You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August, 2005.
[w/ Windings and Pinky]
So, we threw this together, haphazardly, but we approached it as pros.
Wasn’t the idea here just to play the new stuff, to flex it a bit before we went to our snazzy studio in Westmeath that we actually forgot to book. That was the idea, but it was also going to be John B’s last ever show, although initially he didn’t want that, didn’t want another show, didn’t want any performance to be an epitaph. However, we did.
No publicity, no ads, no nothing, and free in. we weren’t expecting anyone to turn up, and in fairness we didn’t care cos it was mostly about the new stuff. Me and John b spent the entire afternoon re-soldering the wiring in me guitar to the point of complete and utter frustration, so when everyone started shouting at each other during the soundcheck (it’s what you do, apparently) I lost the rag. Which was amusing to everyone. Brown was really gonna miss that kinda carry on. So I buggered off to have a few drinks before the gig.
And I got back and holy Jesus, the place was packed. What was that about. Windings did his set, and then we had to go on, John picking the set cos, well, it was his last. We started with the hits, and tried out some new stuff, which mostly went ok, (having the notes written down on a piece of paper really, really helps… ) even though they’re not as loud as their predecessors, and some of it got lost in the din, we didn’t really mind. It’s as much about getting the fingers accustomed to these new position, to listening out for what will eventually become your cue, to finding exactly where an emphasis may or may not work. It felt like maths by the end.
So we went off and came back for the encore. Vinnie opened the bottle of champagne that we bought earlier and we eugoogliesed our lil Brown, whilst passing about the bottle. Which Paul dropped and spilled
John tuning up in the airport, trying desperately to earn enough to get back home.
all over the stage and which, to be generous, tasted like bubbly piss. We did opposite of addiction last, leaving brown to parp one last time at it’s death, fading out on that trademark trumpet-wobble. And then we stood and applauded him, and moped off the stage where we all had a group hug and shed many’s a tear.
The following morning at 7 thirty I called work and told them I was “sick” with a bottle of absolut in my hand, the Immaculate Collection blaring in the background, and the giggling of various Chalets ringing in the air. They sacked me a couple of weeks later.. where’s the freaking love?
Later in the week, we went to record in UCL, only to find that John’s banjo had never been packed up after gig, which meant he couldn’t record… which means that Jurgen will have to fly to San Francisco to capture brown for this disk. The banjo turned up, the day before John left, hidden under the monitor desk in the village. It seemingly passed under the radar on load out. Lucky for Jurgen, eh? Free holiday and all he had to do was hide the banjo… muhaaaaaaaaaybe.
So that was it, an era at an end, and a terrific era, where I for one learned much about humility and love and basically not being a fucking jerk all the time. Later in the week it was all sushi, beer and tears and boxes full of Beer-Frown crap in my hallway. Well met lil brown and lil freer. See you soon.
Jerks.
Having not played a gig in half an aeon, and with an album needing recording, we decided that we should do a few low key gigs in order to loosen the fingers and test the water with these new tunes of ours. So we embark on our tour of Dublin, to see if we can indeed all turn up in the same place at once.
Well, we do, vaguely. Jurgen turns up, expecting that we have all got a copy of the score of the new tune, which we don’t. we have so much gear we take over the entire end of the pub, and there’s wires and everything everywhere and there’s no way this could possibly work. But it does, however bad the sound was always gonna be, eight of squeezed through a tiny desk, no monitors, the audience sitting in our laps, so like the early days, such a return to the reality of trying to play together, close to one another, watching for the imperceptible nods and glances and winks, the shouting over the noise, the counting games and the wry smiles. All great, this boiler room of activity. Feels good to be proximitous, and to try and believe for a second that this is what we do, and that these people standing there inches from us cam to hear it. So we play the new ones, and the piano rattles the p.a., but it’s all good.
Johnny brown gets all choked up. The end is nigh for our boy. We blare out what we can and pack the gear and drop it off at the village for tomorrow’s show, and emotions are all mixed, but hey. This is the life we chose, eh.
Except Simon. He chose a mortgage. And john, he chose emigration. Well, who can blame them.
