true?"

Ha... I’m trying not to get too caught up in chinese whispers, if I believed everything I read in the press then apparently I have joined the circus to sing Fado. It’s a tricky one though, it's been a constant wrestle with mr. time, trying to juggle babies, jobs, life plans, not to mention the thousands of miles between us, and if I'm going to make a living from music then I'll have a better chance of doing it in two groups right? And some readers may well remember a BLOG The Singer wrote about the last time I tried this but it feels different now. And I will always continue to fight for this ship to keep sailing and hope to be aboard for many years but it is true that I also have a new solo ship and need to nurture that, and it may mean less time with TOF but unfortunately that’s life, you can’t please everyone, unless we figure out a way to clone ourselves. To deny this ride would be denying part of myself.

If want to find me then hop over here MAC P

Going solo doesn’t always work of course; Gene Simmons leaving Kiss was a disaster, Mick Jagger came swiftly crawling back into the stone circle and Victoria Beckham’s solo career went so well she gave up music all together! On the other hand you have the likes of Robbie Williams outgrowing Take That, Phill Collins move from the backseat of Genesis to the mic was inspired, not to mention a certain Michael Jackson leaving the Jackson 5, also Corona went viral after leaving China! Anyway lots to contemplate as I emerge from the comforting womb of The Odd Folk mothership; how will i get to gigs without my bandmates driving me? Who will pick up my trail of lost luggage? Who will I share the memories with? I’ll have to file for independence.

That being said I remain fully committed to the band and in fact I spent a chunk of the summer back in Cornwall trailing out some new songs in preparation for our new album, but just my luck I had to spend half my holiday in quarantine! But we did make a decent start on the record and wrote half a dozen new songs so for the first time in years we finally have some new material for you guys. 

So far we have a driving album in The Sweet Release, a lounge room creaker in Haul Away, the third will probably be a mix between the two with the added layer of a Paul Simon inspired afro pop vibe, all sewn together with an emotional heart stringed vest. Sound good? Still work to do until we're ready to brave the studio and some extra funds wouldn't hurt but it’s a solid start. I'm actually on my way back to Cornwall as we speak for our first gig of the year at The Acorn but another round of quarantine means it's touch and go whether I'll even be allowed out to play!

 

Hopefully soon life will return back to some kind of normal, cause when you take The Band away from us we all seem to drift apart a little. And every now and again The Singer will send us some amusing imaginary tour that we are yet to do; the latest one was a bicycle tour through the flat lands of Holland and Belgium, with the wind in our hair and our instruments on our backs, camping in tents by the side of dreamy canals. 

And although it is indeed a hard time for us musicians, we will never stop dreaming and planning our next adventure, and hopefully we'll get to live them again before too long. 

 

Selling out

It was the blog's 7th birthday the other day, it documented a madcap weekend of underpaid gigs, so long ago now it was pre-drummer and the bass player had only just joined. I wrote it as a one-off snap-shot fly-on-the-wall insight into life in an average semi-professional band and I had no idea it would roll on for 7 years and I'd now be sitting down to write the 80th instalment. Much has changed since I began this, and I don't mean the lineup and direction we've taken, that goes without saying, but the blog has grown enormously; the overall site visits are 20,846 and the readership is just over 10,000 which means that half of you come back for more which is nice but it's also meant that this platform actually brings in a small income now, something I would never have imagined in the days of yore. Those first instalments were written randomly whenever something humorous had occurred; a bizarre wedding in the arse-end of nowhere, a strange encounter with a over-zealous pub landlord, or that time when the piano player turned up to a gig two days early! 

In the latter years I kept getting a notification saying we were eligible for income from AdSense which I thought was some scam and ignored it and settled down to write another chapter about when the guitar player employed three quarters of the band in his gardening company. And so it rolled on but so did the notifications and so one day I clicked it, filled out the form and hoped it wouldn't ruin the flow of the writing, and it didn't, the basic package has done very little to disrupt the page, we have been able to continue writing, albeit in greater volume, once a month now, and in doing so take a little bit of pocket money for our time. I say we, because, as our regular readers will know, I have opened it up to my band mates to have their say and tell their side of the story and that has increased the readership more. By the way I have no idea if this is an interesting blog, it suddenly dawned on me that writing about the financial gains of Blogger is probably about as dull as a boiled codfish and instead of enticing readers in it will just as quickly lose them to the instant gains of Facebook and Instagram. You'd much rather read of our latest misadventure, like that time when the piano forgot to put any clothes on, or when we toured Gloucester in a horse and cart. And that's the trouble, when you're bound to a monthly monetary gain it's hard to find the content to keep everyone happy, especially when there are no gigs to write home about. That's why the bandmates freshened it up a little and why probably the wives and girlfriends should next; cause that really would be interesting, to hear their side of the story; how they feel when we leave them for 10 days to jolly around Europe in our latest woefully inadequate vehicle two weeks before their due date, and all in the name the art. 

But the reality is a little part of this has inevitably become about money I don't think we should hide from that, just like we weren't scared to admit we'd made a pigs ear with our finances in Financial Fair Play, because at the end of the day this is How NOT to be in a Band, this is a honest account of a group of friends making music and then trying to make a living from it, in that order, and if we can educate just one person about the pitfalls of being in a band then I will be happy and it will have served it's purpose.

Lately there's been a new notification saying we're eligible for the next level of AdSense which would increase our revenue and include shiny new ads on the page at random intervals and that I fear really would disrupt the flow, and I guess that is why I am writing this as a warning that one day you might have to skip over adverts for Harry's Razor Blades, or Foot Hammocks or Norwegian Sausages. We seem to have a penchant for writing about stuff that hasn't happened yet and in doing so, carefully predicting out fate. But there is of course a chance we never will sign up and sell-out for money, we are romantics after all and how things look and sound is actually more important to us than income, or at least we pretend it is. I hate adverts as much as anyone,  but I understand their use. It's a tough one; turning away from potential income is something that very few can do. Can you? We have resisted the urge so far; writing about the death our first car, or the bass player's beautifully poignant blog during lockdown hardly seemed the right place to advertise a decaf energy drink. In fact the perfect place to do it would be right now, with a instalment about just that, but I haven't signed up yet and the internet connection out here in Brittany isn't adequate. And plus I wasn't even supposed to be writing this August blog, the piano player was, but his is late, which isn't like him at all, he's normally the most punctual of us all! ;) 

Thanks for reading, not just this slightly boring post, about our moral dilemma of including adverts on our page (please your feedback is most welcome!?), but all of them, and I hope in the future we can get back to what we love, which is performing for you guys, and traveling to find you and all the misadventure that goes with it, for that's what makes this platform successful. There's been many times over the years when we have got things horribly wrong, made illogical decisions and missed a great opportunity, and when the dust settles we think, 'oh well, at least it'll make a good blog!' 

Chin up

Always :)  

How NOT to make an album

Over the last few years we've been threatening to make a new album without much conviction; with an almost nonchalant 'mañana' attitude, or 'dreckly' as we say in Cornwall, which translates as: an unspecified time in the future. Which is wonderfully vague. It's almost become one of those things you really should do but never get round to; like spend more time with family, or back up your computer files, or dust the house. As though merely by saying them then that's somehow enough. 

  
 "You know what, we really should make a new album!"

 "Yeah, we should!"

 "Cool."

 "Yeah sweet."

And that's that, another year passes by with the same songs opening the same doors, with another tour selling the same album to fans that already have it and buy it again out of pity.

 "You know what, we never did make that new album?"

 "No we didn't, did we?"

 "We really must do it!"

 "Yeah we must!"

And that's that, another year passes by with the only thing to change being the 

musicians that play those same songs. And perhaps the very fact we're playing

the same material is the deep underlying problem here; for you can't make a new album unless you have new songs right? Cracked it Einstein! For it's hardly the other way round; you can't write new songs unless you've got a new album for them to go in! We've been together 10 years, in the first 5 years we made 2 albums and an EP, in the second 5 years we made sweet diddly squat. Of course there are new songs, peppered in sporadically, but it's hard, we're a band that

live 100's of miles apart, rehearsals are few and far between and usually happen on the day of a gig, sometimes even in the sound check itself. Occasionally before one of our European tours we might cram into a friends freezing warehouse in the armpit of the city and play through the set, and someone might venture a new song, and we'll thrash it out and all look incredibly eager and pleased with ourselves but then when it comes to it, up there under the lights, with the hungry fans grinning over their pints and talking animatedly at 5 times the normal volume, that new song bottles it; keels over like a rich tea biscuit in a cup of tea. Of course there's the other side of the coin; up there under the lamplight, in a house concert full of people as silent as stones, rows and rows of expectant faces with eyes closed ready for the next one, and we glance at the setlist and it says NEW SONG and we all look at each other as though we've seen a ghost, we're literally scared of it; the bass player turns away, the drummer's gone pale, we can't possible play it here, it's far too concentrated, all of it's rawness will be exposed in this pin-drop arena! And so another year passes by...

... until now, the weirdest year of our lives; lockdown, a global pandemic played out backwards, with us open to the elements when it really mattered and clad in facemarks now it's easing. Led by the most confusing ever-changing rules; go to work but don't go to work, stay at home unless you can't stay at home, only go the pub if you can't get shitfaced in the house. In these crazy times, with us scattered across Europe like roaches in daylight, the conversation somehow started up again...
  
 "You know what, it might be an idea to make that album?"
 "I think you might be right"
 "I reckon we should!"
 "It seems the perfect time"

We can't physically see each other, have no money in the kitty, no gigs on the horizon, no new songs to speak of, we can't agree on where to make it, who to make it with, why we're even making it, and what it even is? Sounds perfect hey? But it seems to be happening, this time the conversation isn't being politely put to the bottom of the pile, it's being brought up again and again and again, and not even by us; you, our fans, have been reaching out to us and in some cases, even offering rewards. Almost like you've come to the end of your tethers, perhaps you've bought the last album 3 times out of pity and you can't face buying another one, you don't even have a CD player after all. And largely when you talk, we listen. All of our best adventures have been madcap pilgrimages to find you guys, and long may it continue.

And so, ok then, how? Good question. Our first EP was fairly simple, we'd just begun, we were hopelessly devoted, we had 4 songs to our name and saved up some pocket money to record them. This record has long since gone out of circulation which is a good thing as it wasn't brilliant and one year later we were ready to make a full album anyway; The Sweet Release. We did it in our hometown, in a studio, the only one down here that's any good. We borrowed money that we're still paying back today and in the end we released a fairly decent record I'd say. A good reflection of who we were and what we were doing back then. The songs was well honed and had gained some popularity on the circuit. 2 years later, after we'd moved to Bristol, expanded our numbers and got swayed by a big producer, we crowd-funded an absolute fortune and drove off into the hills of Wales to record Haul Away in an old shooting lodge in the middle of winter. That time, a little like now, we didn't really have any new songs, so we wrote them in the weeks leading up, and in the end we released a fairly average record; good tunes not properly formed, well produced though they were, it wasn't a real reflection of who we were and it didn't take us to the places we thought it would. I am aware this could be a cause for some contention; there are many people who much prefer the 2nd record, and that's brilliant; in my opinion there were flaws on the pair of them and I'm confident the 3rd one will see the best of both worlds.

And so we started writing, all in different towns, in different countries and through this long lockdown we shared our songs, and some of them stood alone, some of them merged together, some of them politely stepped aside. Only now as we tiptoe towards some normality, with the lucky few of us who aren't bound by borders, able to play together finally in the safety of the garden. It's been a bumpy road and though the surface is starting to even out a little (there is even talk of a gig!), there'll likely be more potholes ahead, perhaps even bigger than the ones we've faced. But the important thing is we're working towards something for the first time in 5 years; it's almost like starting again, our musical tastes are much different now, and they differ from each other, too, massively, and so finding a through line is going to be tricky. And we don't even really know who's in the band anymore? But albums are unique, they stand alone, we can call on old faces to come back in and haunt them with their sweet notes even if they never play them live, and that's the beauty of it.

And there's no time frame on it. It's not an exact science. We have no money and none in the pipeline and our decade year could well sail by without a single gig, but we are doing this, somehow, somewhere along the line something changed, we stopped thinking that we SHOULD make it and realised instead that we WANTED to make it. 

TVY - old reliable

How to say goodbye to a car...

I've done it once before when my 205 was blown up outside my house while I lived in Brixton. That was surreal, my flatmate entered my room at something o clock, "mate, did you park out the back?" I told him I always park out the back. "Dude your car's on fire" and it was. Arson. They left the jerry can lying next to it. Bad people. I loved that car, and losing her was a quick and cruel blow. Easier to take some say. I don't know. 

This is the opposite. TVY (Tivvy) has been dying for years. Each MOT throws up more questions. The mechanic sucks his cheeks in and makes that face that says, 'you're flogging a dead horse mate'. But each time we patch her up and enjoy another year of travel and so it goes. This time, I could see in his eyes that the ghost was up. And I called it. I had to.

'Make sure you write about the band' I heard myself saying to myself. And I will. There is a point to this. TVY has served 'The Band' as much as anyone. She was around at the start; ten years ago our first gigs were served out of her boot. Sam, Shelley and I would pile our instruments in and drive off to play for anyone that would have us. And often for no money. She's seen it all; the unglamorous beginnings; the hope and despair that every new band goes through. She'd be the one to carry us; our gear neatly stacked on the journey up, and thrown in any which way on the return. The load she bore increased as the years went on and we collected more and more instruments. She's had 3 people, a PA system, two amps, two guitars, a keyboard, mandolin, violin, cajon, lead bag, guitar stands, mic stands, a box of CD's, overnight bags, a tent, bedding, all of the piano player's velvet jackets and bags of food and other essential non-essentials. And we've slept in her on top of that, when the rain made camping too miserable to bear, we sat up and dozed in her seats, cushions pressed against the windows. Sometime we'd have so much stuff the piano player would literally be buried in the back. And even the guitar player didn't get off that lightly in the front; he once did a 700 mile round trip to Broadstairs Folk Festival with his amplifier on his lap. We were flagged by the police that time; no reverse light, "Oh really officer, I never knew, I'll go and fix that as soon as I get home!". And I did but it broke again soon after and we didn't bother again after that, even when we were stopped a second time. The last 7 years she's hasn't had them. 

I bought her from my great aunt when she could no longer drive. I never liked her boyish blue but she was a good car and came with a sizeable family discount. But it was her economics that were invaluable. She could do Penzance to London and back for a little over £60 if you drove right, that's basically 100 miles for a tenner. That's why we kept on using her, kept piling her up and burying ourselves inside her, to save on money. In reality it was that that was killing her. Slowly. The weight and the miles. And she did a lot of them; I must have done the Penzance to Bristol route 200 times, literally. Twice a month for 8 years. It add's up. She was a Pasty Connection car from the word go and the amount of geeks, freaks and vagabonds she's carried would make a blog entry on its own. One of them even became my partner and the mother of my children. As a working actor she's toured the country with me, done time in Leeds, Leicester, London, and I promise I go to other places that don't begin with L but at the minute I can't think of one. She's been bashed around a bit too; got a wonky bonnet when a jeep reversed into her. Then I backed her into a ditch one night trying to navigate someone's driveway with - you guessed it - no reverse lights. They had to use a crane to get her out. In later years her cupped seats played havoc with my back and caused a growing amount of seat braces to come onboard. Her back doors got stiff and one snapped off during the routine struggle to open it. The bumper fell off and was glued back on. I've had a replacement number plate. A couple of wing mirrors. Two new exhausts. A new clutch. A new something. A new other thing. 

As the band grew and moved into a succession of broken van's to take us further into Europe, was she sparred? Far from it, she became a family car; carrying three kids and all they come with; piled high with a different weight. Prams and car seats and bags of clothes and dirty nappies and discarded food, and half the sand from the beach. Bikes and trikes and paper maché rockets, my partner's sewing machine lived in there for months, an angle poised lamp, a bag of tools and that time we didn't have a washing machine and went to the laundrette and left the clothes in the car. She's seen arguments; enough of those; angry bursts and broken mirrors, she's even been vacated while moving on the way home from Norfolk. She's seen laughter; lots of that, all the jokes and jibes from life in a band and we laugh a lot; sometimes till our faces ache. She's seen tears; I had to pull over once on the way back from Glastonbury, I couldn't see the road, it was like looking through a waterfall. She's seen fear; a few wrong turns took me down a wooded track to an unsavoury place late at night. I made a very swift exit. 

We saved her from the scrap two years ago; I piled more money into her, knowing I'd get it back on the milage. She scraped through the MOT last year, by the skin of her teeth, or rather the thread of her tyres. I had to get a new thingamajig, it was expensive. Driving to London and back in a day was cheaper yes, but it was bloody tiring, so I started taking the train more, using the time better, to do admin or write blogs for you guys. But even less miles didn't save her. His cheeks sucked in and he made that face that said 'you're flogging a dead horse mate'. 

It's hard to say goodbye to a car.. 

Last time I wrote a poem. The words just fell out. That car was stolen from me. This one I am letting go of; it's like taking your pet dog to the vet and having her put down. "It's just a car mate!" some people say, but you can attach feeling to anything, even though it's not alive. That car has seen more of me than some of my closest friends. We've shared every emotion under the sun; I even spent a New Year's Eve inside her; pulled over on the M6 and watching the fireworks spring up in all the different towns.

There's no poem this time. Just a collection of words to you fine folk, who keep growing by the way. Not your waistbands, your numbers. This year we've had a big upsurge in readers and we haven't even played a gig. Just spurted out memories of lockdown and cars. 

Saying goodbye is hard. I'm actually pretty sad about this one, watching her go to scrap, stripped for parts, crushed into a cube. It's a brutal ending, but with the faint promise of recycling, she could come back as a hospital trolley or a can of beer. Thank you TVY. And if you're reading this raise a glass; to a crucial cog in The Odd Folk machine. And yes she's played second fiddle to the Renault 4, in terms of fame and fortune certainly, but functionality, there's no contest. She's a workhorse and a warrior. Old reliable. One of a kind. Rest in peace old girl.

Message in a bottle

It makes me very happy that these words have reached you. I know that may seem like an odd thing to say, but everything seems to have an extra sense of fragility to it now. Small things bear incredible importance and these words are cast out like paper in a glass bottle; travelling across wavey-water. I’m happy that they’ve reached you but also that you’ve taken the time from your day to read them, because (and I say this with pride) we’re a fairly modest affair at the best of times, but as a band in lockdown we really have little to report; we’re empty of both adventure and anecdote. But the fact that you’re here shows you’re taking comfort in the small things, and in these times there’s a lot to be said for that.

I should probably mention that this is The Bass Player reporting (you can now switch the voice in your head to something a little less articulate than the singer’s LAMDA trained tones) and although I eagerly accepted the singer’s offer to take this one, I must admit it’s been a bit of a challenge. I, like many others, have navigated these past weeks through routine and ritual, but creativity has rarely found space amongst them. I’ve noticed the piano player and more recently the singer sharing brilliant new songs and ideas. Outside of the band I’ve seen imaginative videos and witty satire all dreamed up from life in lockdown, and whilst it brings a smile to my face my bass stays firmly on its stand. I have found some solace elsewhere though. Clambering after my 10-month-old daughter as she scales the stairs, listening to her interact with inanimate objects, laughing as she guzzles tea from her tippy cup like a drunk in a seedy bar; almost showboating as most of it pours down her front. Life from her level is unfathomably vast, lockdown means nothing, the boundaries non-existent. And I’ve found refuge in daytime TV. ’Pointless’ is a regular feature in our house, a quiz show which I soon realised was only a gateway drug to the harder stuff of ‘Richard Osman’s House of Games’. It’s a slippery slope. I’ve also developed a strong ability to hold my breath at random times, maybe in a supermarket queue when someone’s extra close, or out walking when someone crosses my path. I’ve gone through a lot of the mental and physical processes that I’m sure many of you have; denial, grief, an urge to plant vegetables in any available plot or pot, gratitude, joy, baking, tears, jogging. And while we all sacrifice things - big and small - and while some of us go through immense grief and others go through little revelations, the world takes one massive breather. The sky’s get clearer, the birds sing louder, and I don’t think we’ll ever be the same.

“Make sure you say something about the band’s future” the singer’s voice chirps in - not literally of course; we’re both sticking to curfew - but he did give me a very brief brief and so far I’ve ignored it entirely. I’m sure you would do the same, there’s a lot of scope for where this could all go! But a new album has been suggested more than once, and in amongst the haze ahead of us our next record does feel fairly tangible. How could it not when the piano player has already decided who’ll be producing it (“you will Osc”) and where it will be recorded (“mainly in the Welsh mountains, with some pick-ups recorded at my house in Crean, the occasional overdub captured in your shed and the rest at my dad’s new place in Italy.”) Perfect, it’s all settled then! But on a serious note the songs being created now are unified in spirit and deserve to be kept together, more than that we think they’ll make something good.

Now the last part of this entry I’m not sure will make the final cut. The singer, perhaps rightly so, may decide it’s not in keeping with the blog and perhaps there’ll be a little photo of something or a just blank space instead. But if it does stay in here it is; I wrote a poem. I don’t usually do poems so someone may point out that it doesn’t follow the right rules and regulations, in which case I’ll just call it a collection of words. And although it’s not in keeping with the usual structure of our band’s blog it still felt apt; like those who are producing music, art and all else from lockdown, some confines (in this case a poem rather than four walls) can aid creativity. The subject too felt right; like the horrible virus that we hear too much about at the moment, this thing also can’t be seen, can travel huge distances, spread rapidly and give you a temperature. It’s a little lightness for you with the intention to bring some joy and it’s about love (but don’t worry, I only mention the L word once) …

I can sometimes picture all love as a thread, woven from things that are older than us

It’s delicate and only seen in certain lights, but stronger than silk with spool everlasting

Once cast out, these threads intertwine, loop, and double back on themselves

Creating tapestry’s and tangles; depending on the angle

Some may not find the intended target, but land somewhere new and that’s ok

Some shine iridescent while others get weathered and become a trip hazard

Some break, or are broken

Some of the best ones span oceans and land, while some needn’t reach any further than your hand

Sometimes two people are towed together by a thread that has tied them throughout all of their lives, it can take years and years until they’re even in the same room

Some weave these threads into quilts for themselves, and once they’ve learnt this they can make quilts for others too

But I don’t think it was always thread, when we were new it ran more like a river

Spilling its banks and flooding these streets

In its innocence it was less constrained, less selective or purposefully aimed

In its expanse it could fill a sea, evaporate, and fall again as raindrops

Maybe we learnt that that wasn’t the way, and a committee decided to ration what we share

But threads still form webs that can cover great distances

Maybe these threads formed the guide ropes that led us here; led us to where our bodies began

And maybe when the final curtain is drawn we’ll smile when we recognise the fabric