The remaining issue was how to get there. Dan asked his mate (and our roady) Dave, if can drive us there. But Dave can’t do it because his daughter is at a prom that night. Everything hangs in the balance. I resort to looking up trains. Initially its like over £30 rtn. Not to mention taxis and food/drink expenses. We’re looking at £50 each. Sigh. But a little more research revealed the off peak trains that are only £19.30. So that was doable.
Anyway, knowing how shit public transport was for long journeys, I was very meticulous about making sure that nothing was left to chance. I couldn’t really afford to be stranded in Brighton, particularly since I had to get back to Fareham and look after my sisters cats. I even phoned up the train company that morning, just to check that there were no problems.
So far so good. But there was still the issue of the last trains back from Brighton. Industrial action has affected Southern Railways. The usual. Not enough staff and too little pay. But as a result, the last train from Brighton back to Fareham was at 9pm! Fucksakes.
This gives me a migraine. As it means our time was very limited. We will literally have to start at 7:30pm, when the doors open, play for half an hour and rush back to get the train. It’s not ideal and nobody ever turns up at this time to see bands.
But if we can video said gig, then it will all be worth it, just to have something to show for our trouble. So all we needed now, was somebody to video it. I decided to cross that bridge when I got there.
So I meet Dan at Fareham Station around 1:45pm. It’s so nice having a bassist who actually has a brain and above all, is reliable. Years of being stuck in bands with knuckle-heads who can’t seem to grasp the importance of punctuality, have worn me down a bit. But Dan is great. He even suggested we should get off at Hove, which was slightly nearer to the venue than Brighton Station would be. So good call.
Getting to Brighton was essentially a smooth ride without error. Just the boredom of being stuck in a train for two hours. Since there was no hint of a trolley service, Dan was good enough to supply onboard refreshments in the form of a couple of cans of Ginger Beer. He was also good enough to cover the taxi fares.
It was also a beautiful day. Perfect vibes for gigs. We did our whole taxi ride gawping out the windows at how awsum everything looked. There’s something very hypnotic about the cityscape. The architecture in Brighton is fantastic. Which was why its renowned as London by the sea, I guess. I wish I hadn’t left this place but I couldn’t carry on the way I was. But that’s another long story.
It’s been a good ten years since I was last in Brighton. But it still holds this fascination for me. Perhaps of possibility. To meet interesting people. To fall in love. Whatever. I guess it makes me feel alive.
And there’s been some strange new additions to the city as well. Most notably the horizon is now littered with distant wind turbines. It all makes for a surreal look.
At the venue (The Brunswick) we announced ourselves to the bar maid who led us down a narrow rickety flight of stairs into the basement and showed us the stage. Its dark and dingy. But pretty much all Brighton basement venues look like this. So I’m used to it.
In fact I love dinge. The dingier the better. Besides, I’d rather play here than upstairs to a bunch of wine-tasting twats. Then again being in the basement, nobody really knows you are down there.
Dan gets a couple of Guinness in and we sit out in the back garden admiring the buildings that surround us. Kinda reminds me of Benidorm I suppose. Lots of roof terraces, ornate balconies, people lazing out of attic openings. A curious phone box type outcrop, stuck to a fourth floor.
Lots of fire escapes and spiral staircases and bamboo shutter blinds. Dan asks me what my first album I bought was. I guess it was Sargent Peppers on Vinyl .
Eventually the other bands we will be playing with, start to filter into the beer garden, which include the enigmatic Maya Zeltzer and we get talking. Enter Crispin singer of The Ancient Unknown. Interesting fella. He asks me what got me into music. I tell him (besides the Beatles) it was watching Kurt Cobain fooling around on Top of the Pops. That and John Carpenter.
I moan about lack of gig opportunities and playing to near empty shows. He tells me, his band struggles as well. It seems that most bands I’ve talked to are having a shit time of it. But we soldier on. Sometimes you get one really good gig that makes up for all the shit ones. A packed venue and people actually crowd surfing to your music. They are like busses. None for ages and then suddenly you get a festival gig and lots of exposure.
Still a good half hour until the sound checks will commence. Dan and I wonder down to the seafront. Not much has changed since I was last here. Except for a horrendous metal chimney towering over Brighton. I mean it was fucking massive. Like even taller than the Spinnaker. We had no idea what it was. But it certainly looked like an eyesore. I mean, it was just this huge metal phallic tube, shooting up into the fucking sky.
I asked an old woman on a bench nearby, what it was. She shook her head and indicated she didn’t speak any English. Finally the mystery was solved, when we saw a viewing platform raise from the phallic base, like a giant silver donut shaped flying saucer, glinting in the sun.
Commonly known as the Brighton i360, its cost the tax payer £46 Million. Basically a bungled attempt by West Pier Trust to raise money to restore the skeletal remains of West Pier, which I'd witness burn down twenty years previously. Regarded as a f*kin Eyesore by residents, the unpopular i360 is now in debt of £48 Million.
Bored of it, we took photos of each other along the prom. It’s all rather like being on holiday. In fact, I’ve hardly been out of Portsmouth since the Lockdown.
Then the tranquillity was shattered, by the row of smack-heads on the beach. Sitting by the railings, one was currently smashing a blu-tooth stereo on said railings. Jesus. That’s some serious fucked-upness right there. A lovers tiff ensued.
‘Stop playing that farkin shit!’ Yelled the boyfriend, smashing said box to pieces. The girlfriend told him to fuck off. But still wanted another cigarette off him.
We decide to return to the relative safety of The Brunswick.
Typical of such venues, was a lack of a changing room for bands. The Brunswick offered us the token privilege of using their beer cellar, which was choker-full with stacks of dusty old tables and chairs and of course the beer barrels. It had a low ceiling and I kept banging my head on the pipes. I found an old battered washing machine that looked like it had a serious cocaine habit. The draw was caked in ancient white dregs and washing powder stalactites, which spilled out all over the floor. If Scar Face was a washing machine, then this would be it.
Anyway, I got changed. It’s always good to bring spare clothes. Basically when you go onstage, it’s like you are doing an intense work out. Your body just pours with sweat. So yeah. Spares.
That and deodorant. Which I didn’t have. Fortunately Dan did.
Note to self: BRING CAN OF DEODORANT.
Then it’s the sound check, courtesy of sound man Matt. We use Joker Monk Fools gear. But the trouble here was that the amp they supplied had zero distortion but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Finally we are ready to go and Hadar gets behind the drum kit.
But now I am out of tune. And we sound awful.
Note to self: BUY NEW GUITAR TUNER. And maybe a distortion pedal. But all my distortion pedals are broke. I need to invest in new ones. But I’m always too goddam skint.
Anyway, my old work buddy Nicky C arrives. I’ve not seen him in years. He hasn’t changed much. We reminisce of our time working together at (shock horror) the Inland Revenue way back in the early naughties. Particularly our boss Clive. Who had metal legs and acted like a fucking smiley shit-eating Android.
Nick told me old Clive-droid had sadly passed away a few weeks ago. Oh well. He also mentions my ex-drummer (Adam) had quit the IRS and was now on the dole. How the world changes.
Talking of change, we got onto the subject of that fucking eyesore on the seafront (the i360). He said he's been up it but it cost him £30. He wasn't impressed.
Anyway, it occurred to me that Nicky C could be our video man. After all, the whole point was to record this historic moment for future history... if any.
And thus Nick was anointed our Chief Documenter. Then I shoved a camera phone in his face, showed him the buttons and scurried back down to the basement to get ready...
7:40pm. We’re running late. It’s now or never. We got on stage and plugged in. But our drummer has gone AWOL. We asked someone to go find him. Eventually Hadar appeared and clambered behind the drum kit. Now we’re all set. Band was ready. Nick was filming. Perfect.
All we needed now was an ...audience? Of course, all we had was the other bands. But they were good enough to give us lots of cheering, so it didn’t all seem like a totally empty room.
I blunder into the first song. Bananas. It’s a real struggle. With no distortion on the amp, it’s a chore to get the chords to come across. Dan was struggling with the bass rig too. Everything just sounded flat and muddy. Hadar says nothing but he’s probably thinking this all sounds terrible.
We muddled thru anyways and tried to make the best of it. That’s all you ever hope for I guess.
Our little audience were quite forgiving and cheered anyway. Lol. When we played Circles they all started skat-dancing and chasing each other in a circle, which was quite funny.
Originally, we wanted to play Cats Eyes but swapped it out for Heath Ledgers Canoo, thinking it would be much easier for Hadar to get his head around. Cats Eyes is quite a demanding song, with gallop beats and stops and starts. If it doesn’t have those nuances, the song drags its ass, like a car that’s lost its back wheels, scraping along a bumpy concrete road, full of pot holes.
Perhaps the highlight of any gig we do, is the improvisations. Where the audience get to suggest ideas and we turn them into songs. In this case, it was suggested we did a song about
Boris Karloff,
Credit Cards
and Video Sex.
We ended our set on The Zombie Song, by which point the venue had gotten slightly busier. As always, the punters attempted their best Zombie Dance. Always a fun tune to play, when the audience embrace their inner Zombie.
8:20pm and we were all done. Another gig in the bag. I came off stage sweating buckets, cursing the guitar amp for not having any distortion. I mean, we’re supposed to be an tidal wave of alt-rock grunge smacking you in the face like a wet kipper.
But with no distortion, we just sounded like 60s pop. Stupid Amp!
Said guitar amp frowned at me:
It’s not my fucking fault dude. It shrugged. Where’s your fucking distortion pedal?
Of course, it’s all my fault for not bringing said distortion pedal in the first place. But I had too many things to think about, just rallying the band together and making this gig happen. Not to mention all the other shit one has to bring, just to play even the most basic of gigs. Plectrums, guitars, guitar leads, spare batteries, spare strings, socks, T-shirts, wallet, keys, phone, sandals, frog shades, cowboy hats. It’s like going back-packing. You always forget something. But anyway. Said pedals are broken beyond repair.
Note to self. BUY A NEW FUCKING DISTORTION PEDAL.
Backstage, singer of Joker Monk Fool (Eli Haberman) appeared and thanked me for playing a good show. He then presents me with an awsum Joker Monk Fool T-Shirt! I am honoured. A great little memento. I am also very glad that it actually fitted me.
With the clock ticking like a fucking bomb counting down to the apocalypse, we stuff our guitar bags of gear, say our goodbyes and rush out the door, in a taxi back to Hove Station.
All was good. We’ve now played Brighton, met some awsum people and had a great time. But then it all went to shit.
The arduous task of just getting to Brighton was nothing compared to the trip back.
Our journey home was littered with complications. Like biblical. We only got a few miles before the train ground to an absolute fucking halt at Worthing.
Then it didn’t leave. Ten minutes later, the driver announced that there was a traffic accident on a level crossing at Angmering. A vehicle was hanging off a bridge. Great.
People started getting off the train. The driver announced that our train was likely going to be stuck here indefinitely. For fucksakes. What we supposed to do now ?
It was like that scene in Titanic, when said boat hit the iceberg and had to stop. A whole train full of passengers unload onto the platform. Soon the station is a flurry of confusion. Various angry commuters start hassling the already agitated staff with questions they can’t answer.
Are there any more trains?
How the fuck are we supposed to get back home?
Is there a bus replacement?
Do we have to pay for it?
plus
What about snacks?
Will there be alcoholic drinks?
Pretzels?
What’s the fastest land moving mammal?
Is it the North African Cheetah or the Southern Asian Blackbuck?
At least, these last five questions are what I was wanting to ask. I mean, all the main questions were already taken.
Obviously, the grim reality of being stranded in Worthing hadn’t quiet sunk in yet.
But as time dragged on, I began to regret my decision to do this gig. Like I was being punished by the gods for being a deviant and playing in a rock and roll band.
Note to self: INVENT TELEPORT MACHINE
alternatively construct ANTI-WRATH OF GOD J-TEAM VAN
Anyway. Fucking trains.
But it’s not been the first time that I’ve been stuck miles from home after a gig. Although I wish it would be the fucking last time. But thems the breaks.
The Manchester gig was pretty bad. Our accommodation fell through and we had nowhere to stay. So we spent all night huddled in a bus shelter, in the freezing fucking cold, trying to book a coach online because the fuckers wouldn’t except cash on the door.
Then there was the time I was stranded in Austin Texas. But that’s yet another story.
Anyway, the station staff ordered us all some taxis, free of charge. Which was nice of them. I bumped into a fellow stranded passenger (John) who used to run a jewellery store at my old shop (White Elephant). Currently he has a stall at Liss Emporium.
An hour or so passes. Maybe more. No fucking sign of our taxi. Everyone else has got there’s besides us. By now it’s 10:40pm and the station staff want to knock off at 11pm. Which means we gotta get this sorted. I’m having visions of being stranded here forever. Like in Star Trek 2, The Wrath Of Khan: marooned for all eternity on Ceti-Alpha Worthing.
Dan was probably quite annoyed too, as he had missed his connecting bus from Fareham. Which meant an expensive Taxi ride back to Gosport and bed. But I guess I will re-reimburse him for his trouble, when I finally get paid from my other crappy jobs.
When the taxi finally arrived, the Jamaican driver didn’t want to take us to Fareham. WTF? Somebody told him he was supposed to be going to Southampton. The station staff had to cajole him to play ball. It was all rather nuts. What’s he gonna do, leave us fucking stranded?
Eventually the driver agrees. Then it’s this hour or so journey via hell back to Fareham. Said driver floored it all the way, like he’s just entered the fucking Grand Prix in Mad Max’s V8 Interceptor. Every turn is a step closer to certain death. Dan and I are bouncing off the cab walls. My stomach is churning like that coked-up washing machine back at The Brunswick.
Plus my mouth is dry. I can feel my guts reaching. I keep telling myself, DON’T PUKE UP. I need some water. I turn to Dan.
‘You got any Ginger Beer left?’ He shakes his head solemnly. All I can do is just keep looking ahead. I just wana die. My eyes grew heavy, staring at the endless road. But when I closed them, I started feeling sick again. So I was stuck between trying to stay awake and not puking all over Dan.
Note to self: BRING WATER (AND PUKE BAG)
The endless motorway sped before us into the night.
It brought a whole new meaning to my song Cats Eyes.
Follow the White Lines, Follow the Cats Eyes. Wont you take me away?
Too bad we didn’t play that song tonight.
Finally we saw signs for Fareham and we were back at the station where it all began.
I stumbled out of the taxi, my head spinning. I staggered around for a bit like a Zombie ready to chunder. Finally the nausea subsided.
But I still had few miles to go before I was in bed. However, my bicycle was still locked up inside the station. Fortunately they hadn’t closed the gates. So that was something.
I talked to another taxi driver, who could get Dan back to Gosport for £17. Then he was off and I cycled back to my sisters. I am so fucked by now. All I want is to go to bed.
When I finally get back, I have a new headache. The front door won’t open. The key can’t turn the lock. It’s all rusted to fuck. I’m like great. Perfect. This is all I need. With a little perseverance and brute force the lock finally turns and I am back indoors. Thank fuck!
However, my sisters cats are nowhere to be seen. Then I find blood (!) just inside the kitchen door and what looks like entrails and tiny body parts belonging to an animal. What the actual fuck?
On the doormat, is what looked like intestines and a heart!?! I shit you not.
I feared the worst. I ran around the house, checking all the rooms. I flashed a torch around the back garden and called out the cats names. Of course I can’t really remember their names. So I just whistled instead. But there’s no sign of them. Are they dead?
Going back inside, I examined said entrails closer. Looked like something chewed up and puked them back out again. Those fucking cats. Last week one of them brought a sparrow into the house and started eating it, right in front of me. Little fucker.
This carnage is his fucking handiwork. Goddam cat is like Hannibal Lecture or some shit. Seriously. The cat is homicidal. Anyway. By now I am too tired to even care. I clean up the mess and flush the evidence down the toilet. Then its pasta left overs, Netflix and a shit ton of vodka before I finally hit the sack at 2am.
Anyways. Mission accomplished.
Roll on the next gig. Same shit. Different venue. Rinse and repeat.
And it all begs the rather pertinent question, that’s been growing in the readers mind.
A question I keep asking myself actually. A lot.
Why the fuck do I do it? Why do I put myself thru hell just to play for 30 minutes in a dingy basement, in a city that’s a fucking headache to get to? I don’t get paid. I don’t get laid. Jesus. I need my fucking head examined.
Why? I have no fucking idea. Or maybe it’s like the challenge of climbing Mount Everest.
Because It’s There?
