You are currently browsing the monthly archive for July, 2002.
Our dressing room. Me, clearly hammered, about 1.30 in the afternoon.
The suits who decide such things decreed that we should open in the Rising tent, at the unreasonable hour of twelve of the clock. At that time, you can still taste last nights booze. But anyhoo, being the professionals we are, we concurred.
Traffic that morning was insane, and very nearly we did not make it. Me and Rory found Vinny hanging around by the ‘artists’ entrance looking all harassed cos they wouldn’t let him in and there was half an hour to stage time. I’m in the band, he kept saying to no avail. Ah yeah, pal, go the bouncers, you and everyone else. Luckily for him, the sight of Rorys drums and my guitars and all the assorted paraphernalia that comes with being the crème de la crème of bands called The Jimmy Cake, convinced them that we may actually be telling the truth, or if not, our endeavour deserved to be at least indulged. So they went off to find us a ‘liaison’. I haven’t had a ‘liaison’ since that court appointed one all those years ago. Deadly buzz.
So we were frantically jumping around wondering where everyone was. Where was Brownfury and Lisa? Stuck in traffic. The mayhem. Can you picture it. We all had to get in the back of the van and make our way over to the stage without them. Fury and Lisa had to hop out of the car, leg it to the gates, explain somehow (I have no idea how) that not only were they artistes, but they were due on stage in ten minutes, and leg it through the mud to the stage, and remarkably, get there before the rest of us. Imagine our relief. Ricky Sound gave us a quick sound check. We sounded loud. All the gear was on little trolleys. The stage was big enough for our purposes and the beer was free.
So we started the gig. Deadly. We played to various Jimmy-Pals and and about thirty security types. Rappa buzz. There was fucking nobody there. Turns out they didn’t open the gates to the tent until 10 past 12 even though they insisted we start at twelve. We had the time of our lives playing to a huge, empty tent. Had we arrived my kittens? Most assuredly not. But then the crowd piled in and you know what they’re like. They’d dance to anything once the breakfast cider has gone down. Fair play to them. Turns out, due to the fact that half the stages had sunk into the mud, we were the only band on at that time, and apparently we were heard all over the county.
Still, as this tome has evidenced before, we’re not in this for the praise, nor the money. We’re in this for the booze, and bleeding booze there was. I’ll say one thing for big festival type situations, there’s booze aplenty, and you get to call Ian Brown a spa. Much shenanigans ensued. But it would be narcissism for me to document them. Surely nobody really cares.
Do they?
