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!? 

America part 1

We've often said we'll one day do a tour in America; almost flippantly, like you say you'll start going to the gym in the New Year. It's a semi sincere remark without much attachment. And like many resolutions it's shelved in February. We do have a fanbase out there, largely due to the piano player and I traveling down the west coast the year before this band was born. A following strengthened

a couple of years later when I went out there to try and be a hollywood actor. Our American friends have been very supportive of our music too and 20% of the Haul Away album was funded by our cousins across the pond. The blog readership - just having a look at it now - is 8912, of which 2k, or one quarter, come from the States. So imagining a tour over there isn't quite as outlandish as it seems, it's just the impracticality of getting there that makes us give up, a little like the idea of going to the gym on a rainy Tuesday morning when your partner's using the car. This year however we had an actual offer of a gig out there - nothing like a free month's voucher at the gym to get you up and running again! - and so the possibilities are being explored once more, in ernest. The gig is paid which is helpful, but we're still a long way from being able to afford 5 flights and don't even get me started on working visas, they cost more than you're ever likely to earn out here in 3 months! But you can't earn a penny out there without them, unless of course you don't earn a penny!? But I have to be careful what I write here. Let's just say we're looking into it, quite seriously. Perhaps because of the uncertainty of touring in Europe due to the 'Hokey Cokey' Brexit dance and the lack of support for bands trying to do it our own country, America seems like an option.

The tickets are 'almost affordable' at the minute, but of course the band doesn't have any money, as we touched on in the last blog, but there is a chance that we as players could always front our own, or borrow it; a very big risk without any guarantee of getting it back. We even went to the post office the other day to ask about travel insurance to protect us in the likely event of having to cancel the tour due to no shows. Sound familiar? So something is happening, something is brewing, our friends out there are working on potential openings, the idea of The Odd Folk playing a gig in Vegas seems as fanciful as snow on

Christmas day but it could actually happen.
I do have a friend there! I can see us now driving down route 1 on our way to play a house concert at a pool party in Malibu, the orange sun like an Instagram filter and the warm wind in our hair like the blowdryer at the end of a haircut. Of course I have been known to get a little carried away with things and it's usually the drummer who will reel me back to reality.

"You've seen the cost of it I presume?"
"Yep" I say trying to sound confident.
"How an earth are we going to afford it? The price of fights alone..."
"... we have friends out there!" I say sounding entirely unconvincing.
"And have you told your friends out there that not only do they have to book us gigs, but they have to lend us a van too, and instruments, and a PA, and probably put us up in their homes!"

And the truth is I haven't and there's a very good chance that a few of them are reading this now and thinking, "Fuck that!" There's an awful lot to do and despite all the initial support we've received so far we have to be realistic; the initial costings for 2 weeks out there are more than the band take in a year. But the one thing that's keeping the dream alive is it's never really been about the money, it's about the ride, the adventure, the stories, the people. We wouldn't go out there for fame and fortune, we'd go out there to test ourselves. Like a week on Dartmoor. It's an exercise in survival.

The accordion player called me the other day, he's certainly stepped up, burrowing himself in band matters like a puppy in an unmade bed. He's recently taken over the logic we lost when the guitar player went on gardening leave. And it's just dawned on me that the band is a bit like a brain, and on the left the drummer and accordion player perform tasks that have to do with analytic thought and reasoning, whereas over on the right the bass and piano players

are more focused with creativity and dreaming. I guess I am somewhere in the middle, or heck what am I saying, I have the least amount of common sense of all of us and have sailed us into many a storm as a result of careless abandon, wonderful though it may be.  We are a lopsided bunch; as a quintet we're weighed down to the right, as a trio we are totally right sided. Blindsided. Anyhow I digress. The accordion player called me the other day, his gruff tones a little clipped, matter of fact, not as natural on a telephone.

"We need to fly to Seattle" he states "It's the cheapest destination."
"But the gig's in San Francisco, that's..." I try to imagine the distance, "... a long way north."
"It's the only flight that's almost affordable" he says.
"But we don't know anyone up there!" I protest
"Well we better find someone." he says and ends the call leaving me starring at the map and a city almost a thousand miles north of where we have any friends. A city basically in Canada that's closer to Alaska than where we are going. I start to smile and left to my own devices this is where I can become dangerous. Luckily my children arrive home and remind me that I am a father and supposedly responsible, and that steering the band into the frozen wilderness of Canada is up there with taking a broken and illegal motorhome into Germany without any breakdown cover.

This tour, not even a tour; it's one gig and a bag of dreams, it's a hopelessly romantic idea that is so expensive it's never going to be within reach. I did a little research into equipment hire in Seattle, gawped at the price and then walked to the gym. In the rain. On the way home I was about to ready to throw it all in and try my luck in Ireland instead when I got a message from a musician friend out in LA who'd replied to my sos call with: "I've got you brother!" Intrigued, I dug a little deeper. What does 'I've got you brother' actually mean? Do we take it at face value? Have you got us covered? Have you got our backs? Are you suggesting you'll sort out all the logistics? "Morgan man, I've got this. Just get out here and we'll work it out." As if it's that's easy. As if we just go out there and leave it all to chance. Sometimes Americans are just too positive. It's unrealistic and if that doesn't sound like a recipe for disaster I don't know what does? But in a way it's right up our street; like driving through Europe without any legal papers, like turning up to a house concert without a PA, like leaving our instruments on the side of the road overnight. This one would top them all. "I know, I've got a good idea, instead of making a new album let's borrow thousands of pounds and fly to a city three States north of where we're going, buy secondhand instruments from a charity shop and a dodgy van from a con-man and drive off into the Golden State all because someone said "I've got you Brother".
Sound familiar? This is How NOT to be in a Band ;)

to be continued...

Financial Fair Play

It's me again. The one that's been hosting you for the last five years. And it's just dawned on me that I have never written about myself before. I am therefore nameless on this site. The Singer, i've been referred to in the last few entries. Anyhow it's me, and we're back to normal now; not that this experiment of new voices is coming to an end, far from it; The Guitar Player is thoughtfully penning his entry as we speak and I'm particularly looking forward to hearing from a man who hasn't picked up his instrument in two years having let 'real life' get firmly in his way. But I wanted to take a little time to talk about something that has started to creep into our enterprise lately and it feels an important subject to tackle. Financial Fair Play. And many people will bristle and immediately feel uncomfortable and question why an earth we are disclosing such personal information to an enormous online reach, but this blog has been nothing if it hasn't been honest. This is How NOT to be in a Band; we're not scared to admit our downfalls, it's part of life and it's part of learning and growing up. 

I want to talk about Financial Fair Play and how we use money. Football clubs adhere to it and now, dear readers, so do The Odd Folk. Cause let me tell you something; running a band is bloody hard work; it is hours of emails and promoting yourselves and haggling prices and posting CD's to far flung places and lugging heavy speakers up your stairs. It is squeezing into small cars to save on fuel, and hiring PA's because you can't afford your own. It's packing and unpacking and trying to mix your sound levels while the DJ is playing really loud cause if he doesn't the atmosphere will die. It is endless rejection from venues and the realisation that people think that music should be free, and try as you might you just can't make a living out of this. It is being polite and courteous but retaining that mischievous air. It is being punctual and professional and presentable and yes, a tiny part of it is actually playing music and dancing around on stage enjoying yourself, and that, dear friends, is the part you see. All the stuff mentioned before is largely unseen. It goes unnoticed, often unrewarded and sometimes unacknowledged, even by your own bandmates. But it very much exists and without it we wouldn't be a band and there wouldn't be any gigs. The point I am trying to make is this; up until fairly recently none of that time consuming backstage work was ever addressed; the band would charge said amount and split it equally between however many musicians were present for the engagement. It was simple and for years nobody questioned it.

Now I run most of the administration side of things, I don't mind it and it's easier if one person is leading this. The Drummer always comes in and helps on the bigger tours. The Bass Player does all the sound work we need. We all do our bits, some more than others granted, but that is the way of the world, and sometimes too many chefs spoil the broth. The guitar player doubled for a while as the financial manager, we even opened a savings account but we were never very good at putting anything in it. And so for years we just bumbled along, living gig to gig without saving for the future like you would in real life. Cause this wasn't real life was it!? It was a sort of hobby and it almost seems like you're taking it a bit too seriously if you start banking! And besides everyone was always too skint to give over half their wage for a rainy day. That's what pensions are for!? It's all a bit grown up for us! And so we've been careless; even CD sales are shared out and we are going to get a nasty shock when we eventually make a third record, cause let me tell you, there ain't no dosh. One thousand copies of The Sweet Release have gone; sold, given away, lost, used as door stops I don't know, but they're gone. Haul Away is much younger and so hasn't been frittered away as much but still nearly half of them have gone too, meaning that almost £15,000 worth of merchandise has disappeared and there is nothing to show for it. Well obviously there is in our personal lives; we're fed and clothed, watered and well kept, bills have been covered, debts repaid, whatever the money has been put towards it's had it's use, personally, but professionally we have nothing to show for it. The money from CD sales alone should be enough to make three albums and we are going struggle to even record one track! This is How NOT to be in a Band; we have a bank account that's been empty for so long it's just been closed, our European Tour's are booked on borrowed money and built on risk. Vehicles are swapped for jars of marmalade and we can never afford breakdown cover. Money, when it comes in is shared out equally despite a massively uneven workload and all the while the kitty jar remains empty. If this can educate just one person in the pitfalls of being in a band then I will be a happy man and this will have served its purpose. 

But it's never too late to start again. So how do we go about it? And who gets what? And when? Well, understandably, with this idea in its infant stages, we haven't worked it all out yet. And I must admit it does seem a complicated breakdown; there needs to be an admin fee, and assuming we need to do our own sound then the person who does that needs something too. And the driver should get a cut. And the vehicle used for wear and tear. And then the remaining moneys need to be spilt between however many musicians are present. And really the band should take a cut too so there is something in the kitty for the next time we have to fork out our own money to drive to Cirencester and back. Of course some gigs are easy and some are hard, and usually that is reflected in the price but not always. Oh god don't go into prices! It's one thing hanging your laundry out, but let's not pin the underwear up too! Don't worry, i'll keep that under my hat. We don't have a set price anyway; every gig is different and that's what makes FFP such a hard thing to implement. Some negotiations are simple; 'Hello, we'd like to book The Odd Folk on this date, at this time and we have this much money?' to which we can reply yes or no and that's pretty much the extent of the conversation and taking a cut for that seems a little unfair. But then some negotiations are far from easy and this is where FFP needs to come in. And it usually begins with an email from Mr. Soon.to.be.wed.

- 'Hello, we're getting married this spring, can you play at our wedding?'
A little vague, but we are all about in spring, let's focus it a little.
- 'Firstly congratulations! Where and when is the big day?'
- 'It's in Devon, and it's in May!'
Are they playing hard to get or what? Be specific man!
- 'A lovely month; if you give me the date I can run it past the boys?'
- 'It's on the 21st, we'd like you to play under the wildflower arch?'
Oh god, sounds like a logistical nightmare.
- 'Sounds lovely; the quintet is £%, the quartet is £& and the trio is £$'
No reply. Perhaps we've scared him off. And then...
- 'Can we have the quintet for this much?'
I knew it.
- 'I'm afraid not, sorry.'
- 'Ok, my wife's going to freak but let's do it! Arrrghhh!'
Oh god, are we doing it!?
- 'Sounds great, i'll run it past the boys.'
I email the boys; the bass player agrees, the drummer agrees, the piano player doesn't reply. Hmmm. They wanted five. The guitar player has left the band and the accordion player is away. I phone the dep, he agrees. Back to the thread; now at 10 emails long.
- 'Hello again, we are available and all set to confirm, do you have a PA?'
- 'What's a PA?' 
I knew it. I explain a PA. They don't have one. I tell him we can hire one for this much? He tells me his wife really is going to kill him, but ok. It takes until email number 25 to establish the wildflower arch is in fact in the woods and nowhere near any power source. Email 30 and I educate him of the impracticality of getting drums in the woods. We agree to play that part acoustically. Email 38 and we are still discussing what time we can set up so we're not in anyone's way. Email 40 is about food. 42 and they have changed the times and then a day before the event they ask if we can play 'Earth Angel' by The Penguins.

Now it's these negotiations where you feel you have earned a little extra, 40 emails and trying to hire a PA and assuming the bass player will run the sound for you, thus giving him extra work with no guarantee of any extra money. Wedding prices are high for a reason; they are incredibly long days, usually with multiple requirements and rarely on your doorstep. But they are beautiful occasions; poignant, funny and we are always made to feel so welcome. 40 emails to the band, how many to the catering company and the marquee hire!? It just goes to show, if we are working for our money, they are certainly working hard to spend theirs. So hats off to all you newly weds and soon to be weds!

But where does that leave us? Does it mean we have to increase our fee, or lower our wage in order to achieve Financial Fair Play? I don't know. It's early days and I will write again and let you know how it's working. Or whether we have shelved it and returned to the rash payment plan we began with. It's always hard to talk about money, and this entry has been quite frank, some people like that, others not so much. But as well as being a band, I like to think of us as a self-help guide to others. How NOT to be in a Band. It's how this blog started and why it's so popular. Because writing about how amazing you are and how perfectly things appear isn't half as entertaining, and it isn't half as true.