The 100 Club

As bizarre as it sounds, we keep a database here at Odd Folk HQ that lists all the gigs we've ever done, all the musicians we've ever used and all the money we've ever earned. For a band as forgetful as us, that's pretty good going. The regularity with which we misplace leads, leave instruments or crucial wires at home is frightening. But when it comes to filing, we're on the ball. Just the other day while updating the spreadsheet I noticed we were approaching a landmark and hastily made contact with the guitar player.

Now this isn't gospel by any means. Due to unforeseen circumstances we may have to call it a day on 132. Or spurred on by an Indian Summer we may well get to 200. Or beyond! Bare in mind we average between 20 and 25 gigs per year so another 100 is another 4 or 5 years! Not impossible but unless we start earning some dosh from it, it's unlikely that we'll be able to keep steering this ship at a loss. And when I say earning money, I mean we'll need more than the £25,772 that this band has garnered! 25K! It seems nuts! It seems unbelievable! We must be rich! But then that's just an average of £257 per gig, not a lot really. Some we've earned £1000, some we've earned nothing, some we've lost money on. Indeed our 99th gig lost us £84. But the reality is in 5 years we've taken in over 25K. That's just over the average UK annual earning. So we've done a year's work in 5 years basically! Or taken £429 a month which divided by the 5 of us gives us £85 a week per person. Of course this is futile arithmetic unless you add all that has been spent on the band; travel, accommodation, instruments, leads, posters, flyers, promotion, publicity, vehicles etc... probably somewhere near to 25K in itself! Meaning we might just be breaking even! And that's NOT counting money borrowed for the first album and a fan funded second one, plus two professionally made films (as favors!). Those four alone would approach 25K. It's not cheap being in band. 

So, 100 gigs hey. Not bad. Look how far we've come? From our first performance in a leaky barn in Zennor to our 100th show at The Acorn Arts Centre, Penzance. That's not very far actually is it!? Only 9 miles down the road! But in between stretches a whole world of travel and tragedy, of packed arenas and empty halls, from snow and hailstones to balmy summer festivals, from the BBC to a village hall somewhere off the Flumpton Road. We've done churches, art galleries, the capital, the Peak District, even Europe! 14 weddings and no funerals! 10 festivals, 3 tours, used 5 vehicles and 15 musicians. Supported Nutini, Flynn and Tilston. Rather a lot in 9 miles!

Gigs 99 and 100 perfectly sum up our time here at The Odd Folk. One was under-rehearsed, under-attended and plagued with sound problems while the other was well organized, well attended and the sound purred like a kitten.
The landmark was reached in some style, a full house at our second home. Indeed The Acorn holds the record for our most appearances, last Saturday's gig was our 10th concert in the old chapel. Gig no.99 was less fluid however; on the outside the fans will have enjoyed it, they buzzed about The Fiddlers none the wiser. Only the seasoned ears would have heard the cracks in the armor, felt us force our way through some prickly moments. It was a hard task to learn 7 new songs, we hadn't been gigging the new ones over the summer so we they were rusty at best. The 3 old classics had no excuses, some like Franz Kafka were as old as time. Basket Man nearly made the first record and I Wonder had been gigged extensively over the last two years! But the new ones, they were as new to us as they were to you. Plus we were playing a kora and a double bass, a ukulele and a banjo and an electric tremelo. We had more instruments than we knew what to do with. That's why we'd roped in Louis Gulliver King to help us pick up what we couldn't. And he'd slotted in so easily it was like he'd been there for years. I remember on his first day of rehearsal, some weeks before, when we all yelled out notes...

"Sammy, crank the slide up!"
"Shelley, whatever you just played then, that was it!!"
"Hold on to the last note, Oscar!"
"Morgan, slow down!"
"Shelley, it doesn't go like that!"
"More cymbals, Andy!"
"Shelley?"
"SHELLEY!?"
"No, Shelley!!!!!"





... nobody had anything bad to say about Louis, he had taken to it like a duck to water, he knew the songs better than us!

 At the end of no.99 we stood in the fire escape with ashen faces, while inside the place purred as per normal; on the outside it was all fine, 100 people warm with wine and whatever else; clapping, cheering, perhaps wanting to dance more and us maybe forcing it a little so they could. The film had gone well, good raucous laughter rolling about the old stone jail cum music venue. But on the inside we were deflated. We do have standards you see, so often it seems we don't, like when you see us prance around making as much racket as possible with 200 pissed up punters yelling 'All my friends they be Whisky Drunk!' But that's an isolated moment; what's telling is when you can begin Fred and the room is silenced until the drums roll in and the crooning begins. We tried that at no.99 and the chatter of voices went merrily on, as though the background band had piped up at a Christmas function. And that is our fault; we didn't 'arrive', we didn't 'own' the stage and the room. We skulked up unsure of what to say and play and then left the audience to make the atmosphere. 

The next morning, up early, van packed and the 6 of us set off south to our home. A good sound check that day and us being in the space together with time at hand focused us. We were ready. And so when the 170 fans piled into the old chapel and took their seats, we were calm and prepared - despite a madcap dash around town to find the correct wire to play the film while keeping the growing audience crammed into the bar downstairs as we worked on the projector! (But that's common practice for us; it didn't touch the sides!) The film opened, there was laughter and even tears by one nice lady. "Tears of joy!" she smiled. We took to the stage and played through the set, you could have heard a pin drop in some songs while others saw fans unable to keep seated and dancing in the corner. Some stage show was incorporated, Louis Gulliver King who had swapped instruments with feeling and dexterity like he'd been part of the furniture forever, was told not to play on a particular song and instead told to go the bar and get us some beers! Of course this was planned but the trick worked and the audience fell for it, feeling sorry for him as he trudged off stage and breaking out in howls of laughter as he returned after the song with a tray of beers and asked us all for £3 each. And we even had special effects too; during The Ghost the lights went black and then re-focused moments later on a ghost standing on the stairs. "Ooooooooo" chorused the audience as our friend Connie Crosby, in a vintage white number glided through the auditorium. The finale, Mother Goose, contaminated with chatter the night before, was "spell-blinding" one fan said, as no pins were dropped and we wrapped to lengthy applause. So lengthy in fact that fans began coming into the changing room and demanding "more" and so we eventually returned, asked them to name their tune and delivered a high octane version of Kayleigh Jane to finish with a bang. It was the most perfect gig, I can't think of many better.

"100 not out!" said the guitar player as he packed up his leads.

"Is it really 100?" asked the piano player, the other original member, "I thought it was more!?" Funnily enough so had I, but databases don't lie. There's 57 in Cornwall, 40 on the mainland and 3 in Europe. That's another fact that comes as a surprise, that almost half of our shows are away from home. And that Bristol and Penzance are neck and neck on 15. Another tie break is London and Zennor, locked on 8 apiece.

"What am I on? asked the bass player.

"58!" I memorized.

"And me?" added the drummer, polishing his cymbals.

"Only 43 mate! You've got a long away to go before you reach the dizzy heights of the 100 club!"

  

The Odd Folk postal service

The drummer, recently made redundant, sat twiddling his thumbs wondering what an earth he was going to turn his hand to next. He'd waved goodbye to windmills and bags of flour, and after receiving a 'rusty' handshake, he now faced unemployment. He scratched his stubble and thought of some of the jobs he'd taken; he'd fixed computers on military aircraft, done civil aviation, worked for the MoD on secret projects. He worked in a Turkish kebab shop in Cleethorpes, done fire breathing and juggling with a theatre company and represented Great Britain in the world mountain-boarding championships, where he'd broken his arm and spent three months in plaster. He really was a jack of all trades, versatile and open minded, but what next? Project Manager? Roadie? Librarian? chef? Many professions came to him as he sipped forest tea outside his beloved cabin, and he smiled at each option. 
'I could do that!' he thought, 'I could be a carpenter. I could be a detective.' But never once in that long afternoon did he imagine being a postman.
Little did he know it; that was the job he'd take next.

--

We'd received the albums a couple of weeks before, 1000 units arrived in 5 large boxes. And then the following week the t-shirts arrived, one enormous box that the courier, upon no answer at the door, stuffed into our wheelie bin. It took us a while to work that one out! We had everything in place, there was no excuse but to tackle the daunting task of packaging and posting 165 rewards out to all of you lot! I couldn't physically or mentally take on this job alone. I needed a 'project manager'. I needed a 'roadie'. So I called the drummer and ordered him down to Cornwall for a week.
 
The first job was spent sorting the t-shirts out, piling them into separate sizes. We'd ordered 100 t-shirts, 49 of which being rewards and so therefore predetermined sizes. We'd just doubled that as a massive generalization. Sorting them into piles we got a glimpse of our demographic; large men and medium females! For the record small men was the least popular. We only had two and one of them was the piano player!

The next day we sorted out addresses, listing all the 'local' pledgers, all the 'up country' ones, the Europeans, the Americans, the Canadians, the Australians. That took all day. With square eyes we went down the pub and had a couple of trink ales.

The next day we bought all the envelopes, packages, frames and parcels, addressed them and filled them with relevant rewards. Some were easy and just had a cd, some a signed cd, some a hand drawn portrait, some a framed photo, some a t-shirt, but some had all of the above and were being sent to Australia! We had no idea how much this would all cost, having failed to do our maths properly! To send some foreign rewards could cost almost as much as the donation itself, defeating the point! Now you wonder why we're called The Odd Folk! Well the name chose itself! In a desperate attempt to save money we devised a plan to deliver all the local ones ourselves; roughly calculating a quid per item, and with 33 'locals' on the books, plus the cost of envelopes and brown paper bags (for the t-shirts, cheaper than parcels!) we were looking at upwards of £40. "Let's just stick a tenner in the Renault and drive around the peninsula ourselves!" I said. "Think about it, hand delivered to our fans. It'll be a wonderful day. 33 cups of tea!"
 

So the next morning we woke early, donned our oddfolk t-shrts (medium man, the third most popular size demographic for male fans!) packed our produce into boxes, printed out a route map of West Penwith, grabbed a satnav with a female Northern Irish accent (authoritative yet calming) and set off on what would become a 7 hour tour of our most western promontory.
It was a lovely day, upstairs a battle between sun and wind and rain raged on as we wound our way along coastal roads, across the open moors, down steep wooded valleys, down dirt tracks and bumpy lanes. A few addresses were hard to find, sometimes our Northern Irish friend said we'd arrived at our destination, whereas really we'd pulled up on a empty road with so sign of a house for miles. In those situations what do you do? Leave a parcel on the verge and drive off! Maybe a badger had pledged all those months ago and would creep out of her den at nightfall and retrieve her t-shirt (badger size). Some houses opened their doors, invited us in for cups of tea, cheese rolls, pork pies, chocolate biscuits, a pint of ale. Others we chatted on the porch. Some we'd never met, that was nice, I assumed I'd know every fan down these parts but a few were strangers. Not for long. A few weren't in so we posted through the letterbox or if the letterbox was too small we left a package with a neighbor. By nightfall we made our final delivery, to the bass player's older sister, high on the hill above Marazion. We debriefed in the pub over a couple of trink ales.

The next day was post office day. We spent the morning sorting through the remaining 122 packages, double checking them, cross-referencing, giving them the once over. Satisfied we entered the post office at midday (perfect timing), the place was heaving! We queued up, shoe-footing our enormous box closer and closer to the till. When we arrived the lady refused to serve us as the order was too big for the checkout. Instead we were instructed to use the self-service machines. My heart sank. "You gotta be joking!?" I said.
"It's alright, I'll look after you!" said another voice, Postman Pat had arrived and escorted us to the tills. 

"Any idea how much this will cost?"
"No idea mate. A lot!" he winked. 
"Maybe we should do second class?"
"It's alright for the UK" he said.
"How long is second class to Australia?
"About 3 months!"
"Wow, OK we'd better not do that, we're already 6 months late!"

We stamped and airmailed and signed and sorted package after package after package and all the while the bill kept growing. By 3pm we were finally done. All 125 rewards were sent to their new homes. We thanked Pat and left, £196 lighter. "Pub?" I chanced. "Too right!" said the drummer.

The next day (I wish we'd only had two trink ales!) was a little harder.
The main job was over but the list of band things was still as long as my arm; finalize venue for Bristol, print posters, print flyers, print business cards, find a multi-instrumentalist for the launches, teach the bass dep the songs for Saturday's gig, book a rehearsal room, send the album off for reviewers, send the album to agents and managers, send the album to venues and promoters, make an EPK, get some new photos, shoot some new videos, update the website, contact the radios, contact the newspapers, finish editing the film, all this had to be done and soon! There's no point releasing an album and sitting back hoping all your friends will buy them all, sending off 4 year old photos and playing at the same places year after year as though it's groundhog day! No, in order to recoup some money, in order to continue progressing, we needed to step up a level. Really we needed a PR person but with -£57 it wasn't looking likely.

--

Today, a few weeks on, it's surprising how much of that list has got done or is in the process of being done. The drummer left, drove back up to his cabin, painted his van red, donned a peaked cap and joined the Forest of Dean postal service. It turns out he'd found his calling. Who needs the MoD anyway!? He doesn't have time for that. Being a drummer in "the best folk band you've never heard of" is a full time job!

I will end today's installment with some selfless publicity.
Both launches are 'live' and tickets are on sale.
 
October 30th - Fiddlers -  BUY TICKETS
October 31st - The Acorn - BUY TICKETS

So please come along and 'launch' her with us.
We have special guests.
We've even got a ghost!

The Odd Folk Gardening Company

A two month absence!
We're not proud of that.
What an earth have we been up to?
Neglecting you for 62 days. Starving you of our news!

Rather a lot actually. The album has been completed, finally, after 7 months of mixing! Well not 7 months of mixing, but a couple of weeks of mixing spread carelessly over 7 months. The producer, who I must say has done a fantastic job on the album, unfortunately didn't do such a good job on time management and got bumble bee busy soon after we finished recording at Belan Hall, way back in the frozen and forgotten February. He went here, there and everywhere, recording Famous Person 1's EP, and doing live sound on Famous Person 2's UK tour, and then mixing The Very Famous Band's

much anticipated 27th album! It's been a difficult process, and one that stretched us (and therefore you) as many of you donated and have been waiting patiently ever since you pledged 3 years ago! In the end the producer ran out of time but we hadn't quite run out of ideas and so there was a week of hard talking, resolved by the bass player stepping in and taking over the final few mixes himself. In London in the fevered month of August, the bassist and I sat adding the finishing touches to the record. Together we worked long into the night, for 3 nights. He, having already done a full day's work in his studio, while I spent the days doing long-distance negotiating with our designer back in Cornwall. We were firmly bound to a deadline you see, it was as stressful a week as we've ever had. Well, it was for the bass player, the designer and I. The rest of them? They were oblivious! The piano player standing in the doorway of superstores flogging paintballs to Tom, Dick and Harry! (Actually, he did get dragged into it. We summoned him to London on the last evening to re-record the vocals on a track and then didn't even use it in the end!) The other two; the guitar player; well he kept his head down and focused on his new gardening business, and it's lucky he did as he was about to employ 80% of the band! The drummer became redundant! I know, right! Where are we going to get our bags of flour?

By the Friday we'd got it done; mixed and mastered, artwork all ticked off and duplication paid for. The deadline had been met and for a while it seemed like we might well launch her on September 12th after all! But no, no, no. Duplication said the units would be delivered back to us either Friday the 11th or Monday the 14th and no amount of pleading and under the table cash bribes could make them guarantee the former. So, with the risk of having an album launch with no albums, we scrapped it (again, for the 3rd time!) and took the next available weekend, October 31st, Halloween. Freaky...

For the record (excuse the pun) the units will arrive tomorrow, Tuesday 8th, so the duplication company really should have taken the bribe!

So, it's here, Haul Away, our brand new baby. 10 tracks of largely brand new and unheard material. With gorgeous artwork by Mae Voogd. It's very different but very good, at least I think it is? It's so hard to predict how it will fare. Will you love the new direction or lament the good old days? It's a raw and powerful record, with a real and true sound. A largely live record; the producer's got the sound and production spot on! It's a story record, a journey record. It'll take you places! This is my predictions...

In other news...

We played a few gigs over those lost months since we last wrote. A few weddings, a local ale festival with a drummer dep, the guitar player's cousin, a Mr. Jamie Brookes, a veteran funk drummer and quite a character. He learnt 14 songs in a day and smashed it. The gig, not his drums. Well he smashed them too cause he's a drummer, obviously. Not broken though, he didn't break them. You get the idea. He was great! And then Shambala Festival happened, and a great giggle that was too; big crowd, big fun.
Made us smile..

In real life; the guitar player now employs 80% of The Odd Folk. It's hard work but fun. We could become the first gardening company to play a gig while laying a lawn!

I promise we won't leave it so long until the next post folks.
Should be back to one blog a month from now on. Welcome back!

For all album info and tickets check facebook or the website :-)

Behind the scenes

It's 8am and the guitar player, one week into running his new gardening company, is cycling up to the lofty heights of Clifton with a back-pack full of compost, a spade lashed around him and two large trugs strapped to his handlebars. Anyone who knows Bristol will know there's nothing gradual about these hills; they're sharp and sudden and very steep. By the time he arrives in Westbury-on-trim he's completely exhausted and sweating buckets in the heavy heat. He dismounts and greets the elderly lady who's waiting in her nice neat garden, forcing a smile that masks the crippling pain of 3 miles of hills while carrying twice your weight.
 
"You cycled here?" she looks amazed.
"Yes, the van's out, we've got a big job on in Clifton." This is a lie; there is no big job and there is no van. There is also no 'we'. He's alone on this venture, but by decorating the truth it makes him seem more professional, certainly less of a novice, less of a risk. Despite a healthy CV, his business is brand new, and it's a gamble. "Also, I prefer to cycle as it goes with my conservation ethos and lessons my carbon footprint!". She seems impressed. "Let me fetch you some coffee."

By 6pm he's one bag of compost lighter and zooming back down the hills into Bristol with the cool breeze in his face. He parks up somewhere in Redland, spends an hour doing a paving and fencing quote for Mr. Smith and hops back on his bike, arriving home just before 8pm. It doesn't stop there, after wolfing down some dinner he spends an hour in the make-shift office answering emails, writing quotes, scribbling addresses into his filofax while trying to remain present to his girlfriend as she talks about her day. And then I phone him asking about a gig in Wooton-under-Edge and if he can transfer some money over for the latest round of artwork. And if he's free next february for a tour of Sweden and whether we should do a third Merry Folking Christmas at The Acorn? All of which he answers with unwavering patience despite the trials of his day. A day which he will repeat tomorrow and the next day, and the next day, until he once again teams up with us for another round of gigs!

-- ~ --

The piano player's in McColl's newsagents attempting to send a suit and trousers to Cornwall. He hands over the clothes to the cashier and is met with a look of astonishment. "Errr... you'll need a parcel!"
"Oh, I thought you could do that for me?" he chances.
She fixes him with a stern look and he retreats back into the shop, but finding no parcels trots off down the Highstreet to the stationary outlet to find a suitable wrapping.
Back in front of the stern lady at the counter he is told he needs to write the address on a piece of paper and tape it to the wrapping. He once more retreats back into the shop, but unwilling to buy a large pack of paper when all he needs is one sheet, he opens the packet and stealthily slips one out. Leaving the shop for one minute to avoid suspicion, he then re-enters and returns to the cashier. 
"Where did you get that paper from?" she probes.
"Oh, I bought it next door!" he stammers. She narrows her eyes but says no more so he continues to write out the address and tapes the paper on to the wrapping. He exchanges money for a stamp and is just about to make a hasty exit when there is a tap on his shoulder. A large security guard towers over him.

"Where did you get that paper from?"
"...next door!"
"From the sweetshop?"
"... Yes..."
"Funny that they sell paper saying McColl's on it in the sweatshop!"
"... Yeah, ha ha..."
"Where did you get that paper from?"
"... from the packet over there. I didn't want 200 sheets I just wanted 1!
"Right, come with me to the backroom, I'm calling the police, now don't make a scene sir, we're just going to follow protocol, no need to make a scene!" And the security guard firmly escorts him through the shop full of eager onlookers as though he is a seasoned criminal finally bought to justice. There follows lengthy investigation where the police are thankfully not required but he is banned from all McColl outlets for one year. He is even handed a certificate to confirm this. The piano player is then escorted back to the shop, forced to buy the remaining 199 sheets of paper and his parcel is finally sent. Just as he leaves the post office for the last time, an onlooker says, "you didn't need the paper mate, you could have written the address on the wrapping!"


-- ~ -- 

Life goes on behind the scenes; every time we see you we're in a state of flux about to go on stage, or prancing around singing Whisky Drunk, or sipping ales and kicking back; but we have real lives too, our lives of crime and 3 mile hills. The boredom of the bills and the deathgrips, feeding Timothy the kitten, picking litter at Glastonbury, facing redundancy, cycling to work with a shovel strapped to your back, or stealing a piece of paper. So often left unsaid, but now here's an insight, a little fly on the wall, behind the scenes of The Odd Folk.





 

The week that was.

It's 8.30am and the alarm is angry! Wake up, wake up it shouts. Get in the car and drive 9 hours to Cornwall and then play a gig! What? You've only had 2 hours sleep? That's not my problem! You should manage your time better. Now wake up! I fall out of bed, rub my eyes in disbelief, contemplating the journey ahead. Luckily it's Sunday and the road's will be quiet, but that's the only cushion I can find, the rest looks bleak; grey roads, drizzle, and a day's work of driving ahead. I pull out of North East Norfolk and set sail for South West Cornwall, some 450 miles in the opposite axis in a 30 year old car with 4 gears and a max speed of 60! God knows how I make it. Two little half hour sleep stops, a pint of Lucozade and the window wide open blowing cold drizzle into my face! I pull up, meet the rest of the band who've had a lovely day lolling around in the sun drinking ale, and together we take to the stage and set up for the nights entertainment. Despite having had his instrument with him all day, the piano player only just realises he hasn't got his leads and for a while he's surplus to requirements. We plough on with a soundcheck while he sends his dad skidding off to collect them and just as we're about to open he's back and the piano player's spared his blushes. Some 400 people cram into the marquee at this festival to see us, and it's up there as our biggest crowd and one of the best gigs in a long time. Loading the van after a storming set we become aware of a following of teenage girls loitering nearby, giggling and goading

"Hi, my name's Kayleigh Jane!"

each other. One approaches tentatively and introduces herself as none other than Kayleigh Jane (track 9 on the first album!) "That's your actual name!?" I ask. "Uh huh." comes the timid reply. "Well that's incredible! Where have you been all our life!?"                    "I dunno!" She giggles and slopes off. I turn to the guitar player as he lugs the final amp into the van, "Isn't that amazing Sammy!?" I say
"What's amazing is having screaming young girls throwing their knickers at us!" he winks "We must have made it!"

Well she was hardly throwing her knickers at us, and she was very nice about the whole thing. Her namesake, Kayleigh Jane, is a wild and ruthless temptress who sends the townsfolk mad and ends up getting hung from the gallows. Hardly a nice comparison. She really couldn't have been more different. Maybe she didn't hear the lyrics!

The next morning, I was back at the site and taking the flags down when I noticed the piano player's keyboard had gone. Now I'd deliberately left it behind in the hope that it would get stolen and he'd buy a new one; a smaller one, a lighter one, and one with the variety of sounds that he so requires. Either that or his dad had hauled it into his little hatchback at the expense of his wife while she was left to walk the 12 miles home! I reckon if he was going to persevere with his current keyboard he should put some wheels on it and learn to ride it,

Measuring his keyboard...

get a long stick and use it as a punt as he sails home from gigs. If he perched on the outer rim he could even learn to play it while on the move. There's got to be a buck in that! He could wave goodbye to paintball sales and instead be a mobile busker, earning a hat full of loose change as he rolled down the high street. He might have a problem when it rains though, but there's always a brolly, or a even a small tarp propped up with his keyboard stand and tied down with his leads! There we go, a use for all things. No way to leave anything behind if it's all got a purpose! ;-)

The next few days were quieter, we retreated back into our shells, each to their own; the guitar player busying himself with his new business, the bass player back to production, adding sound effects to the nations favorite shows. The drummer, heaving another sack of flour from his windmill, while the piano player tries to attach his skateboard wheels onto his keyboard in preparation for his long punt to London where we have a weekend of gigs.

I set off at 11am on the Friday, after a good night's sleep and leaving 10 hours for a 5 hour journey, feeling confident I'd managed my time better. Wrong. I sailed into a sea of traffic and despite my best efforts to find alternative roads, all routes were clogged. I arrived in Bristol at 5pm. 4 hours late to meet the band who'd sat around at HQ waiting in the sun. A quick turnaround; we loaded the gear into the van, took our seats and headed straight off without so much as a stretch of legs. The piano player gave me a banana, the only food to I'd eaten since I'd finished my apple and pack of mini-cheddars at midday. Another traffic jam on the M4 meant we were in danger of missing the gig altogether. Where was the piano player's mobile keyboard car, that would swerve through these jams in no time!? He couldn't have fixed the wheels on after all. Shame. The traffic cleared and we made some progress, arriving in London 24 minutes before our gig, just enough time to unpack. It was a dismal affair, under-promoted, under-attended and underpaid, which meant we'd driven 10 hours for a 25 minute gig and no money. True to form!

The next night's gig was the polar opposite; back in The Gladstone Arms under the care of Rory Clare in his well attended music venue, with excellent sound, a bag of money, free ale and a Pieminister Pie with mash and gravy. It's so often the case with us, good gig, bad gig, good gig, bad gig,
a tongue twister of

mismanagement we are. We sunk a few ales outside, swapping tales with friends and fans, the rattle of laughter, the clink of glasses, this is what it was all about. Good times. The bass player sloped up, "just been talking to a promoter from Scotland, said she could organize a tour up there where we'd travel around on a double decker bus that opens up into a stage!" I could feel another film coming on, the 5 of us tackling the wild's of the highlands.
 
The drummer and I returned the next day to collect the gear, one by one the instruments nuzzled into their positions in the van before we stepped in one last time and bid farewell to Rory. It was lucky we did, as we noticed the piano players lead's slumped in a dark corner of the stage, completely forgotten. He must not have needed the tarp today I thought, must be expecting fine weather! ;-)

I contemplated leaving them there as a lesson, but conceded it would harm us in the long term. And his poor Dad, sent up to London to collect them while we next soundcheck!




 

We're all going on a... PR Campaign

So it's been a while. The longest absence between posts since we began tapping away our journeys on this medium. A large part of this prolonged silence is due to my being away in Norfolk doing a play and having very little time. The other reason is that nothing much has been happening. We've been spread all over the country and contact has been sparse. We've been letting 'life' get in the way of music. The guitarist has quit his job and started a landscape gardening company while the drummer's been off gallivanting in Holland at the Cajon/Zydeco festivals. The bass player's still tinkering with the sound effects on the nations TV shows, and the piano player... I actually don't know where's he's been? Pushing paintballs; that's a given. Sleeping through his alarm and missing his recording session the other day too; tut tut!

Nothing much has been happening music-wise, apart from the continuing delays of the album. With the producer being so sought after and busy, progress has been slow; he's been off at award ceremonies, mixing sound for Bellowhead and working out in Hong Kong! But now, finally, things are starting to trickle in. Mixes are coming back to us. Or should be coming back to us! The summer's activities are beginning to fill out. Very soon we'll be thrust straight back into the deep end with an eager fan base wanting to hear all this new material and us not having had a second to practice it. I finish this play, sleep a little and then drive 8 hours in the old Rennalt 4 from Norfolk to Zennor, as we once again take to the stage at Don'k Wake The Fish on sunday 24th! Our 4th consecutive appearance at this lovely little Cornish ale festival. We may try a couple of new songs but it could be risky, we don't want the first time you hear them to be slapdash. You might not buy the album!

After that we have our big weekend in London, with gigs at The Underbelly and The Gladstone (29th & 30th). More new songs will be trialled, especially at the more intimate setting of the famous old Gladstone.

We take a wee break for June before 4 giggles in July (including the unofficial album launch!) and another 3 in August (including returning to Shambala Festival!) and the release of our second film, How to be in a Band.

September see's the official album launch and a PR campaign to promote it plus another trans-channel voyage to Holland and Belgium.

That's the summer season for now. Hopefully we're nearby to most of you. Apart from the Americans and our one fan in Dominica.
Next year darlings!;-)

A Public Relations campaign hey!
Who'd have thought it!?
Us rapscallions; a queer and quirky quartet from Quornwall! Together with our 5th import, our drummer from the bearded and beer-bellied north. Together we have been as "ramshackle" and "slapdash" as is possible; "with a reputation for disorganisation that proceeds us!". We've toured up and down the country in a "woefully inadequate vehicle!" forgetting instruments and directions. Turned up to gigs late. Been in trouble with the Scottish police for carrying weapons on the train. Choosing to live 100's of miles apart, spread across the stretch of southern England, while trying to run a band on a shoestring. We've changed venues at the last minute, been chased by angry bulls and found ourselves unceremoniously dumped on the BBC cutting-room floor. And yet, we're held in fond regard, followed by 1000's and have been self-funded by our fans. And now, we're embarking on a public relations campaign, forking out some, as yet, unfound money to a man/woman who will promote us, prettify us and professionalise us! Us, with the scruffy hats and dodgy velvet jackets, the keyboards stuffed in snowboard cases and propped up on ironing boards. Us, the band who forget to bring CD's to gigs and even when we do, forget to sell them. The band who travel in 3 cars even though we fit in one. We're off into a world of targets and plans, even though we've never had a target audience or indeed a plan. We just wanna "make people smile and bounce!" 

Anyhow, how about that? How ironic! If indeed it is? 

Nobody knows what ironic means since Alanis Morissette's song, ironic.

Rose-tinted glasses.

We played our first £12 gig the other night, every band needs a £12 gig, it's a real indication of the progress you've made! The guitar player and I, hot and sweaty from playing to a near full house at The Fleece in Bristol, climbed the old black stairs behind the bar and knocked on the manager's door.

"Hi, we're going to slip off now but thanks for the gig!"
"You guys were great, well done! Let me sort you out some cash, follow me!"

We followed him to the box office, weaving in and out of the crowds as Sheelanagig started up and the place erupted. The manager scanned the door-list, did a quick bit of arithmetic, plunged his hand into the kitty and handed over £12. "There you go boys, really well done, we'll get you a main slot here next!" he said and vanished back into the space. We stood for a moment stunned and then began to smile, and then began to laugh. 
"This band never ceases to amaze me!" said the guitar player as he carefully folded the two crisp fivers and jingled the four 50 pence pieces. 
"That £2.40 each! Almost enough for a pint 10 years ago!" 

That's where we are now; 'you are you're last gig' as they say, and it's a pretty clear reflection in truth, playing to large crowds for no payment. Rarely do you take home any money, only weddings and the odd arts centre give you any thing close to resembling a wage. Festivals give you free tickets and some lukewarm vegetable curry before your slot. Pub gigs give you beer and some loose change. Support gigs, as in the one we've just done, give you the main act's fan base and enough for a pint 10 years ago!

  

The Sam Brookes Quartet

It's been a long slog, getting to this heady milestone, 5 and a half years since our inception way back in 2009. Myself and my long-term musical partner, Sam Brookes (known on this blog as the guitar player), began what would become our fifth musical venture. Needing a little more depth we invited the piano player along and so began The Sam Brookes Quartet. We unleashed our jumped-up-not-quite-folk in early 2010 in a succession of old barns and friend's public houses, releasing a self-titled EP that same year and supporting Johnny Flynn at The Acorn to top it all off. We garnered a loyal following and pushed on in 2011, spreading our wings and playing in Devon and even Kent! Reuniting with Johnny Flynn again at The Guildhall and then going one better and playing at The Tate! By late 2011 we had enough material to make an album and ducked into the studio again. 2012 saw the launch of our debut album, The Sweet Release, and the increase of the lineup to 4 with the addition of the bass player.

2012 also saw our name change and the official birth of The Odd Folk. We joined twitter that year too and made a website. All very posh. 2013 saw us venture into London and experiment with drums, first our old friend Frazer Young started playing with us and then, after a few months of auditioning a succession of rhythmically flawed drummers, we finally found our 5th member, a retired cage-fighter who now works in a windmill making flour! The Sweet Release was voted album of the year in Derbyshire, we went on our first tour, made our first film and launched Merry Folking Christmas at The Acorn. 2014; we jumped on the festival circuit, dipped into arts centres and started writing new material, toured Holland and Belgium, made another film and sold-out Merry Folking Christmas once again. And here we are now, in early 2015 having just recording our second album, Haul Away, and having played our first £12 gig!

So what's next? 
Where do we go from here? 
It's been a steady climb since we started stomping box drums with our feet and crooning out of tune shanties to a bunch of hippies in a leaky old barn in West Cornwall. A lot has changed since then, we've moved to Bristol, bought houses, got girlfriends, had babies, got proper jobs, started businesses and all the while managed to steer this ship onwards and upwards, gathering a multitude of fans and friends along the way, none more so than reflected in the readership of this blog! And we've done it all on our own, with no helping hand from a label/manager/producer/agent. We've begged, borrowed and stolen enough money to keep this band ticking over. Kept this vehicle with enough diesel in it for another windy adventure. We'll release this new record, unofficially in June, and carry it about a little this summer before it's official launch and promotion in September. We'll release our second film and return to Holland and Belgium. Merry Folking Christmas will return for a third year and then it's 2016 and who know's what will happen? We might be making some money out of music by then, but I doubt it somehow, and it's not really about the money, as the bass player once said, it's about the adventures along the way and the people you touch. This band has taken us to some of the most random yet wonderful places, landed us in situations you can't even make up! From cows and hay bales to the BBC, from tiny pubs to vast churches, small garden parties to mainstream festivals. We've played to 5 people and 5000! Gone from one mishap to another in our roundabout way, on our roundabout route. 13 different musicians have come and gone under The Odd Folk umbrella. It's bridged our lives as we've grown from directionless youths to grown-ups with children and *death-grips. And it still continues to trundle onwards and upwards, and you never know, one day it may pay enough for a pint in the current climate!

www.theoddfolk.com
* mortgage