The next generation

When the accordion player announced he was having a baby this year all the usual fanfare of love and support rippled through the band, and while we all clapped him on the back, I quickly did the maths. 9 babies born in 10 years, what a pity it wasn't 10, cause that would be really spooky; I almost had another just for the symmetry! As it happened I didn't need to, the bass player beat me to it.

10 babies in 10 years! You just can't write it! Which, by the way, is a ridiculous saying. Just like 'you can't make that shit up'. Because quite clearly you can; you'd just make it up, but I don't know why you'd bother. Making babies up would be weird. 

We certainly haven't made ours up; just to endear ourselves to you, or to make it even more remarkable that we have achieved what we have with kids in toe! We're more likely to lean on it the other way; we haven't achieved more because we've had so many kids!

But then 7 people having 10 kids isn't especially groundbreaking when a group of friends hit a certain age. Baring in mind that one person had 3 of them, it means the other 6 had 7 kids which is hardly anything to write home about and wouldn't make much of a blog!

And I'm only counting the 7 regular bandmates here; cause if I counted all the musicians we've used and all the babies born it wouldn't even make a headline. 

20 people had 15 babies! You wouldn't buy that paper.

Maybe I should change tact and talk about... oh wait there is nothing else to talk about! 'We're empty of both adventure and anecdote'. I wonder how many times I can shoehorn the bass player's saying into a blog without him citing plagiarism!

And there is something to be said about having kids, and the effect that has on your life and work. Kids have largely shaped our trajectory and with each new heir that is born, so we are further restricted. Ooo wrong word. Enriched. That's better. But you know what I mean; kids dominate your lives and rightly so. The old way has come to an end and there is a new focus. It's universally acknowledged that having them makes it harder to advance your job and career, and that your work could be sacrificed for up to 5 years. Well we've been churning them out for 10 years now, that means our whole existence has been sacrificed, or maybe 'confined' is a better word. Sacrifice makes you think of slaughter, and we're only a folk band after all.

But has having them really mean't we've not achieved our goals? Kinda depends what our goals were? We've under-achieved in that we're not a famous band, but I don't think any of us set out to be one. Otherwise we'd write a pop song and all the dress the same and use auto tuner and buy 'likes' on Facebook. And we've certainly over-achieved in terms of adventures and making memories. And anyway I think our jobs have restricted us just as much, if not more, than the kids. I certainly try not to let children get in the way of this enterprise, because, let me tell you, without this I wouldn't be half the parent I am. As I have said many times before, the 'release' that being in a band gives - or any hobby for that matter - is so important to your mental health and therefore the health of your children. But I have let work get in the way, because let's face it, this isn't a particularly profitable enterprise, despite our best endeavours, cause we haven't had the time to make it one. Why? Because work and babies got in the way. And there's the rub.

We've all dealt with our babies in different ways; I'm famous for swanning off and leaving mine with their long suffering mother without much any warning, I've never been very good with calendars, every year I diligently start a planner in January and by February it's lost and we're back to "By the way we're gigging this weekend... in Belgium!" 

The drummer, whose son is as old as the band, is the opposite of me, he's incredibly good with calendars, I can message him in January with a gig offer in August and he already knows whether he is free or not. His reply is instant, almost before I've even sent the dam message; PING! "I'm not free it's my weekend with the boy". Occasionally the gig offer is a good one (we do get a few!) and so instead of running the gauntlet of changing childcare, he will simply bring the boy along. Archer has sat through half a dozen Odd Folk gigs, sometimes even up on stage next his dad, and he once joined in on the hi-hat.

The piano player, the only regular to not have children, is the complete opposite of the drummer. He's even worse than me with calendars. I don't think he even knows what one is. If I message him in January with a gig offer in August he will look at me like I am completely insane. February, still insane. March, April, May, totally flummoxed. June, July; "when!?" Even the beginning of August is hard for him to comprehend. By the middle of the month you might see his head tilt as he contemplates a gig in a weeks time. 3 days before and you've finally got him. We're in the moment now. This is where he lives. He's engaged. And then he turns up a day early.

The bass player thankfully knows his way around a calendar and has invented a method to help us choose gigs, The 3 P's; PROFILE, PROFIT and PLEASURE. As long as you get two of them you're alright. If you get all three, fuck, you do the gig at all costs, you take the kids with you if you have to, bring grandma too. We don't often get all three though. Getting two is hard enough. Mostly we just get one, and it's nearly always for profile, or "exposure" as they call it! "People die of exposure!" says the drummer. We've stopped chasing that avenue so much these days, ever since we did The Great British Bake Off Finale for no money, taking two days out off work and kids and driving to a secret location in the arse end of nowhere - so secret I can't even remember where it was - only to get unceremoniously dumped onto the cutting room floor. I think you saw a flash of the bass players red hair for a millisecond, not quite the "exposure" we'd all signed up for. Although we did sell a CD to Mel and Sue, I wonder if they ever played it?

The guitar player; the founder and leader for half of our life, had his first child and lost his footing, starting missing a few gigs here and there, had his second and promptly left the band.

The accordion player, who himself is a replacement for the guitar player, is now about to join the father's club and the jury's out on how he will juggle music and children. Although he is pretty good with a calendar and could rival the drummer in a punctuality contest at least. 

10 babies in 10 years. I can't stop saying it. I can't believe it hasn't been picked up by the press. Surely if we can't make it with our music, we can make it with our stories. This is 'How NOT to be in a Band' - have loads of kids, loose your calendar and die of exposure.

On a serious note with every new addition there is a small part of me that sinks a little further into my seat, in a purely selfish sense perhaps, like I know how hungry I still am, and I can only hope my bandmates keep a stomach for it too. Having lost one of them to the pitter patter of tiny feet; once bitten twice shy and all that.

But mostly kids have bought us immense joy, at being able to share our music with them, write songs for them, take them to festivals and wheel them round in barrows, like we were all those years ago. Watching their faces look up in awe as we take to the stage and feel that heady mixture of pride and embarrassment that this is their dad. Watching them mimic us with tennis rackets as guitars, dancing around in an imaginary world of sound. As much as kids have bought a joy to our music, so music has bought a joy to our kids.

And who knows, now they outnumber us, perhaps someday they'll take over from us too, when we finally become The Old Folk ;)

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That time that we nearly died

 

It was -13, the light was gone and we'd broken down in a snow drift in the middle of the Swedish tundra. We were miles from civilisation, there were no houses anywhere and we hadn't seen another car for over an hour. The snow was knee deep, more in the forest, some drifts could eat you whole. Our road had been entirely swallowed up; it was, at best, a memory. We had no phone signal and nobody knew where we were. We sat in the car shivering, preserving the fuel that we'd use up to keep us alive overnight. And then what? Temperatures would be well below freezing the following day. And the following night we'd probably be dead. It was a hopeless situation and not one of the one's we revel in either, this wasn't some jolly mishap we'd all laugh about in the pub; like arriving at a gig without our instruments. This was life and death. The Odd Folk? The Dead Folk more like.

But how on earth did we find ourselves in this desperate place you may ask? And why on earth are we recounting it now?

This blog was always going to be a bit different; after a year without both anecdote or adventure, we've now turned to you for questions and Heidi Claes' what's the most dangerous situation you've been in? really struck a chord. And here it is...

... We'd flown to Sweden, the bass player, the guitar payer and I; one of those stupidly early morning flights that seem a good idea at the time cause they're so much cheaper.

We arrived in Ostersund; a small town in the middle of Sweden. My aunty, who's made her home here, picked us up from the airport and drove us to her farm. We promptly went to bed because we'd been up since stupid o clock and the whole first day was a right off. Should have paid the extra £50 and left at a logical time. 

We'd come to Sweden to go skiing, believe it or not the band are actually avid skiers; the drummer would have joined too if he could get the time off work, and the piano player if he could afford it. It's not an image you associate with us, but myself and the bass player set off annually to throw ourselves down mountains, I find it the most liberating thing. It has quite overwhelmed me in recent years, the hunger to satisfy that itch. It's the first holiday I look for, which hasn't always gone down too well with the family. Probably because I often book it at the last minute and announce the news shortly before we leave. 

"By the way we're thinking of going skiing?" 

"Thinking? Or going?"

"Going"

"When?"

"This month, maybe"

"Have you already booked it?"

"Yeah"

"You know we're having a baby this month!" 

"I'll be home before that, we're going in a couple of days!"

So off we went. We borrowed my aunties car, piling our bags and instruments into the boot and setting off to Åre; Sweden's premier winter resort. We were to spend a couple of nights in ski city and then drive further into the wilderness to my aunty's old cabin with no electricity or water where we'd 'survive' and get inspired to make music. That was the plan, and the challenge of returning to the isolated hut on the hill at Kamsåsen had been calling to us ever since we'd discovered it two winters previous.

But first we had some serious skiing to do! We spent the days throwing ourselves down the mountain and the nights spending too much time and money in the fancy bars and revelling in some of our jolliest mishaps.

On the second day the bass player dislocated his shoulder.

On the third day, we left. After skiing we had a quick sauna, packed the car, stole a game of Risk from the apartment and headed north into the wilderness. It was 5pm, the drive would take two hours, we knew the road well but for some reason we checked the satnav and found a quicker route that cut out half an hour and stupidly we took it.

... we headed north into the wilderness ...

There were two warnings on the way but we ignored them both. The first happened when we turned off the main road onto an unploughed road but for some reason instead of serving as a wake up call, it only seemed to make us more excited. 

A little further along and the road narrowed and the snow deepened. This time we actually stopped the car to investigate. We had snow tyres, it didn't seem too deep plus the satnav said we weren't far away and we were going downhill. "I think we'll be fine" we encouraged each other, but this was our get out of jail card and I think one of us even suggested it. But instead we ploughed on, quite literally. But the snow got deeper, and the road got narrower and the car went slower and slower until that moment that we all dreaded, when it ground to a halt. 

Outside it was deathly silent and the realisation of just how isolated we were hit home, especially when the guitar player climbed the ladder of a nearby hunters lookout to scan the landscape. "It's bleak" he called down. Our options were limited. We either stay put or continue on foot, according to the satnav we were 8 miles away. "We could walk it in two hours!" I chanced. And for a while that really seemed like an option. Myself and the guitar player even started packing bags. But the bass player wasn't keen. "I don't think we should leave the vehicle, it's our only guarantee of surviving the night!" he reasoned. "How about we push the car!?" said the guitar player. 

And so for the next hour we took it in turns; one at the wheel and the other two pushing. Progress was painfully slow but we were edging along. Until the road started to climb again and the metres we'd gain got smaller and smaller while our breathers got longer and longer. We pushed and panted and slipped and skidded in a monotonous fever, like some abstract contemporary dance company, like three men pushing a car uphill for three miles in the snow. "There's a junction ahead and it's a ploughed road!" shouted the bass player and we all jumped for joy. But like every good disaster story there's always a catch. And this was that glimmer of hope that was snatched away all too quickly. The junction was ploughed, and we could see safety, it was right there, 6 feet away, no more. The only problem was the snow drift in the way; a wall of frozen ice, like a large fridge/freezer on its side cutting us off. 

The next hour we worked in a frenzy, scrambling through the snow like beavers, smashing it with whatever we could find; rocks, sticks, shoes, we even used our skis. Chipping away at this never ending ice block. It was like trying to sand something with toilet paper. The impossible job. And i've lost count of the amount of times we tried the push the car over it. Watching the wheels spin around like a carousel.

And then suddenly lights ahead. A car, maybe. Approaching. We were like Robinson Crusoe seeing a ship in the distance. We ran up the road towards it waving our arms around like lunatics trying to flag it down. Like it had an option! God only knows what the old lady thought when she found us. We talked English. She talked only Swedish, and so we ended up doing a theatre show with our hands, gesticulating wildly like mad directors. We spent an hour with the lady. She had a rope in her boot, she tried to pull us through the drift twice but then the rope snapped and that was that. Defeated, we let her go. She didn't even have a phone. Our theatre show was over. We were alone again in the silence.

"It's cause you stole that game of risk!" said the guitar player. "This is karma"

That spurred me on, I wasn't spending the night in the car and hoping the old lady would think of driving back this way in the morning. We were getting through this even if we worked all night. I sprang back to life; chiselling away at the drift with a CD case; I didn't even have gloves on, or a coat, I was sweating in -13.

As it happened it didn't take much longer. I suddenly remembered that hessian sacks are good for gripping. Course we didn't have any of those but we had towels and after shredding a couple we finally got enough grip on our jumpers to launch ourselves over the drift. We collapsed on the road like sprinters at the end of a marathon.

But like all good disaster stories there's always another twist. We followed the Satnav those final five miles until it ended. Just like that. In the middle of the road. In the middle of nowhere. "You have reached your destination" said the voice. And our destination didn't exist. Realisation is almost more frightening than being in the thick of it. When you're in it, you're just focused on getting out. Adrenaline almost blindsides you and it can warp your thinking. If we had abandoned our car and attempted to walk to the hut, we may just have made it there but I doubt we'd have made it back. And that really scared us. We were silent as we pulled away. Shellshocked. Our only option was to set a course to my aunties farm, two hours south, the fuel was low but we'd make it. On the way after half an hour or so the bass player suddenly piped up from the back, "Hold up" he said, "That's the turning! That's the road up to the cabin!" And it was. We'd finally found it, 20 odd miles from where we'd broke down. We'd been nowhere near. "I'm never using a satnav again" I said.

We arrived at the cabin at midnight. Trying to save us half an hour had actually cost us 5 hours and almost lost us our lives. We had to dig a path to get the door, the snow was waist deep up here. We bundled in and spent an hour lighting both fires to warm the place up, it was freezing now. Almost colder indoors. The place had been empty for months. The bedding was frozen. We had to hang it all up to thaw it out. We lit the candles and opened the wine. All talking at the same time. All telling the same story. Reliving it like it was a jolly old mishap. But deep down we knew it was wasn't. We were very lucky. 

"I think we'd better play that game of risk!" said the guitar player with a wink.  

 

Sugar Baked Gammon

Hoi / Grüß Gott / Hola / Dobar Dan / God Dag / Hyvää Päivää / Bonjour / Guten Tag / Jo Napot / Góðan Dag / Salve / Moïen / Hallo / Olá / Zdravo / Ahoj / Hallå / Helo / Zdravo / Živjo…

 

Hi, it’s the Drummer here and I’ve been drafted in to discuss the single most important issue to affect us since our inception; and no it's not The Piano player moving to Portugal, it's the future of touring and gigging in the European Union/Schengen area.

I’ll attempt to dive straight into the detail here because as The Singer always tells us, “no more than 2000 words or they’ll get bored”; so here we go with a tricky game of word Tetris. As this topic is as long as it is broad and likely to cover more than one blog, I’ll try and dispense with some of the usual waffle and get down to business. So grab a strong drink and/or fat smoke of your choice and settle in for a hard hitter! The gloves are off and I’m up for a rumble! Today I’m going to deal with facts, emotions and the shambolic ‘fag packet deal’ that is the UK government’s Brexit agreement; otherwise known as 2800 lines of utter bullshit.

 

I’m writing this on international soundcheck day (12.1.21) which somehow seems a little bit ironic (don’t you think?) considering we haven’t had one of those in a while. 

I’d like to briefly take you back to September 2013. That’s when I joined the band and as mentioned in my last blog, also coincided with the band’s first ever tour; which was also the inspiration for our subsequent forays into mainland Europe. It’s been discussed numerous times by The Singer that it’s these very tours that have kept us all going over the last few years; they're the filling in the sandwich, the cement in The Odd Folk retaining wall. The band would have likely folded many moons ago if it wasn’t for these regular adventures, and our lives certainly wouldn’t have been as enriched without meeting and playing for all our lovely friends and fans across Europe. It’s safe to say it’s what has kept us all going; and we want to KEEP it going!

June 23^rd 2016 will be forever etched into our memories. It was the day that most performers (and crew), who rely on European tours to make a living and remain sane, realised that those days were possibly numbered. We shouted it from the roof tops, we splurged it all over social media, we were angry; but most of all we were scared of the change and the unknown. Not because we’re afraid of change or risk averse; we’re touring musicians; we thrive on those things. But we were scared for our livelihoods and we wanted to tell everyone who had voted to remove our European citizenship and our right to roam, what a huge mistake we thought they’d made; and as far as we were concerned they must have been crazy (right?).

Then they responded. We were told to keep calm and look forward to getting our freedom back, we were informed that nothing would change for us and not to worry. We were lectured that the EU needs us more than we need them, we’d get our sovereignty back, Boris would do the right thing and get us out; and we’d all be better off. Not one of them had any evidence of this of course, just blind faith in those purveyors of a false narrative that would only benefit those who were set to make a killing from the subsequent financial chaos. Some of us were born in the EU; in fact all the band members (even me) were born European citizens; and we were angry about be dragged out of something we hold dear, and still are. After all no one wants their citizenship stripped away from them against their will do they?

We were informed by those gloating, red faced “experts” that we should suck it up, stop (re)moaning and develop a British stiff upper lip like our ancestors and tap into the (long dead and thankfully extinct) Imperial spirit of old; mend and make do.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK THE BEATLES DID?”

“HAMBURG… THE BEATLES WENT TO HAMBURG YOU KNOW!”

“BANDS TOURED IN EUROPE BEFORE THE EU EXISTED; IT’S EASY, YOU JUST GO AND PLAY!” they gammon-splained at us in capital letters over social media, so it must be easy right?

I’ve even lost old friends over this! It’s amazing how many people who have never played in a band or toured Europe or organised these trips are suddenly experts in the subject. The week before they only knew how to drink 10 pints of Carling every night on a weekend and fight at football matches; yet NOW they were fully clued up on performing artists touring Europe! Well, they used to go to Glasto in the 90’s and they saw Oasis play at Knebworth, so they’re experts right?

The worst of it is, I know musicians who have toured all over Europe who also voted to leave. It seems they had taken a huge dump in their own wallets but didn’t even realise it yet!

Aaaaaaaaan...... breeeeeath 

So back to the present day. It’s happened, we no longer have free movement to go swanning off around the EU without a care like we owned the place. Now we’re potential illegal aliens in the lands of our birthright. That is if we follow the advice from our suddenly ‘oh so quiet’ Brexiter expert ex-friends. We now need to work out what “The Deal” means for us. Time to try and get past the frustration and conjecture and stop “re-moaning”.

Ping! It’s the Singer on WhatsApp. “Hello old boy, how’s the blog coming along, angry yet? Have you worked out how we’re going to continue touring in Europe on a shoestring?” I tell him his timing is impeccable and that I’ve just about calmed down, I'm 1007 words in and just about to dive into the detail and quit whinging. He sends me a laughing emoji and that’s the end of our exchange.

 

But how DO we do this? It’s one thing foaming at the keyboard on social media, it’s another thing altogether working it out. It’s a minefield. Luckily there are some organisations, colleagues and old friends who have been putting in long hours on everyone else’s behalf. Our ex-agent from Frusion is one of them, Ian Smith and some of his peers have been working hard to find out all they can and are sharing it all via their website (http://ukeartswork.info) and YouTube channel. These gals and guys are providing regular updates for things like work permits and carnets, not only for the likes of us to go over to the EU and work; but those bloody Europeans to come over ‘ere and steal our…. Oops, that was last nights’ gammon pie repeating on me.

The point is, there are lots of people now trying to rise above the situation and help their fellow performers. This isn’t just about musicians either, it’s all artists, crew, drivers and road management involved in performing arts, we’re all in this together. The truth is that if we don’t all pull together and try to make this work then it won’t just be our lives that are bereft of any cultural diversity; UK festivals, Circus shows, theatres and arts centres will become stagnant and constrained.

There’s another online resource attempting to share as much info as possible too, www.ism.org are doing their bit. But it’s not quite enough at the moment because it’s all still very fresh and raw. I recently discovered that a lawyer friend just happens to work in this field and has offered to assist; and from what they tell me there is a lot of conflicting info out there and we somehow have to piece it all together and come up with a plan.

We, the Singer and I, are not the only ones struggling with this debacle; most of our peers are also in the same situation. Our good friend Billy from The Undercover Hippy has set up a Facebook group for us all to share our findings, which is great, but it still feels like we are all fumbling in the dark like naïve teenagers on the back row of the cinema.

So, what have I learnt so far from my research over the last month? I know now that if we are ever to dare to dip our skanky toes into the waters of touring the EU, we will definitely need to change our approach and accept it’s going to be harder to plan and the costs and bureaucracy could limit our ability to do this going forward; which is an upsetting realisation.

Firstly, we do know that we’ll have to purchase a carnet; a list of ALL equipment including our instruments, PA, strings, drumsticks, tuners, in fact anything that we use. Which, in a band of 5 people who play about 15 instruments between them is likely to be a long and difficult list to manage. This document costs approximately £450 and if we change a single item, then we have re-submit that change and pay another £450. For us this means that if The Piano Player sneaks an unapproved Ukulele into the back of the van it could end the tour before it’s begun. We could get to the French border and be turned around. Game over.

We also need to be aware of the materials our instruments are made of; if there are any rare woods or ivory included in the build of our instruments we could be barred from entry. Then there’s the working visa requirements for each individual country in the EU; because as it turns out, each EU country has sovereignty over their borders. Shall we all just let that sink in for a moment?

Some of our European neighbours are graciously offering dispensation meaning free access, but it’s not yet fully clear under which circumstances that will apply. Potentially we could have to have work permits for each country at a cost of 75-99€ per person, per country! So if those costs haven’t made it impossible, we also have the issue of differing tax rates and those having to be submitted and dealt with through HMRC, which we all know will be a simple and hassle-free process.

Then there’s the real killer; merchandise. We’ll need to declare all merchandise in advance and pay VAT on every item (before it’s sold) and then reconcile that upon our return. We normally rely on merch sales to get us from gig to gig and that’s looking like a tricky hurdle to get over. There is still so much to learn, which is why this blog will be in at least one more instalment as more knowledge is gained; but at this rate it seems we’re going to need to employ an accountant and legal advisor; or just accept the fact that it’s now become an impossible endeavour, uneconomical and we’re resigned to a future of playing for peanuts in the UK where no one buys merch. Or we retire with our memories and look for other ways to fulfil our artistic needs.

Merry Folking Christmas

As an actor, when meeting with your peers, we have an unwritten rule to leave your CV's at home, and perhaps that can be said with Covid too; it's even written in the initials. With 'big jobs' replaced by 'big tragedies', and although the word 'hit' remains, the meaning changes from success to a smack in the gut. But this isn't another heartfelt account of how we are in any way some of the bigger losers here, who gives a fuck, we're minnows in this ocean and other people's CV's are far more impressive, or depressive, and they are the ones that need attention and support. 

But there was one loss we did feel keenly, the final nail in the coffin of the year if you like; the cancelation of our Christmas party, and even writing it sounds petty and insignificant. Oh, poor us! We couldn't have a Christmas party! Boo Hoo. Most people couldn't have a Christmas full stop. Anyhow Merry Folking Christmas was canceled and rightly so, as cases even in the buoyant tier 1 of Cornwall begin to rise steeply as the big day approached. It was inevitable, but still it was sad. Over the last 7 years MFC has become part of the festive programme down our neck of the woods and losing it this year felt like losing a slice of Christmas. Almost like tucking into the lunch without any gravy; it felt dry and incomplete. And though the event itself is an enormously stressful process, culminating in a day of high anxiety that I wouldn't wish on anyone - I can with some confidence say it is the most stressful day of the year - and yet I have come to love it. It's like The Accordion Player said in his blog earlier this year; "it's the road we love, not the destination". And it's as though lockdown has made us pine for even the most arduous parts of our job.

But what is it that makes this day the most stressful one of the year? Well perhaps we should take a peek behind the scenes and you can decide for yourselves.

The lead up is stressful enough; committing £500 to the venue to hold the date before we even have assurances we can make it ourselves. Finding a support act isn't easy, certainly finding the right one, and curating the lineup, and over promising what you can deliver is a common theme with us. We talk eagerly of what Christmas songs to play and yet we've never arrived at the venue having ever played them before, let alone learnt them. 

The day begins at 9am with myself and drummer driving around on the hunt for some Christmas trees. It takes us to strange places that aren't even sure if they're open or whether they should charge us or thank us for removing their trees. The others arrive by 11am hopefully, but more like midday. Set up takes an hour, easily. Another hour rigging bunting and banners, faffing around with drawing pins and gaffer tape and trying to undo knots from last year when we did things up too tightly. Who's got the scissors? By this point the event has sold out, and not just that, it's over sold out, meaning the guest list has also been sold and we have very angry partners to contend with, some of which are in the building with us cutting thousands of little pieces of paper to make a snow drop, and fixing us with looks that suggest they might carry on and cut our balls off.

This is the first real stress of the day, and it happens every year without fail, we're so concerned with selling out before the event to secure the financial side of it, we always forget to keep back 30 tickets so the people we really want to come can come. Here begins a process of us having to 'magic' tickets from thin air, or calling people and asking if they'd mind donating theirs to our girlfriends. Meanwhile we still haven't even begun to address the Christmas songs yet, which is the whole point of the event, right?

Support acts arrive at their designated times but we're always running over so we ask them to come back later, often stripping them of their +1's in the process so we can recoup back what tickets we can. Lunch time has been and gone without so much as a crumb. The cup of tea The Piano Player made us still hasn't been drunk and it's cold. There's a problem with a wire, there always is, the sound man's desk is at the very top of the auditorium as far away from the stage as possible and he's up and down those stairs all day long, huffing and puffing like he's gonna blow the place down.

The phone rings, someone's asking for tickets. A swig of cold tea. Digging around the lead bag for that missing lead and then tripping over a Christmas tree on the floor or getting tangled up in the bunting and causing the whole lot to fall down. All of this happens throughout the day. People get ratty with each other. Snappy. We send the support act away for the second time and finally remember to eat something at 4pm. A packet of stale biscuits we found in the dressing room. Work on the Christmas songs eventually begins but most of us can't read music so we have to transcribe it in special made up fingerings which is incredibly long winded and time consuming and should have been done the day before.

The DJ arrives and we strip him of his +1. The cold tea has been replaced by beer and the phone keeps ringing with friends asking for tickets. Why can't they fucking buy them? The box office arrive and we argue about the guest list being sold. Then the manager arrives and takes pity on us and 'magics' a few tickets from the air and things finally start falling into place. We offer the DJ back his +1 and apologise. Finally the support act are allowed to soundcheck just as the audience pile in on top of them. 

We tuck tail and run, up to mother's house for a brief change of scenery. She's cooked for us and it's the first real food we've eaten since breakfast. We shower, or wash our armpits in the sink and find a shirt to wear before hurrying back down to the venue. We drink beers backstage and try to remember the Christmas songs. The support act finish. The crowd applaud. We take to the stage under the lights, facing a wall of drunken fans, high on Christmas spirit; loud and boisterous. It's not a gig for the delicate subtleties, they want to dance but they also want to talk to each other very loudly, there is always a big sound clash and it's actually quite hard to play. The atmosphere is good though and people are happy and that's the point in many ways. We manage to quieten them down for the finale. Only 3 Christmas songs this year despite promising a whole gig of them. We play carols on horns with audience members holding up the music because we haven't learnt them and we haven't got stands. The songs explode into ska or folk versions and the crowd go wild, especially when the snow drop opens and the air is filled with little pieces of paper fluttering down. And it's these stolen minutes in amongst a day of stress that make it all worth it. When you look around catching eyes with your bandmates in the moment and you realise that this is where you want to be. And nothing else matters. And then it ends, and just like that we're back in the green room talking in husky voices, sweating, drinking ales from the fridge. Smoking in the back alley. By the time we re-emerge there's only 15 minutes left of the DJ but we need that time to unwind, to declutter, to let go of a day's worth of stress. The night takes hold, it takes us where it wants and the morning is always achey, pack down is slow, not many words, just us methodically gathering our bits and clearing the old hall.

This year we filmed MFC in my living room, it took all day and we only played for 20 minutes. We defiantly experienced that arduous part of our jobs, this time without those stolen minutes where it all clicks. And without the much needed revenue it brings. But it was nice to do and it's been warmly received. If you haven't seen it yet here it is and there's even a virtual tip jar if you're feeling generous ;)

Merry Folking Christmas - Live in your living room!

Happy new year folks, we'll write again in January with our vows and resolutions. Thanks so much for supporting us and we're desperate to be back doing what we do, so much so we're planning on organising fake gigs so we get to do all those stressful things we miss, we'll keep you posted on that!

2021, here's to hoping  

Beer 52

At the start of Lockdown the bass player mentioned a particular craft ale company that delivered a nice case every month for said amount of money, similar to what you'd spend in the co op but with a selection far superior, plus, as he was already a member he could even give me a code for a free case! What's not to like? And so it began. I signed up, received my free case, enjoyed it immensely and awaited the following month. That case came, the money left my account, and the beers left the fridge within three days and I was back down the co op again. On the 3rd month I was offered 3 free cases to give away to friends, and just as the bass player had hooked me in, I too was now promoting Beer 52. I tactically sent them out to my partner (same address, more beer for me) and my mother (lives down the road, drinks wine, more beer for me). I now had three cases arriving every month, a fine array of multicoloured beers with strange names and increasingly hit and miss flavours like strawberry and olive and tropical punch and chocolate stout. The following month I came home late one night, tripped over the wall of cases by the front door and bruised my elbow. I made a note to cancel my order; my long suffering mother had now paid for a case she didn't want and my partner had been offered 3 free cases to give away to her friends; the net was widening, the inflection rate increasing; COVID-52 was multiplying. 

I phoned up and spoke to Keiran, a very cheerful Scotsman who was absolutely gutted I was leaving, and promptly offered me a free case for being such a good customer. I accepted and requested he cancel my subscription after that. He informed me that sadly they couldn't do that and I would need to phone up after my final case had been delivered. The following month the beers came again. By this point I had stopped drinking them and the fridge was still full. I stacked the cases up in the utility room and phoned Beer 52 again, this time I spoke to Callum, who was even more bubbly than Keiran and then moments later absolutely mortified that I would be leaving, especially as the next month was Dutch beers and "they were my favourite, weren't they!?" Very well, one more month and then I’m out. I wrote a note in marker pen on the calendar; CANCEL BEER 52 it read, and then I added, AND DON'T LET THEM TALK YOU ROUND THIS TIME! I might as well have thrown the note in the bin, I never read the calendar. When the beers came again I piled the new cases on top of the old unopened cases and phoned Beer 52; apparently I was such a good customer they were lowering my fee to half price. I paused just long enough for Connor to pounce, "In fact!", he said, "I can do half price till Christmas!" I hesitated again and he came in for the kill. "Just cause it's you!" he added, as he sank his teeth into my heart. I cleared some more space in the utility room.

I wonder how many more of you have been sucked in by this? I have told this story to a few people and heard them groan in agreement and recount their own woeful tales of Beer 52, and acknowledge that Keiran and co are just too fucking chirpy! And it's not just Beer 52, lockdown has seen a splurge in online subscriptions from cases of tea, to scented candles to monthly deliveries of indoor plants.  

Now you're probably wondering what an earth this has to do with the band, and the truth it doesn't, but then nothing else is going on, musically, this year has been as empty as a church. We are without both anecdote and adventure. We're clutching at straws here.

Usually at this time of year we sit down and write our annual review, a brief summary of the highs and lows, the progress and, more often than not, regress we've made ;-) detailing the latest brush with disaster in some German town and looking back over some of the eclectic festivals we've played up and down the country. We might talk about Mr and Mrs Newlywed tying the knot and us having to play, or reinvent, or ultimately, ruin their favourite song. We'll reminisce over the time we supported The Famous Band on their UK tour and mention that bizarre gig we did to open the village fete in Lower Bitchfield, and of course we'll wax lyrical about our yearly hometown Christmas party that's become so popular that it has a waiting list far greater than it's own capacity. But the truth is we've watched as all of them have disappeared, one after another, taken out like sitting ducks, chronologically, with Merry Folking Christmas the final one to fall by the wayside and roll into the ditch. 2020 has reared its head and completely wiped out our entire calendar year of live music and reduced us to writing about failed beer subscriptions.

"Do a live stream?" suggested my friend as we sipped a cup of Blue Tea; he was enjoying it immensely, I was wincing with every sip. "What even is this anyway?" I spat. "Good isn't it?" He smiled, "made with butterfly pea flowers! I get a case delivered every month!"

But no, we can't seem to get our heads around a live stream, we've never been particularly tech minded, despite the fact that the bass player is a leading audio and foley artist and the accordion player's meticulous approach to problem solving is unrivalled, we haven't even got around to uploading our albums onto Spotify 5 years after releasing them. Perhaps we're lazy. The idea of pre-recording something and setting up an online streaming service with a payment option sounds as complicated as the government guidelines on COVID. Film it here, but don't film it here, include a payment option but only if you can't pay for it yourself, support your local cameraman but only at a safe distance and only if they taking exercise outside

Back in February when all this began it was an inconvenience that might disrupt spring, possibly mess up a bit of early summer, but I certainly had no idea it would eat into Autumn and finally cancel Christmas. None of us are exclusively musicians, thankfully; our bread and butter is earned elsewhere, and the band has never seemed to pay us much money, but boy when when you take it away you realise just how much you depend on that extra few grand in your pocket. But it's mostly the release of gigging that we've really missed; music on the road has a wonderful unbinding and loosening effect and you often return recharged, despite the hangovers. The lack of creativity and camaraderie is keenly felt, I must say. Despite the massive progress technology has made in connecting us, bringing us into each other homes at the click of a button, there is nothing that can replace the magic of playing live music and so progress is slow. Instead we have immersed ourselves in other things, like family and bad DIY and writing that book we started on our gap year in Asia. Or, if you're the piano player, then launching a solo career in the middle of a pandemic and global economic crisis! 

This was supposed to be our decade year; the pinnacle of our game; with a tour of America; the crowning glory, the holy grail, not only of our musical journey but of our sheer determination and pig-headed stupidity. But no. Never left the ground. And what about finally playing Glastonbury!? Never happened. And the completion of our long await third album!? That too. And the bicycle tour of Holland and Belgium!? Nope. Opening the fete at Lower Bitchfield? Nothing.

Instead we've played twice; once badly paid, the other for free, and the piano player has effectively made himself unemployable by moving to Portugal. We've hardly even seen each other, and all of us dear friends too, and when you take the band away from us we seem to drift aimlessly like tumbleweed, and it's painfully clear how much we are bound by this vehicle, this haphazard little hobby of ours, this merry little dance we do; it's much more than the music; this is our friendship and it's bridged our lives from directionless youths to grown-ups with babies and death grips, and without it we're all a little lost.

And unless we get some actual gigs to sink our teeth into we'll be stuck writing about online subscriptions for butterfly pea flowers, or worse.

So perhaps you guys could write the blog next month? Seriously. Ask us questions and we'll answer them, we might even do a video blog. Anything you want and we'll lay the record straight, once and for all, and tell you what really happened in Berlin.

You can either write your question in the comments below, anonymously if you like, or email them in to theoddfolk@gmail.com

France 29

Now instead of talk about the second Lockdown that we all find ourselves in, 

I thought I'd take you about as far away from that as I possible can.

To the foothills of the Monts D'arree no less, along the backbone of Brittany, where there's a little slice of land that is practically the most important place in the history of this band, and we haven't even played there, indeed half of us haven't even been there. It's not a venue, nor the home of some famous producer, it's not a recording studio, it doesn't even have electricity and is so far removed from the buzz on which our lives are centred that one is likely to encounter technological withdrawal symptoms after the first few days of being there. Yet it is fundamental to our journey and without it I doubt we would be together now. Judi's campsite in France has played such an important role in the evolution of this band you could almost say we belong there. 

Now, I have been going for 29 years on the spin, Judi is my second mother, my link to the place is obvious, but what about the rest of the band? The piano and bass players have been a handful of times between them, though never together, and the others have never set foot in the place and yet it is as much a part of their musical journey as it is mine. Why? Because not only is Judi our number one benefactor, the patron of our arts, our philanthropical fairy godmother, but her campsite is the primary link to our friends across the channel. And I would say we are as synonymous with harebrained voyages into Europe in woefully inadequate vehicles as we are with a good old knees up at Cornish ale festival. Her simple campsite has seen thousands through the gates, and the majority of those has been from the Low Countries, and many of them have become lifelong friends, returning year after year, and crucially leaving with a copy of our CD thrust under their arms; and there to remain in their cars for the rest of time. The car CD player being the final bastion of tangible music. And that dear readers is why we first ventured into Europe 6 years ago and it's why we have returned every year since.

Now many of you won't have been there and therefore this entry could well be lost on you but I implore you to continue; we made a few of you cry with a tribute to our car the other month, let's see how we fair with an actual home. 

It's a simple place; largely unchanged since she bought it in 1991 and that's the beauty of it. At first glance there's nothing much to get excited about, a set of rusty swings at the top and a gurgling stream down the bottom and in-between various green openings with birch trees dotted about. There's a dilapidated sanitary block made out of faded larch with a tin roof that amplifies the rain. The bureau is an old painted caravan that looks like it's been snapped in two and stuck back together, badly. In the centre of the place is a large formation of rocks that once belonged to a Neolithic tomb and is the point at which two lay-lines meet, and is definitely haunted. And then there's the large wooden shed with mismatched windows, uncomfortable armchairs, communal cooking stoves and various useful things like crockery and cushions and books in different languages. Teenagers are bored within seconds, there is no wifi or phone signal, not even any electricity. Younger children love it though, once they have unearthed all the free bikes lined up under the trees and the colourful caravan that's full of old toys and books. But it is the adults that are most enamoured of all, and mostly for the very reasons above; no wifi and the kids are happy! In a world that is so screen oriented there is something so refreshing about taking a break, switching off and getting back to nature. Showers are hot, campfires are plentiful, evenings are lit by oil lamps and the milky way with a soundtrack of crickets and toads. 

Am I painting a picture yet? 

Families return year on year, unable to stay away, children grow up and become parents themselves and return with their own children. People have been married there and others have had their ashes scattered. It is a beautiful place that perfectly balances pin-drop peace and quiet with the raucous role of laughter and song. 

I would say it appeals to all walks of life, but there are some strange folk about that just don't 'get' it. They pull up in their giant motorhomes with names like voyager or privilege and immediately demand to be plugged in. They don't stay. 

But mostly it's made up of good folk who become firm friends. And much of the charm is down to the proprietor; Judi's most famous tagline is Elle le fait sans electricité, and though the campsite doesn't have any, Judi makes it in other ways.

And it's cheap. Beyond cheap. Once a family have returned a few times and upgraded from customer to friend, they have a battle on their hands to actual pay for their holiday. It's not uncommon for Judi to slip the fee back into their pockets as they walk to their vehicle. Or if they've been savvy and hidden it in the bureau they'll likely find it turns back up at their house in the post! 

And now it's sold. Just like that. Or rather quite the opposite. We've had several final years and then the absolute final one! where we had a huge farewell party, bringing back all the famous faces that have grown up and grown old here; they all came for that last big hurrah and then... it opened the following summer for another 'final' time. 29 summers in total; most of my life. It's my happy place. My hideaway. Never slept as well as I do at Judi's place, on a child's bed in a little caravan, hearing the faint roar of the stream, the murmur of voices from a nearby fire and the almost constant white noise of the crickets. This has been my world every summer and I will miss its simplicity and natural magic more than ever in this increasingly digital world. Walking amongst the trees that I planted with Judi when I was a small child and now seeing my own children playing under their shade I realise the cycle is complete. It's almost like losing a friend. Old familiar. Old reliable. And I know it's the same for countless others too. It is a place that has a lasting effect on people. 

The long list of relationships we have made as a direct result of the campsite means we could quite easily tour around The Low Countries and never run out of beds. These relationships have enabled this band to explore, and without these trips I know we wouldn't have lasted; we wouldn't have found the strength to persevere through the cut-throat, underpaid, treadmill of the yearly circuit without the annual adventure (and misadventure) our trips to Europe offer. And the campsite has been the access to that avenue. So in that sense, yes it has been our most important place, despite half of us never setting foot inside. Without it they may not have had a band to play in at all.  

Mind you, this year it's felt that like there hasn't been a band for anyone to play in. Our decade year has been as empty as a church. We did finally play our first gig of the year the other day. In October! A ‘heavily reduced’ capacity crowd were packed into the old art centre in our hometown. I say packed, it was hardly that, more like placed onto little cabaret tables 2 meters apart. The bar came to them throughout the evening like air stewardesses wheeling trollies around on a plane. We came onto the stage in world war II gas masks and made light of the mandatory face coverings. That set the tone nicely. Humour is always a good ice breaker. It was an enjoyable evening, full of songs and stories and despite the strange atmosphere the audience certainly did their best to make themselves heard. There is a stark lack of money in our profession at the moment, not helped by the fact there is no money for the venues either, the coffers are empty for both sides. Ultimately it’s unviable, so the reason we play is for the love, and we certainly felt the love. We’d like to do more but the reality is we’re increasingly forced to turn to the ‘other strings of the bow’ and stop chasing careers that are disappearing. I find myself up a ladder painting windows in the wind, listening to podcasts in my pocket while I wipe blue gloss spots from my face like teardrops. My bandmates all fair differently, from the unemployed to the working more than ever, but what we all share is the thing we cannot share; live music has dried up. Like a river reduced to a trickle. And the drought is set to continue friends. We're in another lockdown and we're all in this together, we've all lost out, made sacrifices, reinvented ourselves, paid a price, listened to the science, tuned in, logged on, signed up. 

It's times like these I really miss the simplicity of Judi's campsite, where we can't plug in, so instead we log-off. We sit back. We listen to the toads.

FRANCE 29

Going solo

It's the piano player here, reporting for duty. Late as usual. Blame it on the fact that I've moved over a thousand miles away to Portugal. Quite by accident too. I came over in January and then lockdown happened and I've been here ever since.

Plans, paths, Journeys, destinations they are all at the mercy of change and boy did that change come, for many of us our lives have been put on hold, turned upside down and shaken to the core, but as the old saying goes, the show must go on, and indeed it must, it’s just a different kind of show now, where intimacy and social contact is frowned upon, spacial awareness is heightened and it’s Groundhog Day at the masked ball. This being said it could always be worst; it has most certainly been a worldwide tragedy and there is the small matter of an impending economic crisis, but at least the birds are happy, and I imagine the Planet must be doing a little jig to the sound of emissions falling by 7 per cent (too little too late I fear), and anyway enough corona talk I’m sure you’re all fed up with it, even if i am trying to put a positive spin on proceedings, it’s becoming the go-to ice breaker for those awkward silences now, replacing the weather. 

"Lovely day today, not many new cases!"

"Ooo I dunno, there's always a lag at the weekend!"

 

So Portugal, that's where I was when the bomb dropped. Chasing the Mediterranean dream with my partner, bright eyed and bushy tailed, holiday's on the horizon to Italy and Germany booked and a solo EP getting mixed up in the kitchen; life was good, even if we didn’t know where we would be living in the months to come, we were happy searching, that was until the big bad wolf came knocking at our door. The change had come and it threatened to blow our house down.

Once we stopped listening to the news and accepted we wouldn’t be going to Italy or Germany, we decided to get positive. Determined to tread the path of self evolution and growth, I dived deep into the world of music to understand how and if it was possible to make a living from it, although we as a band have been gigging for ten years now, other incomes are at present a necessity, but what if they didn’t have to be I wondered, what if i didn’t have to sell my balls on the street, paintballs that is, or what if i didn’t have to get up at 6 in the morning to bake beetroot burgers for a market of meat and fish lovers, or scrape seagull shit off the walls and paint houses. Yes i have had many weird and wonderful jobs but none quite as weird as music.

It’s definitely not the easy option; would i recommend a career in music to my future kids? Hmmm I’m not so sure, but hey it’s been an incredible ride so far; just gotta be prepared for the financial struggle and get ready to juggle your eggs as i’ve come to realise it’s not enough having just one string to your bow in this life, especially if that bow is as fragile and unpredictable as music; but knowledge is power and I intend to learn.

 

What did we learn during lockdown? That we have an amazing opportunity to share ourselves to positive effect, I finally understood what an incredible tool social media could be, if used in the right way, from the artist support pledge to musicians baring their souls, it’s amazing what we can achieve given a little extra time. Myself, I can proudly say that lockdown has been one of the most prolific times of my life, writing more songs than ever and trying, if not always succeeding, to upload something everyday, I realised we had a power to make people smile and that was the biggest inspiration of all. The Singer even wrestled some time away from being a full-time parent to release some lovely solo videos, and The Bass Player pursued his love affair with the electric guitar, writing some African grooves for our upcoming album. The Drummer became a prolific beer bread baker and The Accordion Player, the last of us to emerge from lockdown, more resembling Robinson Crusoe! 

Robinson Accordion Player

"Rumour has it you've moved to Portugal to go solo, is this true?"

Ha... I’m trying not to get too caught up in chinese whispers, if I believed everything I read in the press then apparently I have joined the circus to sing Fado. It’s a tricky one though, it's been a constant wrestle with mr. time, trying to juggle babies, jobs, life plans, not to mention the thousands of miles between us, and if I'm going to make a living from music then I'll have a better chance of doing it in two groups right? And some readers may well remember a BLOG The Singer wrote about the last time I tried this but it feels different now. And I will always continue to fight for this ship to keep sailing and hope to be aboard for many years but it is true that I also have a new solo ship and need to nurture that, and it may mean less time with TOF but unfortunately that’s life, you can’t please everyone, unless we figure out a way to clone ourselves. To deny this ride would be denying part of myself.

If want to find me then hop over here MAC P

Going solo doesn’t always work of course; Gene Simmons leaving Kiss was a disaster, Mick Jagger came swiftly crawling back into the stone circle and Victoria Beckham’s solo career went so well she gave up music all together! On the other hand you have the likes of Robbie Williams outgrowing Take That, Phill Collins move from the backseat of Genesis to the mic was inspired, not to mention a certain Michael Jackson leaving the Jackson 5, also Corona went viral after leaving China! Anyway lots to contemplate as I emerge from the comforting womb of The Odd Folk mothership; how will i get to gigs without my bandmates driving me? Who will pick up my trail of lost luggage? Who will I share the memories with? I’ll have to file for independence.

That being said I remain fully committed to the band and in fact I spent a chunk of the summer back in Cornwall trailing out some new songs in preparation for our new album, but just my luck I had to spend half my holiday in quarantine! But we did make a decent start on the record and wrote half a dozen new songs so for the first time in years we finally have some new material for you guys. 

So far we have a driving album in The Sweet Release, a lounge room creaker in Haul Away, the third will probably be a mix between the two with the added layer of a Paul Simon inspired afro pop vibe, all sewn together with an emotional heart stringed vest. Sound good? Still work to do until we're ready to brave the studio and some extra funds wouldn't hurt but it’s a solid start. I'm actually on my way back to Cornwall as we speak for our first gig of the year at The Acorn but another round of quarantine means it's touch and go whether I'll even be allowed out to play!

 

Hopefully soon life will return back to some kind of normal, cause when you take The Band away from us we all seem to drift apart a little. And every now and again The Singer will send us some amusing imaginary tour that we are yet to do; the latest one was a bicycle tour through the flat lands of Holland and Belgium, with the wind in our hair and our instruments on our backs, camping in tents by the side of dreamy canals. 

And although it is indeed a hard time for us musicians, we will never stop dreaming and planning our next adventure, and hopefully we'll get to live them again before too long.