Playing in fields to nobody

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

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

We've played in the woods, on a balcony, on a boat, in the porch, in the garden, under the wildflower archway and ever more random places and sometimes it works and it's just like that dream image they thought up, but often it is a logistical nightmare and incredibly time consuming and anti climatical and it would have been much better to put the band on the stage in the marquee!

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

You don't say.

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

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

Or perhaps you don't.

And perhaps we should be wedding planners?

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