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