Two Premieres

We were stood outside The Cube in Bristol, the last of the instruments crammed into the van, a couple of groupies loitering on the nearby curb. I approached my bandmates with the brown envelope of the night's takings clasped in my hand. They looked up expectantly; half in hope, half in fear. I cleared my throat and, "We made a loss of £75 boys!" There was a huge, heightened cheer and all 5 hands came together in celebration. How NOT be in a band! It was a perfect moment, I only wish the film camera had caught it.

As it happened the film cameras had caught enough; the evening's premiere was very well received and raucous laughter rolled about the old microplex cinema. The film had been completed only hours before it's red carpet release, and in true Odd Folk style, in the wrong format! meaning half an hour before the guests arrived we were facing the prospect of a 100 people cramming around a laptop on the middle of the stage. Luckily, the filmmaker and the projectionist found a stray wire that enabled us to transfer onto the big screen and Oh what a lovely experience it was too; to see our endeavours played out in high definition with cinema surround sound to a beholden room full of our friends and fans.

We were warmed by the response and indebted to our friends at Construct Creatives, who'd followed and filmed us the autumn before and then crafted their pictures into a delightful little snapshot of life in a band. And all as a labour of love. We'd done little handmade thank you cards for the filmmaker and editor with hastily scribbled messages of praise and gramercy and then put the wrong cards in the wrong envelopes! Everything that can go wrong does go wrong! 

*&^*(£@^!@

A week followed before leg-two of the promotional campaign; the homecoming; the Penzance premiere, adding family to the friends and fans. Bigger pressure. A bigger audience. Would we pull it off as we had in Bristol? Would it go smoothly? Hardly! The night before the event we had no venue, no stage, no chairs and no PA! We had two newspaper articles, two dozen posters and the radio all telling people to go to The Union, we had tickets printed with The Union, but we didn't have The Union anymore! We'd pulled out after a barny over the bar and were facing the prospect of 200 people cramming into my mother's front room and watching us on the laptop! It was as close to a catastrophe as we've ever come! Which considering some of the mishaps we've had is saying a lot. 

The night before the event in the driving rain I approached the PZ Gallery in my hometown. All I had was a DVD and a croaky voice. I had the hopes of hundreds on my back. We thrashed out a deal which included the whole gallery, the projector and a fully stocked bar. Deal done. Now all we gotta do is get the message to the masses (word of mouth, posters scribbled over, notice boards at popular watering holes around town), build a stage ("Dad please!"), get a PA (drive 30 miles north to re-hire the one we'd returned the day before) and post a sentinel outside The Union to re-direct the traffic ("Mum, you wouldn't be an angel and stand outside in the rain with a sandwich board on would you!?). We accomplished it with seconds to spare, the guitar player who had been stuck in traffic from Bristol, just slipping through the door as the lights went down in a packed gallery . 

It was as warmly received, and as much-loved. We had all pulled together and made a bonfire out of an ember. Earlier in the day when the stage had arrived - when I say stage I mean a van load of pallets and some off-cuts of chipboard from a nearby building job - we all donned our yellow hardhats like Bob the Builder and fashioned it as best we could; the result was a 3-tiered podium; no tier with much room on it!

The drummer set his drums up on the largest level, the gold place, but had no room for his drum seat so had to sit on a highchair on the floor behind, which just bought him level! The piano player, on the lowest level, the bronze place, had barely enough room to swing a kitten and his pallet wobbled under the wood chocks and books. The final level, the silver place, housed myself, the bass player and guitar player, but little else, meaning the mics were balanced on an ironing board on the floor at the front. Space was at a premium, the structure was precarious, but it was our stage, our creation, and it worked. Just! We'd muddled through, calling favours from far and wide like The reverend Joe Gray lending us half a dozen church pews and John Voogd finding that stray wire that links the Laptop to the Projector! And giddy with gratitude we stood outside the gallery, the last of the instruments crammed into the van, a couple of groupies loitering on a nearby curb. I approached my bandmates with the brown envelope of the nights takings clasped in my hand. They looked up in total trepidation, teeth gritted, eyes skewed as though a firework had just been sparked. I cleared my throat and, "We made a profit of £80 boys!" The celebrations were wild, we roared to the moon and danced around the cobbled streets like kings and madmen. The band was £5 in the black! It was joyous feeling. 5 whole pounds. What we could do with such money? A latte and muffin from Starbucks!? A single trip on the London Underground in zone 1!? We were getting lost in the possibilities when the proprietor poked his head from the gallery window, "Err... before you get too carried away; I'll need £20 off you for the cleaner tomorrow morning!"

How NOT to be in Band!

www.theoddfolk.com


     

The Red Carpet

poster by mae voogd

It's 10 days till the premiere. Or 9 more sleeps as people chirp excitedly. The Bristol-leg & debut showing of our film, How NOT to be in a Band, and we still don't have a red carpet! We've been looking; asking all our friends who deal in costume and curiosities. I know you can buy them for a small fortune, but we're tugging on the favour wagon. We've run out of cash!

The big night is a week on Friday, March 14th, at The Cube in Bristol; a 100 seater mini multiplex, a retro tardis with a whiff of shabby chic. The space is full of character due to its many guises; it started life as a gay avant garde art centre, before becoming a chinese restaurant, a girls school, a deaf and dumb institute and an illegal gambling den. And now it's home to the premiere of one of the most eagerly anticipated films of the year, screw the Oscar's, this is what it's all about! How NOT to be in Band; a madcap adventure in an old renault 4 that we can't reverse, where everything that can go wrong does go wrong, where microphones are fashioned out of branches and bass player's sleep in piano cases! The film is complete, it's even been sent to London to be graded and mixed (how very posh) and now it's waiting for its big day! 9 more sleeps people, 9 more sleeps!

We've been trying to practice for the event - not our film watching faces obviously, cause that would be daft! Can you imagine; 'Fancy a pint tonight?'
'I can't mate, i'm practicing watching films!' -  we're playing live after the viewing you see, so we've been dusting up on our set. We drove high up into the forest of Dean last weekend, to the drummer's log cabin, and this time we went the right way; we didn't horseshoe it, we went direct; crossed the bridge with the sun on our faces, feeling very proud of ourselves, and then took the wrong road and drove into Newport! An hour and 40 minutes later we finally arrived, the old Renault seemingly more overloaded than when we were on the aforementioned tour, and struggling on the hills. We set up the gear and sat down to practice, doubled back, grabbed wellington's and coats and bounded off into the spring sunshine. Rehearsing could wait! We scampered down the steep valley, winding through the tall trees, sharing tall tales and squinting when the sun flashed through the foliage. We came out into a clearing at the bottom, beyond that was the River Wye. We bounded the fence, checking that the animals that grazed by the river were cows and strolled through boggy grass towards the water.

"Err, there's a bull!" said the drummer. We peered over to the grazing beasts. 

"Which one?" said the bass player.

"That massive one over there that's walking towards us!" he replied. "Don't run just walk purposefully and don't look back!" We walked purposefully alright, striding like soldiers before breaking into what can only be described as apprehensive skipping, throwing careless glances over our shoulders while trying to navigate a widening bog. The piano player, the only one of us in trainers was in a spot of bother so I hoisted him onto my back and stumbled on as best I could, but it wasn't long before I sunk deep into the mud under the extra weight. Stuck fast. I couldn't move, we were doomed, the bull would spear us, it was only a matter of time. I closed my eyes and waited for the horn to pierce my side! Waited to be impaled and raised high above his steaming nostrils with the piano player throttling me as he clung from my neck for dear life. But the next thing I heard was the drummer.
"He's moved away" he said "he doesn't like the bog either. You're safe!" 

"I'm not safe, I'm sinking" I yelled, "Now take the boy off my back!"

The piano player was peeled off me and I was pulled free. We scrambled up the bank and began the long hike home. "I don't remember walking up this hill on the way down!" complained the piano player as we fashioned walking sticks in an attempt to propel us up the valley. It took us an hour and 40 minutes to get back!

ghostly goings on....

The rehearsal commenced in earnest, we buzzed through the set before becoming stuck on learning a song for someone's wedding, then fled to the village pub. Later, inspired by the surroundings we skipped out into the night, walking along the river to the derelict and gothic Tintern Abbey, up-lit looking like Dracular's liar. We spooked ourselves. Made scary photos by flooding our faces in the large lights that circled the abbey. We tiptoed inside, the piano player sold a paintball session to some ghosts and we went merrily on our way.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
The next day was a wash-out, like a damp and dirty dish cloth. The filming we'd planned was shelved, as was the photo shoot. We recorded a few slide solo's with the guitar player, who'd been absent the day before, due to buying his first house! We put the bass player back on the train to London, waved goodbye to the drummer and went our separate ways; having spent most of our rehearsal weekend stuck in the mud or spooking ourselves out.

But it's all go now, we're working to deadlines, the bass player's on overdrive with all the post production work he's doing for the film. We're editing a trailer for ITV news, an audio-trailer for BBC radio while writing a variety of pieces for the papers. But we still don't have a red carpet!

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! Brrrrrrrrrrrrrring! it's the piano player.

"Hello, what do you want?"

"Nothing, just seeing how you are." he asks.
"Well I'm stressed, trying to organise this premiere, my tux has got a hole in the crotch and i can't find a carpet, all i've got is a turkish rug!"

"That'd look cool!" he chirps.
"Anyway how are you, you sound cheerful?"

"I had the best day selling paintballs, 7 sales!" he boosts.

I quickly did the maths, 7 x £60 equals a lot of cash. hmmm...

"I wonder, could you lend us some money for a red carpet!?"      

THE RED CARPET!

                          Event Page: https://www.facebook.com/events/1432882883615683/

The bass player's a boxer!

It's 6pm on a Tuesday and the piano player is trying to get some more bacon from the corner shop. He'd previously swapped a paintball session for 60 rashes but only took 20, figuring he'd collect more as and when he needed it. The shop has just closed but the assistant is still inside packing boxes. He knocks on the door but there's no reply, so he squats down and peers through the letterbox.
"Excuse me, I need some more bacon!" he yells.
"Sorry my friend, the deal is off!" is the reply.
"What!? I gave you a £60 paintball session, you owe me another 40 rashes!"
"We don't want the session anymore!" explains the shopkeeper.
"Well then give it back!" the piano player snarls through the letterbox.
"Ok, but you owe me for 20 rashes then? £10 please!"
But the piano player doesn't have a tenner and so trudges home in the rain.
It's been a hard week, full of wind and rain and he hasn't hit the targets!
In fact, today he had to pay out £20 to sell at a shopping centre and then failed to make a single sale. The life of a charity mugger. Rosy!

Back at The Odd Folk HQ it's all go with the organisations for the premier of our film, How NOT to be in a Band, which is the tale of our ill-fated scramble up to The Illuminations Festival as part of last summer's three wknd tour. The film's in the last stages of the edit before the bass player takes it off to his studio in London to mix it and grade it. (You see we're finally starting to utilise his talents!) It really is a lovely little piece and we're really proud of it, well the bass player and I are. We're the only ones to have seen it, the others preferring to wait till the big night. And the big night will come on Friday March 14th at The Cube; a lovely old cinema in Bristol. We will then take it back home to Penzance the following Friday for another viewing in The Union, before finally taking it up to London; but finding a venue in the smoke is proving difficult and decidedly costly. 

poster by Mae Voogd

That aside, all is well in the Odd-Land; gigs are coming thick and fast; the online calendar we set up is proving a success, the violin's had a service (for anyone who's seen her at recent gigs she really did need one; held together with plasters and gaffer tape!), we've written new material, recorded a brand new song, stocked up on guitar strings and finally bought our own jack leads, after years on the blag. We're on the ball this year. Glowing from the recent euphoric gig at The Golden Lion which was packed to the rafters with friends and foes, all singing along and stomping. We garnered the largest collection pot they've ever had and they told us, quite literally to name our return date. Which for a bunch of ramshackle rapscallions from Penzance ain't bad.
The Golden Lion being one of Bristol's premier music venues and all that.
We're chuffed to bits! 

The following morning as we sat in a nearby greasy spoon nursing our hangovers, we dished out the evenings earnings. Not too shabby.
I played a little trick on the bass player, for a sudden flash-back of the film came to me; a flash-back in which he had said "We're not in it for the pay cheques! We're in it for the music!" So I kept his cut back, playing a fine old game with him, winding him up like a clock until I found out he's a boxer and he'd beat me like I stole God's supper! The bass player's a boxer!?
How come I never knew that!? He's an audio-editor and a boxer! We really should utilise him more often! Milk all of his talents. We could use him to our advantage: 'Oh really, you won't let us play at this year's Newt festival, Mr. Slugburger! Well how about I introduce you to our bass player and I'm sure he'll change your mind! Never mind being polite and proper to bookers, we could just bully them from now on!

Meanwhile, the piano player has upped sticks to Birmingham, just for a week mind! He's staying in the paintball house in the centre, him and 20 other charity muggers, all crammed inside like immigrants in a stash house. He's trying his luck in England's second city, seeing if he can meet those targets.

As the UK is battered by ferocious winds and lashed by killer waves.
As rivers burst their banks and submerge whole towns and we're flooded by a 100 years of rain; spare a thought for our piano player, sailing up the many canals of Birmingham without any bacon, but still searching for the sales.
I guess he's got a lifeline now, if any other of the other shopkeepers refuse their part of the deal, he can always call the bass player to box their ears!

www.theoddfolk.com

Jobs

We're on our way to a band practice and we're lost. Instead of slipping west into the forest of dean, we're doing a horseshoe and approaching from the north. The man in the village petrol station confirmed this, "Not far now boys, but watch out for the wild boars, they're a bloody nuisance around here, digging up our gardens!" 

The forest is beautiful though, even in the midst of winter with the weak sun on the spindly trees. The drummer has just moved out here to a log cabin, which is good and bad; good that we've got a decent rehearsal room in a creative setting, but ironic that when we finally get the piano player up to bristol, the drummer's upped sticks to the forest!

We set up and begin playing through the set in earnest, introducing three new songs and making good progress, spurred on by the idyllic countryside around us. We stop for a bite to eat mid-way, the drummer dishes out bowls of pasta and pesto but when we start up again we've gone all stodgy like the conchiglie, like we've all been spiked, the room is full of tired eyes and the songs have slowed to lento and adagio, especially the new waltz, it's fallen flat on the floor!

We take a break and sip tea, talking about the drummer's new pad, 40 minutes out of town (or an hour and forty if you horseshoe it like us!) We ask him how it'll effect his work, but he works mostly from home. The conversation rolls on; we discus the perils of work and music; how hard it is to juggle them. How all you really want to do is play music but Man's got to eat and being a ramshackle musician doesn't put conchiglie on the table!

I wonder; you readers probably don't know what we do in real life, when not free wheelin' around the country in a renault 4 and stomping around the stages! We're all rather normal i suppose. 

--- ---

I'm self-employed, and to my knowledge the only one of us who is? An actor by trade and training, but an odd-jobbing everything from painting to posing! Labouring, gardening and topless waiting, anything as long I'm in control of the hours! 

The good old days.

Brave new world.

The Drummer, i really want to say he puts up old wooden windmills and makes flour! But i think the picture on the right may tell a truer tale!


 

The guitar player, during our 14 year musical relationship, has worked a succession of jobs; for many years he sold office furniture in London and now he's selling insurance for Direct Line, but he's spent years landscape gardening for Clifton's elite or pulling pints for Cornish farmers, or cooking food for the gentry of Nottingham! 


The bass player works for a production company in London, he works in post production. I saw his name on the credits of some TV programme the other day which made me smile! He's a sound engineer, or audio editor which is something we really should utilise! The guitar player did utilise this however and recorded his solo EP there; out of hours, in a plush studio. Very fancy. And very vibrant too. Right in the centre of London, the very heart of soho. Just got to be careful of the alley cats at night! 

And that leaves the piano player, who for years was permanently unemployed, a young hermit living in his subtropical wilderness at the end of the world. He rallied shortly before his move to Bristol and got a job in a deli where he started front of house but was quickly moved onto dish-pig duties after too many misunderstandings. Once in Bristol he landed a job as a paintball seller; a charity mugger on high commission trying to sell as many paintball sessions as possible to meet the targets. "If i get 10 this week I get full commission!"

he'd enthuse. And he did meet the targets, and made a decent wage, and he learnt all the tricks and perks of the job; like being able to swap paintball sessions for 60 packets of bacon or a Chicken Jalfrazzi from the Indian restaurant at the bottom of his road! "The other day I was in Taunton and I was starving so I swapped a paintball session for a cup of soup and hunk of bread!" His ability to sell has taken us all by surprise, and in the most bizarre circumstances too, after having his bike wheel stolen, a passer by helped him to the nearest bike shop, and by the time they reached it he'd signed up for a double paintball session! Or the barman who sold him an ale and then signed up to a session before he'd given over the change! 

We're obviously all musicians. And perhaps it's still considered a hobby, though it's a job too! It's a time consuming, multi-faceted job that involves driving 100's of miles, reading maps, lugging heavy equipment all over the place, being polite and proper to bookers while retaining a certain mischievous outlaw attitude to the punters. It involves writing music and remembering to buy spare guitar strings and playing your heart out to a half empty pub or a field full of hippies. It involves maths, parking tickets, costume changes, poncy posing, signing CD's and getting tangled up in leads and wires! It can eat up your weekend and leave you giddy, and it rarely pays! But we all love it. For the music we make and those moments on stage and seeing the people enjoying us; our hobby, our job!

--- ---

We start up with the rehearsal again and finally the haze lifts and we make progress. We pick the waltz up from the floor, dust it down and buzz through it again, smiling at this new rhythm, 3/3 aren't we clever! We pack up and thank the drummer, bundling into the car and feeling confident we'll take the 40 minute route home. "Cross the bridge and turn left, it's straight down to the seven bridge!" he shouts as we pull away. We cross the bridge and turn right, which is of course the wrong way but we've forgotten by then. We follow the river for miles despite it going against us. "We're going upstream!" says the guitar player. "We're not, it's the clouds man! It plays tricks on you. It says Monmouth ahead, that's by the sea, surely!" We continue with the river shrinking and the road rising into the hills and finally admit defeat in the town of Monmouth, which is in the hills and nowhere near the sea! We arrive home; an hour and 40 again!

We swing by The Golden Lion and drop in some posters for the coming gig on February 1st. We bundle back in the car and notice that the piano player is missing!? Moments later he returns. "I just sold a paintball session to the barmaid!" he chuckles. 

poster by Mae Voogd

                                       www.theoddfolk.com 

The Missing Link!

SORT YOUR LIFE OUT . COM

We need a manager. Or a PA. Or personal organiser. Someone who's in charge of the diary and bookings and planning and organising. All those fiddly bits. Someone who knows all five of our personal diaries inside out and thus can plan the band's activities accordingly. At the moment that someone is me. And after only 3 weeks, this year is already a logistical nightmare. All the festival negotiations have started and I just can't keep up; it's mayhem! Port Eliot Literary Festival is confirmed. That I do know. I must put that in the diary. But where's the diary? Ah, this scrap of paper will do! Scribble Scribble scribble...

Brrrrrring Brrrrrring! 

'Yes, hello Warwick Folk Festival! How lovely to hear from you! Yes of course we're free, I'm looking in the diary now and it's empty in July! Yes, we'd love to play!' So that's Warwick confirmed now too. Brilliant. I'll just write that down; Friday the 25th at 8pm, The Moon Stage. 

"Hi guys, just to let you know we've got Warwick on July 25th now!"
"Can't do it." says the drummer.
"What, why?"
"Cause we're playing at Port Eliot that day you numpty!"
"Ah, balls! I forgot!"

But the diary was empty!? - Well of course the diary was empty, you wrote it on a scrap of paper!

And then I'm cancelling Warwick and accepting Clovelly, but that's the same weekend as Latitude, but they haven't confirmed yet, and the drummer's away in America that week, and the guitar player starts his job with direct line that day. And then there's Beautiful Days Festival and they want another promo pack asap cause they lost the last one. And then so and so wants us to play at their wedding in the arse end of nowhere and then that Arts Centre chap keeps asking me about dates in April, and the Silk and Skin Festival (god knows what that is!) they want us that weekend? Or was it that weekend? Where's the diary! My head's spinning. I'm searching the bin for scraps of paper with important information on while trying to design a promo pack and book a rehearsal room and eat my lunch! Then I realise I haven't got any money and I need to work too! 

But it is exciting; already this year is shaping up nicely, we're realising our film, How NOT to be in a band; a documentary about our three wknd tour last september, made by our friend the filmmaker Paul Mackeson, who followed us up to Derbyshire and back. We've hired a lovely independent cinema in Bristol and after only a week of double booking ourselves, finally settled on a date; Friday March 14th. We're shooting another music video soon. We've even started writing new material for the first time in a long time! And we've got some cash in the kitty for the first time in forever! CD sales are up. The mandolin's got a new pickup and we fixed the bass amp. The piano player's given up with his side project and we're all getting on! And, after the summer's festivities have died down, we are planning our first foray into Europe; a tour of France, Belgium, Holland and Germany. World domination beckons... again!

We're in a good place. We're all focused and happy. Opportunities are arising. I've a feeling this will be a very good year. We just need a Personal Organiser. Someone who knows the drummer's unavailability and when the bass player is walking in the Lake District. Someone who knows the guitar player's knee appointment and that the piano player has lost his bank card for the 5th time in a year and is now being charged by the bank for a new one! 

The missing link. The knowledge. The diary. With a pencil and an ink. Who knows the yes's, the no's and the maybe's. Who understands budget and travel and route. Who says please and thank you and kind regards. And doesn't write important information on cereal boxes. 

Someone like... Mother!

Brrrrrring Brrrrrring!

"Hi darling, what's up?"
"Can you be our manager?"

www.theoddfolk.com

Oh what a wonderful year! (2013)

The year began with plans loosely in place for a mini tour of Iceland. We had skipped off the stage after our third consecutive New Year's Eve giggle at The Gurnards Head, wiped the sweat from our brows and talked eagerly of exploring this frozen land. Or rather I had. "It's never going to happen" said the guitar player, "get your priorities straight, first thing's first, we need to sign the bass player up on a permanent basis!". He was right, our sometime bass player had become an integral part of the jigsaw, on the few gig's he'd played with us he had demonstrated 4 string dexterity of the highest order, he was punctual, level-headed, multi-instrumental and knew the songs better after only 4 months than we did after 4 years! "Plus we'll need him if you're really serious about Iceland!?"

JANUARY was rather empty; a bleak and frosty landscape with a whinnying wind that whipped the walls of our worlds, where everybody was detoxing and hibernating, with hot water bottles on their bellies and long john'd legs, where watching a band play was a far off dream of spring or summer. We didn't play a single chord. We barely spoke. We certainly never made it to Iceland.

FEBRUARY was even colder but people had gotten bored of detoxing and had begun to drink to combat the grinding weather. They ventured out, still clad in long-johns, still pregnant with hot water bottles! We played twice in this the smallest of months; a BBC Radio Cornwall slot live on air, under the guidance of the disk jockey David White, followed by our London debut at The Rattlesnake which was one of our biggest and best gigs to date, and not to be bettered as the months fell away. 

'The MARCH wind roars like a golden lion in the sky, and makes us shiver as he passes us by' reads the quote, rather fitting as we took our long awaited Bristol bow at The Golden Lion; it was a busy affair but it took us a wee while to settle into our stride. We later achieved this by sipping red-bull and ended with a roar! A cosy sunday slot at The Boogaloo in London was a nice way to end an eventful month in which we'd signed to a leading music agent and parted ways with our sometime drummer.

APRIL saw two more bristol gigs, one in a crammed bar in the centre, the other in a rambling old church. Both gigs were eventful and without a drummer I trialled my new stomp box which proved hit and miss and had the habit of cutting out mid-song. The Looking Glass was a smart venue in the centre and very busy. I remember we borrowed a keyboard as the piano player had misplaced his. I also remember we got a parking ticket and as the venue didn't pay us and we'd forgotten our CD's we made a loss of £30! The Big Sleep Out was run by The Big Issue and was a charity event for the homeless where 100's would sleep on cardboard boxes in a beautiful old church in St. Pauls. The gig was lovely though the piano player, who was going through a faze of growing his hair and beard, was constantly being mistaken for a tramp and was surrounded by security every time he walked onto the stage!

Still drummer-less in MAY we played two stompin' gigs nonetheless, with the stomp-box discarded and the box-drum reinstated, we rocked Portbury Village Hall and then travelled down to Cornwall to play at The Spring Ale Festival which is contender number 2 for gig of the year; a typical Cornish affair, a packed barn with familiar faces, plenty of ale, hot and sweaty audience participation and foot-stomping sing-alongs.

JUNE we did nothing. I turned 30 and span-out, the piano player didn't leave his valley, the guitar player recorded a solo EP, the bass player worked an office job in London and the drummer didn't exist.

JULY we very nearly did nothing; a solitary giggle at The Lost and Found in our hometown at the start of the month and then the sun came out and we went to the beach for 21 consecutive days until it rained again.

"Just make sure you get the cheque!"

AUGUST saw two giggles, two weddings, Tremenheere Sculpture Gardens and then a shoe-foot up to the The Rod and Lion in Tideford. I was late for both and as I remember, soaking wet. I had been acting in a play most of the month and driving very fast after the show to make the gigs. We were back to being a threesome, as the bass player was office-bound in London and the drummer still hadn't found us. I want to say we rocked both gigs but I have very little memory of either, other than my rain-soaked punctuality! Weddings are tricksy; remembered forever by the bride and groom and forgotten in minutes by the the band. You fein delight at playing them but really you only come for the cheque! 

poster by Mae Voogd

SEPTEMBER was the biggest month we'd ever had, our first tour; a 900 mile scramble across the country in a silly car that we couldn't reverse. The bass player was back with us and we had a brand new drummer! We began in Praa Sands; another typical cornish giggle with amps on hay-bales and cows joining in on the choruses. We then travelled north, our furthest north, to the famed Illuminations Festival in Matlock and on this part of the tour we were followed by our friend the filmmaker Paul Mackeson as he filmed the documentary How NOT to be in a band! We did a radio slot on BBC Radio Derbyshire where we found out our album was album of the year! We swerved south playing The Underbelly in London, headed west to Bristol for a brilliant stomper at The Plough before rolling back home to Cornwall's Little Big Festival. 

We only played once in OCTOBER, an unforgettable evening at The Islington, in London, on the night that Hurricane Jude whipped the country.

NOVEMBER saw us return to our spiritual home, The Acorn, in our hometown of Penzance in support of folk legend, Steve Tilston. It was a beautiful sit-down event and our third finest show of the year, where some of the slow paced numbers got a showcase and we pinched some of Steve Tilston's fans!

poster by Mae Voogd

And here we are in DECEMBER, back in the cold and dark on the lead up to christmas and our final giggle of the year at The Acorn with local bluegrass hero's Flats and Sharps. We will deck the halls with tw*ts and fiddles and play a folked-up repertoire of Christmas shanties to our adoring fans. Then we will close the year after 20 gigs, a new drummer, an agent, a film, a quirky tour bus, having travelled thousands of miles, broken London, cracked Bristol, made money, spent more, had our dear old piano player mistaken for a tramp, lose his piano, leave a chainsaw on the train, and then most surprisingly of all, finally move to Bristol. We are complete. And we're ready for next year.
I'm thinking Iceland!

www.theoddfolk.com

Side Projects

'What are you up to tonight?' it was the piano player, his voice fizzed down the phone waking me from my daydream.
"Nothing. Why?"
"Well I'm playing a gig at this African event, you should come!"
"Huh? with who?"
"My new band!"
"What new band!?" I sat up intrigued.
"I've joined a reggae band!"
"What!?"
"I've joined a reggae band!" he said again. 
"Yes, I heard you!" I snapped. After being in Bristol for all of 3 weeks the piano player had certainly wasted no time, by day he had been selling paintballs on the streets and by all accounts making a decent wage for himself and now he'd joined another band!?
"It's a side project." he said proudly.
"A side project!?" the word seemed alien; for years he'd struggled with any kind of project let alone having projects on the side. "Where are you playing then?"
"In the Umb centre in St. Pauls" he answered.
"The what?"
"The Umb centre. I dunno, it's like this African place, I'll text you later."

A side project! After years spent idling away in a sub-tropical wilderness, deep in the valleys of west cornwall, in a state of premature retirement, cocooned in a valley, relying on lifts to and from town, living in a lackadaisical lull; he'd exhausted his friends and family and relied solely on the band for any outbound excursions! Sure he'd talked of Bristol ever since the band had relocated. But years had gone by; years spent on trains and mega buses and us driving down to a gig in north Devon via south Cornwall just to pick him up! The logistics didn't bear thinking about. But now, suddenly, he was here, and not only that, but he had a job, and a job that paid more in one day than I earned in a week! and not only that, but he had a side project! A new band! They'd been together for all of one day and already had a gig! I suddenly felt a fierce twang of jealously and wondered momentarily if he was already overtaking me; I didn't have a steady job or a side project! 

As the day progressed I gathered a few friends and tentatively awaited a text from the piano player. It came in a blaze of enthusiasm; 'I think you guys should definitely come, it's WOMAD standard, this band's incredible, there's food and alcohol and it goes on till 2am!'. We stepped out into the rain, bundled into a cab and in minutes were standing outside The Umb Centre and i was nervous. What if this side project became his main project? What if The Odd Folk became only a side project? We entered the slightly rundown community centre and met with a wiry Rasta at the reception who told us it was £15 a ticket! We backed away and called the piano player who I could see through the small glass window was in the midst of a soundcheck, he stood out like a sore thumb, clad in a shiny white suit surrounded by black people in black suits! He answered his phone mid-song. Evidently multitasking was part of his new skill set! We explained the problem and he jumped down from the stage and exited the auditorium, his band seemingly unaware of his departure. After a lengthy negotiation with the wiry Rasta we were ushered into the near empty hall and confronted by rows and rows of chairs with purple ribbons tied to them. Was this a wedding? Where was the bar? And the food? And the people?

Back on stage and his piano had stopped working and he was starting to get flustered! We searched around for a bar, realised that the warm cans of Red Stripe at reception were the limit and decided to return in an hour when things may have picked up a little.

An hour later and the hall was marginally busier, the band had stopped sound checking at least. I noticed the same eight cans of Red Stripe sat at the reception. The piano player was nowhere to be seen. "The music starts in an hour!" lilted the wiry Rasta at the door. We slipped back out into the rain and returned to the same cider bar we'd gone to the first time around!

An hour later and the hall was scarcely any busier but at least there was a queue of people. We waited only to find we weren't allowed in any longer as we hadn't got stamps and the Hall was very busy. "It doesn't look it!" I said.
"I'll speak to Profit, he's the boss!" said the wiry Rasta and disappeared through the door. I peered in through the small glass window, there didn't appear to be any band, and the piano player's phone rang through. I slipped outdoors and walked round to a large window on the side of the building and peered in; and there on a purple-ribboned-chair sat the piano player, sleeping soundly. The Hall was maybe quarter-full, the warm Red Stripe had failed to seduce anyone as they still sat untouched at the bar. This 'Profit' chap didn't look like living up to his name on this event. The stage was empty; the reggae band nowhere to be seen. This little side project didn't seem to have got off to a flying start. I smiled to myself, reassured, then gathered my friends and returned to the same cider bar for the third time that night.

-----------------------

"Sorry about last night!" said the piano player.
"That's OK, shame to have missed you play." I lied.
"Yeah, it was a bit of a weird event."
"Anyhow, what you up to tomorrow, fancy a jam?" I asked.
"Can't, I'm selling paintballs." he answered proudly.
"Ah, of course! Well what about tomorrow night then?"
"I'm rehearsing." he answered.
"With who!? For what!?"
"With my reggae band, we've got another gig at the weekend!"

It seemed this little side project was set to continue. All hopes I had of him being disgruntled by the non-event at The Umb Centre and ditching his new band had vanished. He'd added resolve to his skill set now! The piano player, in one month, had morphed from a sloth-like gutterpup living in a state of wooded oblivion to a highly motivated, multi-tasking salesman with two bands! 

I walked aimlessly around the house searching for some kind of side project of my own, and finding none, made a crumpet and sat back down on the sofa.

www.theoddfolk.com