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

I am the deputy

Hey I'm Pat, you can call me the deputy.

When I was young I heard a story from an older kid about a world famous band. Top secret insider information. The story was that when they performed massive stadium shows there was a guy with headphones and a microphone hidden under the stage. He’d sing along to all the tunes and he sounded identical to the lead singer. They’d cleverly mix his voice in to make up for the fact that the guy running around and gyrating onstage was living the rock god lifestyle and not hitting the high notes the way he used to. 

I used to imagine that the man below lived a tragic existence. He’d probably signed a non-disclosure agreement and been sworn to secrecy. He’d probably have to wear a disguise and pretend that he had some sort of boring job on tour. Polishing the mic stands. Ironing the drummer’s bandannas. There could only be half a dozen people who knew the truth. That’s a hell of a way to NOT to be in a band.

Darryl Jones first started playing bass for the Rolling Stones in 1993 or 94 when Bill Wyman retired. He’s been on the albums and live shows for over 25 years. Last time I checked he’s still not considered an official member of the Stones. Check out their publicity photos. That’s another way to NOT to be in band.

I’ve NOT been a member of The Odd Folk for exactly a year now. It started off when Oscar couldn’t do the European tour last spring. I knew Morgan from working together on a theatre show about Cornish Miners and that led to drinking Scotch and jamming tunes in a static home in St. Just at 4am. He got in touch with me a few weeks before the van was set to depart and I just happened to have a bit of free time in my schedule and that led to drinking wine in a 16^th Century German frame built house in Riesling Country at 4am.

In the USA we’d call it being a ‘sub’ (substitute). Here in the UK they call it

being a ‘dep’ (deputy). I like the way ‘dep’ sounds because it makes me think of old western films and I wish they gave you a shiny deputy star badge that you would proudly display on your guitar strap to let everyone know that you meant business. 

There’s a few different ways dep situations tend to work. Sometimes they give you a bunch of recordings from albums and maybe some live shows and you have to work out all the parts by ear. Sometimes they give you a book or PDFs with all the parts written out meticulously and they expect you to do it exactly as written. Usually it’s a bit of a potpourri. Sometimes you get a combination of barely audible voice recordings, post-it notes, folded and wrinkled up coffee stained manuscript pages, and links to songs that are in different keys than they currently play them, and sometimes the bridge sections have changed and you need to "Watch Larry during the third chorus and if he nods twice that means we’re going to modulate up to Eb but if he blinks we’ll go straight into the intro for the next tune”.

I got lucky with how it all went with The Odd Folk. Morgan came to my living room we drank tea and he sang and played through something like 20 tunes and I jotted down outlines, recorded bits and played along. I learned a few of Oscar’s parts note for note but mostly I was given some freedom to bring a bit of my personality into the band. I had another rehearsal with Morgan and Louis the day before the tour. I met Shelley for the first time on stage at the first gig. I met Andy on stage for the second gig.

There’s always a bit of a funny thing after a gig when you’re not really in the band. When someone comes up to talk to you by the bar you have to find the right point to tell them that you’re not actually in the band or else you feel like you might be presenting yourself under false pretence. It’s a bit like trying to figure out if someone you meet is flirting with you, and deciding whether it’s appropriate or uncomfortably presumptuous to inform them that you’re in a relationship.  

There are also those times when a long-term Belgian fan asks you where the usual guy is and is relieved to hear that he hasn’t actually left the band, he’s just taking a break. Then they feel awkward because they think that they may have hurt your feelings and so they say something like ‘It’s not better or worse, it's just different’ but really you couldn't care less and you’re more preoccupied thinking about whether or not you might be able to step outside for a cigarette (even though you quit years ago) and justify it because you’re just filling in for another guy, so maybe it’s really like it’s them smoking instead of you.

But it’s been a real joy. I was ‘Not Oscar’ for a few other shows after the tour and then I was ‘Not Louis‘ for a couple more. I was almost going to be ‘Not Shelley’ for something else but that ended up not happening. Some people say being in a band is like being in a marriage. To several people at the same time. And members can leave for a bit and be replaced by random people for a while. And you can secretly keep a guy in the cellar to perform the duties that you can’t quite pull off the way you used to.

I am the accordion player

I am the trombone player too...

… and the mandolin hitter and piano tinkler and I think I have handled 10 different instruments in this band. I am famously a jack of all trades and a master of none. The funny thing is, I didn’t even play an accordion the first time I performed with The Odd Folk, nor a trombone for that matter! Both instruments of which have become synonymous with my Odd Folk appearances. I agreed to play two shows for the band back in the Autumn of 2015, and over sixty gigs later, three tours and a lot of fond memories, I’ve still not been officially asked to join! 

I am the baby of the band… 

…but one of the elders in its council. We have a highly sophisticated ritual to becoming an elder which involves beard growth, owning a van, drinking ale, and punctuality; this way a natural hierarchy is formed. I have only been around for less than half of the band’s career, but even in my short time I have experienced musicians come and go within the outfit. I still feel very much like the new member, however with five years under my belt I am truly inaugurated in the “Odd” ways. 

If you want to know what 5 years in the band looks like these two photos sum it up.

2015

2020

I do as little as possible…

…on stage. Which is actually way harder than it sounds. The thing about The Odd Folk is that the material works played by one musician or ten! Everybody has a very specific role in adding texture and flavour to the music, too much of anything will overpower the mix and it will inevitably fall apart. The main thing to ask oneself when playing is… is this really needed right now? Resisting that urge to play and simply standing on stage with your bandmates is a truly wonderful thing, I highly recommend it if you haven’t tried. If I’ve learnt anything in my time with the band it’s that less (and more often than not, nothing) is absolutely more.

I am at home…

…and I hope you are too! I am writing this blog entry mid global pandemic, which has quite swiftly and dramatically shaken the world. My only connection to the band is now a digital one. I recently received word that our dear friend The Drummer has been stricken by this deadly virus. I trust he is making a strong recovery, but it just goes to show that even down in the deepest darkest depths of West Cornwall this international crisis can still find us. 

Naturally, the situation has put a stop to almost all band activity. We had a little string of gigs coming up, some time set aside for writing, and a whole season of festivals to look forward to. Alas, this will now have to be shelved until further notice. But we are an optimistic bunch, and we’re treating this time as “cocooning” only to flourish on the other side as beautiful butterflies, or moths, I’m pretty sure I’d be a moth. Maybe we should all be using this time in which to cocoon, thinking about who and how we want to be on the other side. Just a thought… 

I love the road…

…more so than the destination. Which is a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason. The on stage playing time is comparatively slow to the “out of hours” activity. That isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy playing, I’m sure any of my bandmates would affirm just how much I love to perform, but it’s the people you meet after the show, the swims, the walks, the punctured tyres, the police checks, the forgotten bags, the food, the fights, the days off, the friends, the mistakes, the hangovers, the hospitality that keep us all going. 

And it’s the ways in which we all adapt to these situations that make us the band we are. To return to my original point, I feel safe in speaking on behalf of all of us when I say you must be a jack of all trades to be in this band. There is so much to do aside from playing ones instrument, and it’s those little things that are often overlooked. Performing the music is the end result of the band’s combined efforts in email writing, driving, negotiating and conversing. Similarly to being on the road, I find these little things are all part of the journey to actually standing in front of you to play. And its always completely brilliant. The energy at an Odd Folk gig, whether it be festival, house concert or bar, is consistently positive. And this comes from you - our audience - so thank you.

To wrap up, if there is anything I can impart from being in this band it’s the following…

Stay at home, grow a beard and do nothing. But simultaneously learn how to do everything, it’ll make getting to your final destination that much easier!

The week the world changed.

Well since we last wrote the world has changed immeasurably, in a week, reality is blurring, it's like being in a film, families crowded around the wireless listening to daily updates reminiscent of world war II. Households quarantined, the majority self isolating, or trying to, or at least social distancing. Pubs, theatres, cinemas, restaurants closed, schools shut, public transport grinding to a halt, hospitals overcrowded, overflowing with cases. Everyday is like a Sunday, or Christmas Eve; people ducking out of shops with bulging bags, waddling home, neighbours comparing their finds, from a distance of course. "What's a pandemic?" my 3 year old said to me, "This is it!" I replied. "A pandemic is us all stuck at home in a permanent cycle of washing up and clearing toys away and plucking your sister out of harms way as you launch yourself around the living room at a 100 miles an hour. It's why I have grown my nails after 2 decades of bitting them. It's why we are short with each other and why you're in trouble more often. It's why nursery is closed and you haven't seen your older brother for three weeks cause he's stuck at his mother's house. It's why we go out once a day in the car to an empty beach and run around in the swirling wind. It's why we nip into shops at peculiar times and hurry out with things we don't normally buy. It's why walls are changing colours and shelves are finally being put up. It's why me and your mother are on our phones more than normal and why you haven't seen your friends for weeks. And it's why we have no toilet roll and you're wiping you're bum with a flannel. This is a pandemic!" I say. 

"Huh?" he scrunches his nose up.

Thank god the weather's better my partner says as she slips out into the garden. The youngest is eating snails on the patio. 

These are strange times indeed and everyone's lives have been impacted, some far more than others. But I can only write about what I know, being a musician, being leader of this band we all love and the reason we are reading these words in the first place. How has this affected us? The Odd Folk? Badly, we're all self employed, a category that has been a little left behind in the government bail out. If we're lucky we might be able to claim £80 a week, while PAYE can claim 80% of their salary! We've lost the first 4 gigs of the year and expect many of the rest of follow suit, I can't see much happening this summer and depending on what you read even autumn could be sticky. I can't help thinking that this was our decade year, we were going big this year! It's almost quite fitting that we don't play a single gig. People say to me, perfect time to record an album and I agree, except we're scattered all over the place and we can't get in the same country, let alone the same room! 

So where are we all and how is this impacting us? 

Well as you can tell I'm at home being a full time parent which is something I haven't ever done before, my life is such that I often work away and play away and so being in permanent father mode is a challenge and I suddenly don't like myself half as much, but I have a lot more respect for my partner these days!

The piano player is in Portugal, he went out in the new year and has been stuck there ever since. His girlfriend is a native and they are staying with her parents. He's been planting vegetables in the garden he tells me and trying to launch a separate solo career but that hasn't quite gone to plan, the timing wasn't great, the world can only manage what's in front of it. We have no idea when he will be back, perhaps he'll stay there forever!?

The bass player and I had returned from Austria some 10 days ago, the day before the world changed, in fact a day later we would have been stuck there in a quarantine house. And like me, he has been at home with his partner and child. I'm not sure he's working, I'm not sure if they are even making films and if they need his audio editing skills. You'll have to ask him, he's due to write again for us sometime soon.

The accordion player is living in a cabin in Cornwall, having just finished a very successful tour of his side project, literally in the nick of time. The following week all theatres and venues had closed. I saw the piece in question, RAT and it was terrific. His plans to busk around Spain in the spring look dead in the water.

The drummer is still in work, yippee! Having been laid off twice in the last 5 years this time he's still in full time employment, albeit at home. He's very kindly offered to subsidise the band's loss of income and keep us on a retainer so we're all incredibly grateful to him for that ;)

These are strange times indeed. Some bands are pleading with fans to contribute to their Patreon sites in order to keep them afloat, and while our industry is certainly feeling the pinch, it doesn't quite sit with us, we're all feeling the pinch, all under the cosh. And when some sports minister was urging the Tokyo Olympics to continue because athletes need to earn too, I found myself shouting at the radio, like a typical Dad. "How ridiculous putting people at risk cause athletes need to get paid, we all need to get paid" I scoffed "and besides athletes get paid rather well, they should be alright to sit on it for a while!" 

"What's an athlete?" my 3 year old says to me, big innocent eyes full of wonder.
I don't answer. I can't answer. Often I have to walk out of the room, to self isolate from my family, just for a few moments, these symptoms don't last long and I nearly always make a full recovery. I am worried. It's impossible not to be. For my parents. For our healthcare. Our economy. The future. 

So let's stay safe. Let's learn from other countries that are hit worse than us.
And I hope this finds a conclusion soon. Good luck x 

America part 2

It's midday and the sun is angry. The van has broken down and we're somewhere in the Mojave desert, near the town of Barstow; the armpit of the world. We've been in California for exactly four days and we've already blown all the money we made in San Francisco and we're quickly racking up a nasty debt. None of our phones work out here and we're struggling to get hold of the venue to tell them we're gonna be late. We might even miss the gig unless this bloody van starts. Why the hell did we borrow this dodgy van in the first place? Should have listened to the drummer and hired one with breakdown cover and air-conditioning and a bloody engine that works! Where is the drummer anyway? No wonder he pulled out, he saw the signs; the game was up. The piano player is outside cursing the heat, the tarmac's burnt his feet. "You could cook a fucking egg on this!" he shouts. The bass player's melted away in the back of the van. His red hair like a pool of lava on the bench. I selfishly drink the last of the water and brave the bonnet, cautiously peering into the engine like a man in a horror movie. It's fizzing

the game was up

like a cauldron. "You could cook an egg on this as well" I say. Of course I haven't a clue how engine's work, I have no idea why I am even bothering to investigate it; holding onto a faint hope that something's going to jump out at me like in a computer game and squeak 'over here, I'm loose, give me a wiggle and everything will be fine!'
I guess it's some weird duty to have looked in the engine just so you have covered all bases and you can relax back and wait to be rescued safe in the knowledge that you have tried your best. By nightfall some truckers stop to help us, we scoop the bass player up from the back seat and jump in the cab. In a nearby hostel we make contact with the venue two hours after we're due to start playing, "We were wondering what happened to you!" they quiz, "We didn't have any pre-sales so it wasn't a biggie and the barmaid did a DJ set so it's all good." We stick the bass player in the fridge overnight and we sleep in two bunk beds, it's hot and sticky despite the whirring fan and the noise from the freeway is a constant hum. We're forced to scrap the van the next morning. "Don't worry about it" says my friend, "like I said it's a piece of shit". We take the greyhound bus to LA, piling all our instruments into the giant lockers underneath. Thankfully the bass player has solidified by now and he's just coming round, "what happened?" he asks. "It's a long story, we'll tell you in England." 

-- -- --

This is a cautionary tale, a 'what might have been' and perhaps I am writing it just to make myself feel better about the impending decision to cancel our tour of America. Trying to justify it in some abstract way. 'Yes, we can't possibly tour California because it's too hot and I'm absolutely certain I'd borrow an inadequate van!'

America was always a pipe dream, or a castle in the sky, but the more we explored it, the more we got swept up in the romance of it. I've lost count of the number of times we had a 'business lunch' in the Artist Residence and crunched numbers, hustling further, firing hopeful emails across the pond, most of them missing their targets but some landing and with every 'hit' you'd get swept up again, swallowed by another wave of optimism and adventure. It really was the opportunity of a lifetime, our greatest height, the pinnacle, the holy grail, not only of our musical journey but of our sheer determination and pig-headed stupidity. And it was the latter that was fuelling it. And suddenly we had a tour booked, or half booked, readymade for disaster, all we had to do was sally forth. But we didn't. And it's not even about the money, although that never really added up no matter how wildly we speculated; the cost of flying us out there and keeping us fed was astronomical but we've taken hits in the past and that's never what drives us. And it wasn't even about the lack of personnel. First the piano player pulled out, and then when he realised

that we'd go without him, he pulled back in again! Next the drummer pulled out, that was like someone knocking your crutch, you loose your balance but you don't fall over, and we could cope, we do more often than not. Losing the accordion player was an unexpected blow, like losing your coat in a gale. Myself and the bass player just sat on the fence and waited for something to happen, unaware that we were the ones leading it. Briefly the trio rallied around and for a moment or two it still looked possible. But in the end we dilly dally'd too long. The gig's we'd hustled got cold feet and deadlines were missed. We didn't commit. We were scared. Realfuckinglife won over. The impracticality of it all. Our conscience if you like; leaving wives and babies while we tour Europe for a profit is one thing but crossing the pond and spending all your savings on a whim is another matter altogether. Don't go chasing rainbows round the corner, let alone across the pond. 

And will we regret it? If this was the opening? If this was the door? Then yes I think we will. I know we're trying to postpone it and I have assurances from some parties that the offers are open. Others less so. When you ask a favour and then don't take it, it doesn't come around as quickly the next time. 
Don't cry wolf.

It looks like another notch in the bedpost of How NOT to be in a Band. Spend the whole winter organising a tour in The States without ever really believing it yourself and when the inevitable happens and it breaks down you are left with nothing in its place. An empty year. And not just any year, your decade year, the year you're suppose celebrate in style by doing something groundbreaking. Like going to America! Instead we have an empty calendar. We are as scattered now as I can remember. I am not even sure if the drummer's in the band anymore, he's gone quiet, perhaps he quit again and I forgot ;) The piano player is in Portugal and has "no plans" to return. The accordion player if off on tour with another band and that leaves myself and the bass player sitting on the fence. We are The Odd Folk. And it's from these embers that we rise again, we always do, it only takes a little wind and it's all flickering away nicely. I'm not worried. Sometimes it's good to deflate a little, it makes you realise how much you want it and gives you that spark to go again. I'm confident we'll still make a decent year and you'll all have plenty of chances to see us. And even those across the pond, perhaps when the weather is fairer and we can afford a decent van!

Year 10

It's a new year, another new year, another set of resolutions, of renewed optimism, of vows and promises. It's like getting married every year isn't it! Do you promise to eat better and lower your carbon footprint? I do. And will you promise to engage more with your family? I will. And will you endeavour to take the band to more varied and interesting places? I will. And do you promise to never forget your piano leads again. I do. And then sometime in early spring it all comes tumbling down; you're eating pizza with peppers flown over from Mexico. You skipped the family reunion cause you had a hangover. You're taking the band to the same places you did the year before and the piano player has already forgotten his leads and we're only in March. March, that month where January's resolutions go to die.

All that aside this year we turn 10, that's kind of a big deal, no? When we started this band at the turn of the decade, I never imagined it would run this long, cover this many miles and take us on quite so many madcap adventures. It's a decade of pubs and clubs and shaky old barns, of weddings and churches and peoples front rooms. Of arguments and countless wrong turns. It's a decade of getting it wrong but making it right. Of making it up. It's a decade of love. Relationships, mortgages, babies and jobs. Of moving city. Moving county. Of moving on. Or trying to. But staying together. Somehow. Through all the upheaval of turning into adults we've kept this band going. Kept it earning. Kept it fun. It's a decade of laughter; of side splitting giggles and loud raucous cheers, of laughing so hard that you bring on the tears. It's a decade of friendships. Of growing older. Growing closer. A decade of making people dance. Of making them groove. Meeting and greeting and back on the move. A decade of Cornwall. Of Bristol. London. The Forest of Dean. Scattered the south like chaff to the wind. It's a decade of travel, escape, gone continental; the Low Countries, the Effel Range, the Berlin wall. A decade of festivals. Putting up tents and taking them down again in the rain. It's a Decade of tours; of miles in a van, to the furthest flung places all over our land. It's a decade of vehicles, eccentric old buses with weird little quirks, of breaking down, being pulled by the police and hit with a fine, and a search. It's a decade of success. Of near misses. Of nearly's. Of almost's. Of try again next year's. And we did. Year after year. And it's bridged our lives from directionless youths to grown-ups with babies and death-grips. And we've lived it. Oh how we've lived it. Every triumph. Every disaster. Every gig. All 208 of them. Even the 5 we can't remember.

Our 9th year was a good year but it was the same year. In many ways we've plateaued. If we compared this year with the one before, they are remarkably similar. Toured Europe. Tick. Half a dozen festivals. Tick. A few weddings. Tick. All the usual local gigs. Tick. And a few further afield. Tick. Finishing up with our christmas party. Tick tock. Clock is ticking. What are you doing? What are you thinking? How do you get better? What do you do different? A new album? 
I'd say. America? We're trying! 

"Don't put all your eggs into one basket!" said my friend as we sipped calvados in the corner of the pub. "We kinda have to" I replied. "We won't have time to book anything when this American fantasy falls short." 
"That's where you're wrong" said my friend, brandy glass in hand. "You book them both simultaneously, that way when one breaks down you have another readymade!" As if it was all that simple? As if I had that much time on my hands? What planet was he on? I'm juggling three kids, a house move and my own work and I keep on dropping everything as it is. 

I can't even book one tour let alone two different ones in two continents at the same time! But he was right, if perhaps a little thick-skinned. In an ideal world when one broke down we would have a backup plan. But then nobody lives in an ideal world. In an ideal world there would be no Tories and no Brexit. In an ideal world I'd have enough money and a stream at the bottom of my garden. We finished our drinks and slipped out into the night, it was crisp and cold and our breathe danced in the air, making us blend in with the smokers. "Why don't you get one of the others to book the tour?" said my friend adjusting his scarf. "Yeah right!" I scoffed and we set off up the hill.

But I did think about it. Tried to imagine how each tour would turn out. The drummer's tour would be very practical and professional, and not dissimilar to mine, but it would be swift due to childcare commitments and it wouldn't be very profitable due to us forking out most of the budget on hiring a sexy new splitter van with heated seats and tv's in the back! The bass player's tour would be fun and full of adventure but it wouldn't get finished cause he would run out of time due to work commitments and we'd have to go on it without him. And then the piano player's tour; where to begin? It would be fantastical and nonsensical, beset with criminal logistics; a gig in Penzance followed by one in Berlin the next night. There would be mystery and intrigue of course, with gigs in obscure places in Luxembourg that don't even exist and contact numbers for the wrong people. We would be paid in vegetables and we'd come home early cause the second half of it was booked for 2021 by accident. Nope, that wouldn't do. I'd have to do it on my own. Somehow. Somewhere. In the quiet times. Those stolen moments so few and far between.

And so there we have it, this is the rather unenviable life of leader of The Odd Folk; booking a tour of America and at the same time booking a back-up one in Europe in case that never takes off and at the same time booking a third one in Scotland in case a 'Bad Brexit' happens and working in Europe becomes as hard as working in the States. Of course you've got to keep one eye on the summer cause otherwise festivals pass you by. And then all those emails from Mr and Mrs NewlyWed and we know all about them! Not to mention our terrible maintenance of the online shop, with customers frequently waiting two or three months for their CD's. We need a secretary, an assistant, a helping hand! It's a full time job and we can offer you a generous salary of vegetables and free audio editing, some advise on renewable energy and a rehearsed reading of your favourite play. Your position will be part time but you will be needed at all times, particularly spur of the moment times and without warning. Tasks will include reminding us to post a CD to Camborne, or better still driving there yourself. Assisting in the booking of tours and making sure we don't stray too far from the path, but not sticking to the path too much that you loose that sense of adventure. 

You will need editing skills and to be able to find your way around our complicated website, or better still make a new one. You will need to finally upload our albums onto Spotify after 10 years of trying. You need to drive and own a house big enough that we can practice in at unusual times. You will need to dash off to fetch the piano players leads just before the gig, or better still buy a load in bulk for those all two frequent occurrences. You will need to manage our finances, making sure we get paid on time while keeping some money in the kitty for the next adventure but only if we have been paid enough, in which case the bank will have to remain empty. You will need to cut a promo video before the deadline three weeks ago and advise us whether we should blow all the money for the third album on a flight of fancy in California? You must do all this punctually and efficiently but not enough to damage our image. We are The Odd Folk and this is How NOT to be in a Band. 

Oh and did I mention the position is unpaid!?