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
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