Just B-Careful

There’s an unpleasant feeling of agitation in the air tonight as our merry band of misfits are bound for the north to play Plymouth Barbican’s esteemed B-Bar. I can’t shake the feeling from the night prior that there could possibly be too much Joe to take in one solid block. It’s true that I’m starting to get sick of the sound of my own voice wittering on like a demented cockerel in the midst of an eternal sunrise and if it’s bothering me then I shudder to think what it must be doing to everyone else. Before getting in the car I make a pact with myself to shut the hell up a bit, but I can’t help myself and before long I’m warbling and bickering away with Dan and Harry like always.

On arrival, we get a little bit lost. The roads of Plymouth are a little different to the roads of Cornwall and the birds of ill omen are chirping. A road related incident will take place later on tonight and it will be totally unfair and it will piss everyone well and truly off. It will be such an irritating and deflating turn of affairs for someone in particular that when it happens, I decide I won’t be blogging about it in any detail because to do so would be both aggravating and pointless. But it will happen.

Eventually we feel our way blindly to the entrance of B-Bar. Now, those damned birds must be chirping again because for the first time I discover that B-Bar is in fact a noodle bar, with a stage most likely designed for journeyman singer songwriters and quaint three piece dinner Jazz bands. It definitely is not the venue or stage for a five piece, fully kitted out, double bass wielding bunch of delinquents such as ourselves. Standing in the middle of cascading red velvet curtains, ambient mood lighting and surrounded by candlelit tables, I feel more like a travelling troupe of magicians than musicians.

Not that I’m bitter. No, seriously I’m not. Seriously! I don’t blame anyone for the mismatch. I’m grateful we could play and I would happily play there again. I’m a happy person!

Seriously!

Case and point, the gig itself is actually a lot of fun. The sound engineer is particularly friendly. I can’t help but notice to my amusement that the more gear we drag in from outside, the more nervous he starts to look, especially when the double bass makes its appearance. Of course, by some miracle and not a small amount of creative space management, we cram into the small stage with a surprising amount of room to move around. And like I said, the gig is actually a lot of fun. The Goose Dance goes down particularly well, even if my strangely subdued audience banter does not. I attribute it to the atmosphere that the room demanded as opposed to any sort of shortcoming of my own part because I’m amazing and if you don’t agree I hate you and I’m not playing anymore!

I almost lose my cool to a fit of the giggles on a couple of occasions during the show. Firstly because of an accidental pronunciation of my own that nobody else notices but me (Everybody wuvs you…) and secondly because during a particularly energetic, upbeat number… I can’t remember which… I look down to the very front table (where the bands’ long suffering friends and significant others sit) and see the whole lot of them looking bored out of their minds. I don’t blame them, they’ve seen so many of our shows by now it must be terribly dull, but I can’t help but feel amused by the whole thing. In a way it lends a sublime sort of absurdity to the whole thing which really appeals to my sense of humour.

Sadly, by the shows end, I’m tired, I’m hungry and the whole mood of the band is on the floor thanks to the aforementioned vehicular misunderstanding. When I finally stagger through the door, I make myself some tinned hotdog sandwiches to satiate my insane hunger. When I discover that the mustard jar is empty, I almost want to cry. I’m certainly not in the mood to fill out a blog entry, by any stretch of the imagination.

I’m happy to now, though. See? I am a happy person!

Setlist for 17/2/12:

Lillipad Lover

Inspector Katz

Forget You (cover)

Mr. Dinosaur

Herb the Taxi Driver

Love is in the Sole

Goose in 4D

Made With Love

Dayglow

A Miskito Called James

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Hey Ya (cover)

Chad

Mary the Snowdeer, I Hate You

Pirate (In My Heart)

Quickstep

My Voice

Rubber Ball

D.U.I.

David Bryant Tried to Section and Kill Me

Too Late to Mate

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Bonkers (cover)

The Rules

"I ain't dissing, man!"

Thursday is student night in the town of Falmouth. Or it's Monday. Different people within the band circle say different things but no one can definitely say for sure. So it's a roll of the dice... tonight will either be absolutely rammed or a ghost town. Turns out it's a little of both. But before we get to that, we spend the day running through the set. This always turns out to be a big mistake since I make the classic mistake of A) never learning how to sing well and (as a result) B) blowing my voice before the gig. So as you might guess, on arrival I’m not optimistic.

Although as a member of the band you’d never guess. I revert to my usual behaviour in these situations. I speak in a stupid half hoarse, half squeaky voice and annoy the hell out of everyone with inane banter about absolutely nothing. It’s a curious defense mechanism that stops people from knowing that I’m resigning myself once again to that one special gig that will earn the title ‘worst of my entire life.’ Luckily, it never quite turns out that way. Touch wood.

Um. What the shit am I talking about again? Oh, yeah.

It’s a ghost town on arrival. And I don’t mean the venue, Finn M’Couls. I’m talking Falmouth. The most energetic joint in the whole of town is the local branch of Tesco and not a soul walks the usually vibrant street. The room itself is dotted with one or two patrons sat at the bar and none of them look like they’re in the mood for our particular brand of animal rock and tales of vaguely ridiculous human drama. Surely our stories of Geese traversing the rift between dimensional planes and frogs who can’t quite pluck up the courage to make their feelings known won’t quite hit the spot here. I can already imagine the ones about the perverted gigolo taxi driver and the little man who couldn’t going down like a tonne of bricks in a sauna.

But the reception, as always, is surprisingly warm. And the place fills up, which is always a bonus. And so it goes. The first set is pretty much business as usual, despite the fact that my voice is a little rough. A few energetic revelers hit the joint. I announce the beginning of Mr. Dinosaur which is met with a hearty ‘ROAR!!’ It turns out one of the revelers is in the mood to re-enact every word in every song of this particular set. The whole thing is a curious mixture of heartwarming, hilarious, awkward and scary. Sadly they leave and the second set begins almost from scratch. Thankfully a few faithful hangers on and long term fans have stuck around and they make it worthwhile. But the fun doesn’t stop.

Someone has been eyeing up my spoon all night. I wish I could say that was a coy euphemism of some kind but it really isn’t. She grabs the spoon and proceeds to hit my triangle loudly, often and totally without listening to the song around it. This seems to attract the previously less brave amongst the audience. Somehow… and believe me I have no idea how… a fork makes its way to the front of the stage. The song comes to its conclusion in a cacophony of cutlery on steel, despite my best efforts to rid myself of every piece of percussion.

She later tries to steal my megaphone. I’m having none of it and I whisk it away at the last second. She seems legitimately offended and doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the night.

And so we head staggering into the last few songs of the set. The singing is terrible and I’m not even sure I’m listening to the words I’m singing anymore. But we make it through and say our warm goodbyes. Packing up, we head outside. What was previously Dresden without the mess is now a hub of student activity. A bunch of cavewomen, ET (complete with bike), a couple of bin bags, a smattering of superheroes and Julius Caesar walk by. I take to pointing everyone out to Roger and explaining how their outfits are chic. Examples being cavewoman chic, bin bag chic, etc. A girl dressed as someone from Sparta walks past. A brief exchange takes place where I shout Sparta chic to Roger. She responds with what I believe to be an order ‘not to diss’ her outfit. I respond with what I think the appropriate response is. I’m later told the actual turn of events. They go thus:

“Sparta chic!”

“Good guess!”

“I ain’t dissin’, man!”

I’m so smooth it’s starting to scare me.

I’m an annoying git on the car journey home. Hoarse, squeaky voice talking absolute nonsense all the way from Falmouth to Camborne. Sorry, everyone!

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Setlist for 16/2/12

TBA

Great New Sterio

Tonight has been nice. To be honest I've been looking at it less like a gig and more a lovely way to take my mind off of recent events... possibly in part due to the fact that it was so last minute and unexpected. I had prepared myself to spend the evening sitting in feeling sad, so it's been a really nice surprise.

The evening kicks off in a pretty upbeat manner as well. A lot of people I know that I haven't seen in a while and am very glad to see show up. Some stick around, some don't, but their appearances are all a huge lift to my spirits. So even the fact that when we finally hit the stage it's almost a ghost town, I'm very much in the mood to work the crowd. I possibly do or possibly don't do a good job. Happily, even when the atmosphere is dwindling (and it should be noted that it rarely does), there's enough in the background to keep me amused, such as an impassioned couple furiously making out in the middle of a song about erectile dysfunction. Hopefully not a self fulfilling prophecy.

In the middle of the set, I experience - believe it or not - my very first heckler since I've been a singer. Chalk it up to living a sheltered life, or experiencing an inordinate amount of luck, but there you go. As such it's a surreal moment and for a couple of seconds I'm not sure how to handle it. So after he's interrogated me about how I'm doing and why I'm holding a tamborine (we don't have a tamborine in the band) he begins to tell me about a great new sterio he's bought. I find myself quickly getting drawn into a conversation that's moments away from being impossible to extracate oneself from. Luckily I swoop out at the last minute.

I've learnt my lesson and it's a lesson well learnt.

Other than that, there's not much to report. Good set, good crowd, albiet thin on the ground. I don't blame anyone for the turnout, it's been a last minute 'making-the-best-of-a-bad-situation' kind of affair, so bearing that in mind, the whole thing has gone swimmingly.

A final exchange takes place whilst packing away. I take Zeno's drumming carpet out to the car. A woman who might just be a couple of sheets to the wind sees me with the rug.

"Oi, Aladdin! Can I be your um... Jezebel? No... it's not Jezebel, is it?"

"Jasmine?" I ask.

"Jasmine! Yeah, that's it!"

I'm walking away at too great a speed. Pretty woman has just engaged me in some saucy banter. I need to say something witty, probably some sort of Aladdin based pun, and I need to say it quickly. Unfortunately I'm almost out of earshot, so I plump for the next most intelligent thing I can think of.

"Hahaha."

They don't call me the ladies man for nothing.

In fact, they don't at all.

Setlist for 10/2/12:

Lillipad Lover
Inspector Katz
Dayglow
A Miskito Called James
Chad
Made With Love
Herb the Taxi Driver
Quickstep
David Bryant Tried to Section and Kill Me
Hey Ya (cover)
Too Late to Mate
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Bonkers
The Rules