It was a Sunday night and just before we departed for the bus stop me and my girlfriend lugged my 100 watt, stack guitar amp down stairs along with my guitar, a bag of cables and pocket full of dreams (but mostly guitar picks) I don't know if you have tried to get an item of that size down two flights of stairs on your own, but its not easy. So I was very grateful for the help my girlfriend gave me. After I had seen her off at the bus stop I had an hour until my form of transport for the evening arrived at my humble abode. What to do in this time? Prepare a set list maybe? Warm up on my guitar playing or my singing voice? In the end I just chose to eat a packet of stale crisps and observe a teabag in the kitchen until the van pulled up outside. Little was I to know, that would not be my last stale packet of crisps that evening.
The sound of a doorbell interrupted the staring contest I was losing with the teabag and I proceeded to help stack the bands equipment into the back of our bassist's brother's new, but pre owned station-wagon . Moods were high. Our band, “Relic” had another gig. Not only that, but it was in “The 12 Bar” Denmark Street. Yup, that's right. Denmark Street. Literally a stones throw away from the mighty “London Astoria” where more than hundreds of legendary bands have performed. What's more, we were travelling in style. The van we were in was internally designed to perfection with shag carpeting on the floors, table and roof. Lots of leg room, confusing seatbelts and fake bullet hole stickers on the windows. “Onwards to victory!” I thought. So I thought, at least.
As we set off the shrill voice of a satellite navigation system instructed us the wrong way down a one way street. Although this display of stupidity caused me to doubt our electronic friend, on its defence it didn't make another mistake. The bright lights of London called us, and we answered. I could only imagine how we must have looked amongst the stretched limos and smart cars along the packed central London roads, but the image my mind mustered made me smile. A station-wagon from hell, with flames roaring out of it's exhaust. A skeleton driver to match the skeleton headed gear stick. Anyone brave, or indeed foolish enough to glance into the side windows would be greeted with an image of Hell itself, in all fire and brim stoned glory roaring with the sound of demented screams and beastly moans from all open windows. The boot, flailing wide open with flames crackling out and cooking the front bonnets of Roles-Royce's and hurling moped riders off of London Bridge into the sea only to be swallowed by the zombie of the infamous Thames Whale itself!
Finding a place to park was our next obstacle. If you have ever visited Tin Pan alley (as its sometimes referred to) then you will know it lives up to its name. It basically is an alley. Our wagon from Hell wasn't going to fit within this crevice. In the end we had to park about a mile away. I feared the unthinkable. Would I have to carry my obese amplifier all the way to the club? We had about an hour and a half till we needed to be on stage so myself, our bassist, second guitarist and drummer decided to leave the wagon with its master and investigate the club first. When I first pulled the door open the apparent size of the place got me worried. I was later relieved when I realised the stage was located further back, past the bar, in a separate room. We made our way past the leather seating and dark red and black décor to the “stage” area. The sound of folk music got me worried again. By the bar there was an overwhelming smell of vinegar and regret. The vinegar, I can explain as gone off beer. The regret is something I can only explain as “why the Hell didn't we check this place out before we agreed to play here?” I ordered a beer and a packet of cheese and onion crisps to pass the time. The beer did indeed taste like vinegar and the crisps were like card board. When we were informed that the venue came with amps ready for anyone to use I was less worried again. The sight of the crowd though quickly got me worried again. Not the “metal types” were were hoping for. Still, “a crowds a crowd, and we can just win them over” I thought. Well, as the bands went on, more and more people began to leave the stage area and by the time it was our turn we had an audience of about five, including our driver Scott.
We climbed the mountainous stage. That isn't a metaphor either. The stage was actually unnaturally high, fitting only for an audience of folk loving giraffes. After surveying the truly vast surroundings I decided to introduce our first song. “Hello Wembley!” I said into the vomit smelling microphone. The venue owner said something in his thick Irish accent that I didn't quite catch, however from the tone of it, it sounded slightly offensive. To say we gave it our all on stage would be a lie. We didn't and can you blame us? We were disheartened. We may as well have stayed at home. The audience besides our driver that was made up of four girls were only there because they were waiting for their boyfriends to play next (however it must be said, they were very polite and applauded our 70% effort performance) But to suggest we didn't play well wouldn't be fair. We remained professional and played through our whole set. I may not have been as enthusiastic when introducing the songs as usual : “This next song is about aliens” but I didn't feel it necessary to explain the full social and personal meanings of each song to a crowd that didn't care. Mysteriously though, during the whole of our third song my microphone had completely cut out. Now I'm not pointing fingers at anyone...except that Irish sound man I may or may not have previously offended. I'm sure me saying “And the crowd goes wild!” after our first song didn't help please him though as he seemed mighty proud of his fair establishment. After all, its not easy calling your pub a venue and then not paying bands for their time and effort because you call your stage an “open mic stage” Not that we have ever been paid for a gig. A free pint every now and then wouldn't go a miss though. I find it funny that once upon a time a band would be considered a form of entertainment for hire and their services would be appreciated. However now, its made to feel like the venue is doing YOU a favour by allowing you the honour of stepping on their gracious, sticky stage for thirty minutes. Needless to say, we didn't stick around.
We took our equipment back to the wagon and proceeded to Burger King. When hunger strikes, any greasy establishment that's open at twelve PM will do. Imagine our drummers horror though when freshly printed paper signs read “No bacon will be served today. Sorry for the inconvenience” Ah yes...the pork virus spreading across the nation. Perhaps that was the reason no one was at our gig! Of course! It all makes so much sense now. They must have all come to Burger King for a pre-rock snack and been killed by the bacon.
The journey back was not as fun. Obviously. We were still feeling pretty disheartened by the whole thing, but luckily we all had enough time in the wagon to discuss the evening. All in all, it was an experience. Not a hugely pleasant one, but an experience none the less. And I think when your in a band, experience is key. The more you can get, the more ready you will be for the next one. In a strange way it almost felt good to play that gig. For half an hour, it was us against them. I don't quite know exactly who “they” were but I feel like we won. “They” could have been the lack of crowd. “They” could have been the Irish sound man. “They” could have been the vinegar beer and stale crisps or heaven forbid, “They” could have even been our own lack of confidence. Either way, I look forward to our next gig. I look forward to feeling nervous. I look forward to lugging my equipment to a foreign location, and most of all I look forward to the possibility of getting bottled.
