Some gigs you just know are going to be spectacular. The spark just lingers in the air all day as you get ready to go. Everyone's on top form, in high spirits and excited for the show ahead. You get there and you play a blinder, the crowd goes ape and everyone gets to leave satisfied.
Then there are the other kind. Much like tonight.
The pre-gig rehearsal goes well at first. But as will happen when you stick five hairy, sweaty men in a room together for a long enough period of time... things get hot very quickly. And plying your dirty trade in such heat for a long enough period of time will put you in somewhat of a bad mood. It also gives you a headache.
And so it's finally under these conditions that we drag our sorry selves off to Tall Trees Nightclub in Newquay for the Indoor Winter Festival known as 'Bucca-Fest.'
Now it's my fault, really. I guess alarm bells would usually ring when one hears the phrase 'Winter Festival.' It's the sort of phrase that speaks for itself if you think about it... it's not the sort of phrase that screams 'venue filler.' 'Winter Festival' sounds like a small handful of couragious travellers who pulled on their little hats and coats and managed to brave the bitter wind and rain in order to huddle up in an entirely too big room to listen to some bands who have probably all caught colds in the time it's taken to travel down from their respective hometowns.
Which, as it turns out, is precisely what tonight is. Not that I even ponder on that for a second. I still harbour dreams of a thousand adoring screams as we storm the stage like modern day Roman gladiators. Not that such a thing has *ever* happened, but that's besides the point. Anyway, we'll get to all that in a while.
You knew it was coming... we get lost in Newquay. iPhones are whipped out and maps are scrupulously studied, but none of the wonders of the modern age get us anywhere close. Naturally, everyone is too proud to ring the venue for directions so we drive round and round in circles for a bit, slowly getting more irritated with each other for not caving in by the second.
The whole thing is a bit of a blur for me. All of my immediate distractions - designed to keep me from getting caught up in the frustration everyone else is feeling - are starting to run out of batteries, so I turn to the time tested, foolproof method of keeping entertained. I start drawing dicks on the steamed up window.
After about 20 to 30 minutes of internal squabbling, Rhi - who has been kind enough to drive us on an intimate tour of Newquay for entirely too long - does the first sensible thing of the night and walks into a shop to ask for directions. And wouldn't you know it? The plan's a good un! We scramble to the venue in a matter of minutes and pour inside. We get our artist/guest passes which entitle us to a free drink at the bar and access to all areas. I should mention that part of Bucca-Fest's draw is that it's a bit of an ale festival. For all the ale drinkers in the band (of which there are many) this is a bit of a nirvana after the events prior.
The main stage is empty. And I mean not a blessed soul. Still, the penny doesn't drop as we're assured everyone is upstairs watching the acoustic acts. And indeed they are. All 12 of them. Nonetheless we settle in and watch a little music. The guy starting off as we arrive is pretty nice. I like his chord progressions, but I decide not to tell anyone as everyone in the band is looking tired, grumpy and in no mood to discuss any kind of issue on a long term basis. I have a little banter with Harry and then decide to go and put my free drink token to good use.
I get to the bar and order my ale... the barkeep pours it and I show him my card. He informs me that he has not been told of any passes... and that despite what the pass is *clearly* saying, he will not be honouring anything tonight. Go home, thanks for playing, goodnight New York. Luckily I have cash so I pay for it and save Roger the embarassment of trying the same trick. We end up using our passes at the main bar on some unusually yeasty lager.
I quietly grumble to myself something about free passes at an ale festival discluding the actual ale itself but my heart's not really in it. We watch Hold The Sun play the mainstage. They're actually good enough that they lift my spirits a bit. Their singer looks a little like Kurt Cobain and he sings a little similarly, although the musical backdrop is completely different. Their harmonies are well put together as well. Once again, I tell nobody any of this.
Eventually we play and a few people actually start milling about. They're appreciative, none too interactive but at least they're paying attention. I feel like we actually do a good job of playing as well... and the sound is clear enough in the monitors that I don't blow my vocal chords. So, a win I suppose.
On the way out I'm told I have a natural wit and I should consider stand up. I take about seven steps away and I'm further informed by someone who happened to overhear the first guy talking that I don't actually have the aforementioned wit and that stand up comedy probably isn't a career I would find suitable after all. Easy come easy go.
Now don't get me wrong, I gripe, but I am actually grateful that we got to play at the fest. I enjoy any gigging experience on some level, even if it's just getting to try out some new stage banter or some stupid dance moves... and y'know, I always end up meeting someone likeable. So all in all, I'd say that I've had a good time tonight.
One good thing in retrospect is that once we're packed up and gone, everyone seems to have unexpectedly brightened up a bit. So we grasp this newfound joy by the mantle and go to enjoy a greasy kebab supper whilst tightly packed into a small vehicle in a Redruth car park.
Ahh, the life of a rockstar.
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Setlist for 3/12/11:
Lillipad Lover
Inspector Katz
Hey Ya
Mr. Dinosaur
Herb the Taxi Driver
Dayglow
My Voice
David Bryant Tried to Section and Kill Me
Too Late to Mate
Chad
