or, how not to let lack of confidence, practice and instrument impede performance.
I am allegedly a drummer. That is, I definitely hit drums, but it can be a bit painful to listen to. Nevertheless, there are relatively few of us around (look at the wall of any music shop) and so people ask me to be in their bands.
My friend Nevs has a band called the Filthy Orphans. I’ve been a fan for a while – they sound like hard-edged blues, Stooges + old school blues style. They are down a drummer. Guess where this is going.
We had a rehearsal on Monday – they sound great, I need work. Then I find out there’s an open mic gig on Wednesday they really want to play. I want to help them out – I figure I can bash through it, and run away to the bar at the end. I’m scared and I know I could play better, but I’ll make myself do it.
And then Wednesday rolls around – I bring the breakables for my drum kit, which I should explain for non-drummers consists of:
- a metal snare drum 30cm in dia and 15 cm deep in one hand
- a two foot wide circular bag strapped to my back containing a large cymbal, a small cymbal, two hi-hats, sticks and sundries (cymbals are solid metal and also heavy, about 5kg).
- And a bag with a pedal in it and a set of clothes to change into, including shoes.
I’m not complaining about carrying this. At least not when I’m not wearing it. But after I’ve been wearing it for a while – and it means I have to go through doors sideways and consider momentum – I get well grouchy. So I lug this to work, do my standard office job, and then leave declaring in an oh-so-cool manner I’m off to play drums in a blues band under an italian restaurant, like I’m some New York Hipster.
Well. That’ll teach me, cos I hop the bus over (stairs with a bag too wide to fit up them and bags in each hand? Try it!) and discover there’s no drum kit. Some kind of mixup with the arrangements. The imprecision of language strikes again (damn you Wittgenstein).
So. I’m unpracticed, I have no kit, and I have my usual pre-gig jitters and sulks combined with post-busy day at work stress. It’s not a good time to be around me. I sit in a corner and draw.
For hours, until the band all turn up. I ask if they have any ideas. They say maybe they can get me some stuff. I said what stuff. They say stuff. I engage my super-power (intense sulking) and trot off for a walk round Stoke Newington. Some crying is done, because I’m just hardcore like that. Gave myself a pep talk, worked on cultivating a rock and roll attitude, got back and… found that there’s nothing for me to play except what I brought.
And the guys in the band want me to improvise something and play. And oh god am I convinced I’ll look like a moron and inflict hideous things on people’s ears and besmirch the image of women in rock and etc etc etc all those things that Mr. Brain helpfully brings up in times of crisis. And I’m tearing up again and trying to retain dignity. I was on the verge of screeching ‘I can’t work under these conditions!’ and flouncing out for good in the best prima donna style..
And then, one of the most beautiful men in England walks in. And says hello to me.
I’m poleaxed. Bleach-blonde messy hair, awesome cheekbones, smiles a lot, nosering. Hot as the surface of the Sun, and fun – works as a burlesque dancer, singer, songwriter, all that jazz. I’m a fan of his. And he’s come in while I’m making a tit of myself. I look confused.
He says ‘Hello sweetheart’, or some similar heart-melting epithet.
I respond with a stammer, or by exuding fluids from my nose, or doing something equally friendly and cool.
‘It’s Spencer?’ he explains helpfully, and opens his arms for a hug.
Yes, I think I might remember you. I go and watch your burlesque performances. I watch your Youtube videos to cheer myself up. I am a SAD ACT when it comes to you. I remember your name.
‘Oh darling, like I could ever forget you!’ I squeal, and hug him tight so he can’t see my face. I’m tearing up further at the thought that this beautiful man who sings and performs and writes his own music is going to see me usher in a whole new era of rhythmical fail. And he’s going to be kind about it.
I try and make light of what’s up, babbling in a high pitch like a child who’s had her toy taken away, only it’s pretty unconvincing because my voice is breaking while I’m on the edge of crying again.
‘I’m terribly sorry excuse me!’ I blurt and dash to the ladies, where I sob like something bad had actually happened. My heavy black gig makeup smears all down my face, beyond the salvaging power of 2ply, offensively jaunty pink loo roll. Doesn’t stop me attacking myself with the scratchy stuff though.
Mastering myself, or trying to, I emerge back out and seek counsel in a friend of the band and general good egg, who also happens to be the only girl there I know. On receipt of her advice – tips for salvaging the operation and orders to chat to mr. fantastic – I dither for a while, have a shot of Tia Maria and then dive in. He talks to me like I’m human, and I for my part do a creditable impression of someone who is not tongue-tied by sheer beauty and charm. We have a joke. We share reminiscences. I quit while the going’s good and I’m perked up by his sheer proximity, and talk to the band.
‘Have you been crying, or is that makeup?’ says the guitarist, winner of Mr. Tact 2003-2007 inclusive (he retired when he was deemed too professional to enter what is designed to be an amateur competition), in front of all the band who I (mostly) don’t know well and don’t want to talk about FEELINGS to. No drums are coming at all. It is time to deal with the worst case scenario.
I ask the barman if I can borrow a box or barrel. Something like that. He gives me a metal bowl from Ikea they use for ice. I can put my snare on a stool. I wander round the bar hitting things to see if anything sounds like a floor tom. I figure I can use a stool or chair for that too. The challenge perks me up and I get quite bouncy. Scared but bouncy.
Nice soundman Greg (friend of Spencer and the reason for this odd confluence of events) suggests I can use my kickpedal with a cajon to get a bass substitute. This all sounds really promising, albeit a bit Blue Peter on a desert island.
And then we get on stage. I feel like a right lemon arranging chairs like an instrument, and they are not nearly as good to hide behind as a proper kit. The chair that is standing in for my floor tom makes too sharp a sound, so I cover it in the work trousers I’ve changed out of. I sit on the cajon and use my footpedal backwards (yes, that is hard. Yes, it did mean that my kick work was kinda poor).
The other guys are all set up and looking professional. And we start and I realise I’m basically a metronome rather than adding anything to the sound. Which is at least within my skill set. I forget the arrangements, which is completely forgivable given we had rehearsed these songs a maximum of 4 times each, and my foot is off time because I’m trying to do things backwards, and my fills miss their openings.. and frankly, I’m glad it’s a free night.
We bash through the songs – my rendition of ‘Psychotic Reaction’ is particularly fail-ridden, because I love to do it with a chunky voodoo deep beat and chairs don’t cut it and I can barely recognise what I’m trying.When we are done and I am allowed to leave I pack up at light speed, return all borrowed equipment and reassure the sucker who lent me his cajon.
An east asian skinny hipster guy says ‘Nice drumming’ to me as I make my exit. I wonder out loud if it’s technically drumming if it doesn’t involve drums, and if a better word would be ‘chair-spazzing’ or just ‘having a tantrum in the middle of a load of musicians’.
And then it’s just the homeward journey with bags-a-go-go on the bus, but I really can’t complain about the awkwardness of it because a man carrying an iron radiator attached to a bit of wall gets on the bus and that trumps my mere cymbals. In a backpack no less – luxury.
Note to self: for future gigs, ensure instruments come too.
Written for my mum, who I called to relate this too afterwards, and who laughed a lot (she’s also a big fan of Spencer)
