I've spent the last five days on holiday in North Wales, where, bizarrely, the Easter weather has been rather better than in the South East, and I've even come back with a bit of a sun tan. It defies all logic but it's true. I now have just a few hours before the impending gig to a) get a haircut as I'm starting to resemble a yeti, b) have a bit of a run-through of the Brassneck set as we haven't rehearsed in weeks and I'll probably play like a yeti, and c) play with my new Google G1 phone/PDA thingy that has arrived in the post while I've been away. I don't think there's a particular yeti connection with point c). Presently, with all three tasks accomplished, me and the missus head off for sunny Reading.
With just about every gig, negotiating a one-way system designed by town planners from Hell, and finding a free, legal parking space within five miles of the venue is by far the most stressful part of the evening. Today, however, is different. I manage to bag the prime spot, just outside Bar Four in Reading's Friar Street. Deep joy! I unload the gear and find that, remarkably, the sound man is already here and the PA set up and ready to go. Obviously there will still be the usual prolonged wait around until we get to soundcheck, but things are looking good thus far. Mr Sound also confirms that we are to play our favoured middle slot of the three bands on. This is good - not too early before anyone turns up, and not too late when everyone's buggered off home again.
Ben turns up in a bit, then spends about half an hour trying to find somewhere to leave his car. I try not to be smug about my own outstanding parking achievement. Eventually the others also appear, and Mark duly spends about half an hour trying to find somewhere to leave his car. I try not to be smug about my own outstanding parking achievement.
Promoter Mr Blind Pig Jack is DJ-ing, playing a rather fine selection of reggae and ska tunes. This we like (© Sid Stovold). We note that the house sound system is rather bass-heavy - good for reggae, granted, but it seems a little excessive. A number of young ladies then appear, all dolled up in very short, very tight skirts and displaying a good acreage of bare flesh. Sid straightens his tie, licks his eyebrows and applies the underarm pheromone spray he carries for just such occasions. Kat regrets wearing jeans. Naturally, the married, male members of Brassneck avert their eyes. Did I just say 'male members'? Of course not - it was just your fevered, filthy imagination.
Following soundchecks, the first band take to the stage. They're called Infrasonic, and you wouldn't know it from the name, but they're an American style rootsy country-folk outfit. They wear check shirts, have a stand-up bass and a sit-down guitarist. They have a convincing sound, with some nice vocal harmonies and, for a country-folk band, a surprisingly funky rhythm section. However, as is often the case with bands we've played with, they don't seem to have very strong tunes, and apart from the general sound, nothing particularly sticks in the head once they've finished.
In between bands, the reggae and ska continues, and if anything, the bass seems to have got even more prevalent, to the point where our internal organs start to resonate, inducing mild nausea. After a bit we get onstage ready to go, then stand there like lemons for about 10 minutes until Jack notices we're there and kills the reggae.
We launch into 'Sensitive, But A Bit Of A 'Rong Un', and there are a couple of technical hitches. Kat is sawing away at the viomilin like a very sawing thing indeed, but there is no noise to be heard. Mr Sound rushes over and switches on the DI box, which someone, possibly the previous band, had rather unhelpfully switched off. Me, I didn't even know you got DI boxes with switches. It then becomes apparent that Ben's monitor isn't working, and he can't hear either his vocals or guitar at all. Being the consummate professional, or possibly because he doesn't have much choice, the old Dunkirk spirit kicks in, he manfully continues. By all accounts, it sounds the same as normal out front. I'm not sure what this says for 'the same as normal'. Eventually, after a song or two, the monitor is fixed and it's business as usual. For me personally it feels really good and tight. I'm very glad I had that run-through of the tunes earlier on. We notice that the first band disappear about halfway through our set. Perhaps they had a pressing engagement, or had to go and tidy their collective sock drawer, but we frown upon this sort of behaviour. (Admittedly, I did bail out before the last band at a recent London gig, but I was knackered and had a long trip home, so that's different, isn't it. Probably. Oh, alright then - I'm a hypocrite.)
After our set, we retire to our table, to be subjected to an even louder reggae bass assault. I thought the use of sub-bass as torture, or a weapon of mass destruction was banned under the Geneva Convention, but apparently not. I think we get some nice comments from a few people, but I can't really hear over the reggae. My ears are alight.
The last band on are a power pop trio by the name of The Smash Robots. Before they go on, they catch me on the way back from the gents and compliment me on my bass playing. What jolly nice chaps they are! This may colour my opinion of their performance, but I enjoy them far more than my Brassneck comrades, who don't seem overly impressed. For my money they had good, catchy tunes and quite a few little musical ideas going on. I hear shades of The Jam and the better elements of The Fratellis. A little shambolic in places but hey, we've been there too on occasion!
And so it's time to wend our way home. As I go to load up the car, I notice that my prime parking spot has been so popular this evening that several other vehicles have also attempted to park in the same space - one in front, one behind and two double parked to the side. And it just so happens that on the other side there are bollards along the pavement, so I'm well and truly boxed in, with no hope of escape. Great! What kind of idiots would knowingly block someone in like that? Marion and I return to Bar Four, where they're now shutting up shop. Fortunately one of the staff can tell us that the large van which is the main double parking culprit belongs to one of the bouncers at Yates's Wine Lodge, a few doors down. And I thought pub bouncers were kind and considerate types that wouldn't dream of doing something as thoughless as that. Anyway, we shouldn't have any trouble finding him, then. Or should we? When we get to Yates's, it's already well and truly shut! After banging on the doors and windows to attract attention, one of the staff eventually appears and tells us that said bouncer is now in the nightclub a few doors down. Fan-bloody-tastic! So now we're going to have to get past some more shithead bouncers to find the shithead bouncer who's blocked us in. But for a change we're in luck. This particular shithead bouncer is identified outside having a fag. We politely advise him of the error of his ways. He says he was just leaving anyway, so it's no trouble moving his van. No trouble? What about our bloody trouble, mate? An apology might be nice. Shithead!
I tell you what, this kind of thing would never happen at CrashBang, Farleigh Wallop's premier nightspot, when Knuckles Magoo is on the door. Although there was that time when village idiot Olly Owens tried to take the combined harvester onto the dancefloor after 18 pints of home-brew scrumpy. He hasn't touched a drop since, mind...
Neil
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