The Prom, Bristol

Another very agreeable night at the Prom last week; dunno what it is about this place but we always like playing here - it's like slipping into a nice warm bath... with beer, of course.
So pleasant in fact, that I can't think of anything to say about it that I haven't said already.
Now, where's the loofah..?

Stroud Fringe Festival

Second year we've done this one, and hopefully not the last - I like Stroud, it's a very laid back kind of a place, with some of the most exuberant facial hair I've seen all summer - particularly impressive was the gent with the dreads - you know who you are, sir.
The Cornhill stage is in an area that's usually a covered market, backing on to what used to be the Pelican - scene of many a raucous night in the band's early years, including the time the first bassplayer had a lurcher vomit over his foot. Ah, them were the days...
Our personal cloud of misfortune was evidently hovering over us once again, as the previous band on had made an enviable job of clearing the entire area of human life whilst leaving the buildings standing. Rather like a musical Neutron bomb, by all accounts.
Still, they all came filtering back as soon as we started, and it turned out nice again in the end.
Last year, an unfortunate roadie fell down a set of steps with my bass amp on top of him, but he didn't seem to be there this time. Wonder why?

King William, Glastonbury

Nice change to be able to play without wellies! Saying that, it would have been quite nice to have an audience, but you can't have everything. This was the first pub gig we've played since the July 1st smoking ban, and there's a distinct lack of punters in the place this evening - they're all outside, enjoying the warm late summer evening, a fag, and the relative peace & quiet. And who can blame them.
Respec ( as the Yoot have it) to the geezer who bought one of our CDs to take to the Canaries - I've already packed my bucket & spade in anticipation of the tour...

Pontardawe Festival

It's likely to be raining, I thought; it's Wales, after all - best put the wellies in the back of the car. No other preparation necessary for this one - it's a lovely litle folk festival situated conveniently near to an enormous Lidl, which takes cars of all your pre-festy bogroll & beer needs (anything else is pure self-indulgence. I survived for 2 weeks at Stonehenge in 1983 with nothing but a £20 note and a family sized packet of McVities Digestives. Mind you, at the end of that 2 weeks I was sitting on the seafront in Bournemouth wrapped in a stained blanket, begging loose change from passers-by in German. But that's another story.)
Two gigs at this festival: first spot on the Friday night on the New Music stage, which went off extremely nicely as far as we could tell from behind the blinding stage lights. I was even asked by an enthusiastic Younger Person if they could have my plectrum when we finished - I had to explain that I only had the one, and I needed it for tomorrow night... in retrospect, I should have given it to him & basked in the momentary glow of alcohol-induced fame & glory, but where was I to get another Jim Dunlop .73mm pick in a muddy field in Wales at that time of night?
Did I mention the mud? Overnight (an uncomfortable one for me, spent as it was in the boot of my elderly Nissan with Joe's microscooter as a pillow) it rained like it only can rain in Wales, and by the time I woke at the crack of noon on the Saturday (a traumatic awakening, involving an urgent pressure on the bladder coupled with a complete & utter inability to extricate myself from the aforementioned boot) the site had been transformed into a reasonable facsimile of the Somme. All vehicle movements on site were banned, which left us with the interesting problem of how to get all our gear to the stage for our next gig in the Beer Tent...
Over the years, I've arrived at gigs in many and varied forms of transport, including motorbikes, buses, taxis, helicopters & an amphibious landing craft. This was a first, though - never before have I arrived backstage with a fleet of commandeered wheelbarrows. Gave the performance an extra frisson too, keeping one eye on our transport to make sure no-one nicked 'em...
Terrific gig - you can't beat playing your heart out in front of a tentful of people who are 100% with you - that's the reason we do this, after all - as I've said before, if we were in it for the money, we'd all have starved to death years ago.
I'll draw a veil over the horrible scenes the next morning - suffice to say I was towed off site by an enormous forklift which sprayed mud all over my windscreen as it pulled me through the mire towards the exit; with hindsight, perhaps it was a mistake to wind the window down at that point...

All Hands to the Pump!

As most of the country gradually foundered beneath the waves, West Country folkies showed they were made of sterner stuff than those fey indie-festival types, and with beards bristling and tankards aloft (and that's just the women) squelched throught the sodden fields to the 34th Trowbridge Village Pump.

Here you can see a Steward watching a small girl sink slowly into the morass... ignoring her pitiful cries, he wandered off in the direction of the bar. As did I. I'm almost sure she got out, though...

Highlights for me on the Friday night were The Cedar, a terrific band doing some really haunting original stuff, and The Rhythm-ites, who now seem to be fronted by the rather grumpy bloke who sings (or rather mutters in a terse monotone) for RDF. Jolly good, though.

Our spot was at 5.30 on the Saturday, and it went off rather splendidly, all things considered, despite a few sartorial challenges; I had to forsake my usual silver Cuban heels for a pair of stout wellies, and Chris couldn't get the pilot-light on his flame-throwing codpiece to stay lit (maybe next time). Ruth wore a pink cowboy hat. No-one knows why.

Barring a couple of minor technical disasters of the 'walking across the stage & pulling the guitar-lead out' variety, probably our best gig of the year so far - no small thanks to the large (and very vocal!) Trowbridge contingent - cheers, peeps!

Bournemouth Live Festival

It's a long way to Bournemouth, it turns out - and lots of other people seem to be going there too (to see us, perhaps? Apparently not, as it turned out). We're supposed to be on stage at 6.30, but it's quarter past and we're still driving in circles around the town centre, looking in vain for some sort of sign of a festival going on - have we even got the right day? Chris is becoming increasingly irate, and has turned a worrying shade of purple.
Luckily, Shirl has got there already & located the stage, and brings us in for a landing via mobile phone - and just in time; we pile out of the van and throw the gear onstage while Shirl heroically goes to get us all a beer. Lovely stage, too - nice PA, swarms of cheerful sound guys, loads of lights... no audience, of course, but you can't have everything - where would you put it?
Ready to go in double-quick time, all we need now is that beer - alas, the beer tent is fenced in behind a silly little picket fence, which no-one is allowed to take any drinks out of, thanks to some arcane Council regulation - we can see Shirl sitting there with 5 pints, waving frantically...
There's no time left - we have to plunge straight into our set with no lubrication, which is never a good idea...
At one point, around 200 foreign students materialise stage right - an audience at last! But despite (or possibly because of) our earnest entreaties, they march straight through and exit stage left. This leaves us with several sullen Yoot in hoodies, a brace of bemused elderly ladies and a retired Colonel with a video camera - doubtless collecting evidence for some future prosecution.
We soldier on regardless, and all credit to the soundcrew, it sounds fantastic onstage - it's also extremely hot thanks to all those lights, especially with no beer... the last 3 songs are performed with indecent haste and a mad scramble for the beer tent ensues, where we collapse into a sweaty heap and watch the next band, who do their best to enliven an even smaller crowd with some Snow Patrol covers. A drunk Welsh couple dance.

Dursley Arms, Trowbridge

"Someone's pulled out at the last minute, and the guvn'r wants to know if we can step in" said Chris on the phone last Thursday.
"Tell Mr Eavis we'll be there! Is it the Pyramid Stage or the other one?"
"It's the Dursley Arms in Trowbridge."
"Oh."
Well, a gig's a gig... as it turned out, a jolly fine one too - lots of room to play with and a small but enthusiastic bunch of locals who actually listened, and by all accounts loved it; one chap came up afterwards and told me "That was the best bass I've ever heard in here!" What a nice man - either that or he doesn't get out much.
Nick also made an impression - another gent asked him if he was married; apparently "a friend asked me to ask you." Yes mate, a friend - of course it was...
Even Ruth was looking revived by the end of the night - no mean feat, as she was by her own account "Perrified"- a condition brought about by excessive consumption of pear cider the night before. Apparently it had 'ectoplasm' in it, which probably didn't help.
And at the end of the night, we didn't even get our boots muddy - who needs Glastonbury anyway?