Sunday, January 20, 2008
A new venue for us this, and almost impossible to find (especially by Nige's SatNav, which apparently took him for a mystery tour through several counties before reluctantly agreeing to show him the way), which is a pity 'cos it's well worth looking for; an unspoilt country pub with real ale, no juke box and a landlady who's not afraid to put on bands that are 'a bit different'.
They do food too, and a few diners retreated in terror as we lugged all our huge threatening looking black boxes through the door... they all came back though, and it turned out to be one of the best pub gigs I can remember playing in a long time - no doubt helped by the pints of Palmers courtesy of the landlady (almost unheard of in this day & age, and very welcome they were too).
Apparently they do an outdoor mini-festy in the summer which we might be back for - hope so, as it's a really friendly place, and I've got a bit of a taste for that Palmers, now...
Monday, January 14, 2008
- Second time at this venue, and a combination of flooding and road closures meant we only just made it in time. Nice pub, quite posh (you can tell it's posh - there's a carpet, and it ain't sticky), but the mainly older crowd actually listen, which counts for a lot.
- Bafflingly however, despite their obvious enthusiasm, they don't call out for more when we finish - this leaves us with a bit of an 'encore etiquette' conundrum; do we:
a. Ask if they want any more? A risky strategy this, as you run the risk of complete indifference, or even worse, a stampede of boots towards the exit.
b. Play another couple anyway, which looks a bit 'staged' - what was the point of saying "that was the last one" if it wasn't? Or...
c. Shuffle about indecisively for a bit, then pull all the leads out & scuttle to the bar. Needless to say, we went for c.
On a totally unrelated topic, the flyer above is for a new play about the last days of the late, great Brendan Behan, uncle to our Ruthie, written by her sister, which opens later in January - see http://www.brendanatthechelsea.com/ for details.
"It’s the Sixties, New York and we are in that legendary bohemian bolt hole, The Chelsea Hotel. Arthur Miller is just across the hall, the sound of Ornett Coleman is drifting down from the penthouse and the symphony of 24th Street is rising up and in through the open window of Brendan Behan’s room. He’s broke, hung over and way past the delivery date of his latest book, the first line of which he has yet to write. He was told to stop drinking or he’d be dead in six months – that was two years ago."
Hell, we've all been there...