Last night was a Sunday.
Following a full English breakfast, cooked by myself as per the instructions in the current copy of Intelligent Life magazine, we had spent the afternoon pulling up a dead plant in my mother’s garden – a tropical specimen which had sadly not survived the winter.
At 6.00pm I went off on my bike, down a sunny Whitchurch Road in sunglasses, intending to check out the music at the Gower. But as I passed the Kitchen Gallery, I noticed that it was still open, so I locked my bike outside and went into the gloom. It was empty, save for Nick and Sabrina (‘Buy some weed! Buy some weed!’) at the bar. My first words to Nick were, ‘What have you done to your face?’ in response to the clotted wound he had to the side of his nose. It had apparently occurred around 6.00am the previous Saturday, as he walked home following his birthday bash – he had fallen flat on his face on the pavement. The woman called Julie, Judy or Kate or something – whom Ev and I had met at Nick’s birthday – was behind the bar, and had also fallen over the same night, though she had no damage to her person despite bleeding copiously. She did not remember me from our previous meeting. I think she might be a partner in the business, along with the guy from Hong Kong.
After chatting for a moment, I decided to stay awhile, and after ordering a bottle of Beck’s, I grabbed the clunky, untuneable electro-spanish guitar and played for an hour or so, jamming with Nick and Brian (?) the 20-year-old Spanish keyboard player.
I mostly led the session with my current favourites, ‘Love Train’, ‘Sir Duke’, ‘Alone Again’, ‘Can’t Take my Eyes Off You’, ‘I’m Gonna Make You Love Me’, ‘Bad is Bad’ and perhaps a few others. Great music. By around 7.30pm, there were quite a few bodies about, and we stopped for a break, so I decided to nip home to get my own guitar . By the time I got back, the place had emptied, so I just plugged in and played to myself, enjoying the opportunity to sing through a PA. I had a go at a few originals, and Brian came and sat with me to listen, then Nick seemed to reappear from somewhere as Sabrina zipped hither and thither (‘Buy some weed! Buy some weed!’), and we all jammed again. My choice of drink at this point was a bottle of Newcastle Brown, which, once consumed, I replaced with a can of Stella.
Then four large grey-haired biker types appeared at the door and ordered coffees, though there was a general feeling that the place was going to close imminently. One of the newcomers produced a harmonica and jammed a couple of great blues with us. Then one of his compadres borrowed my guitar and played with his mate. He loved my Martin.
Turns out they’d just been playing at the Earl Haig – they were in a band called Blues Highway from Swansea. The guitarist, Tiny, had played with Pat Grover’s Blues Zeroes, so I think I’d seen him play at one of Ev’s friends’ party in a barn south of Aberystwyth, many years ago.
Eventually they left, and at 10.10pm I decided to shoot off to Rowan’s open mic at the Buffalo Bar, with my guitar safely strapped onto my back. When I got there after what seemed like an age (though it only took 10 minutes to cycle home later), the place was unusually busy, the party in full swing. I ordered a half of Staropramen at £1.70, and sat at one of the tall tables opposite the bar. Soon the tall Robert Plant lookalike, Muckle, walked in, followed by a strange looking fellow in a bright red baseball jacket and a baseball cap, who I took to be a friend of Muckle’s – perhaps even his brother – due to a certain resemblance. He was very drunk and gibbered something to me about my hat before accosting a group of youngsters next to me, in particular a blonde-haired girl. He stood, larger than life, gesticulating wildly, his head zooming in and out of the girl’s body space as he animatedly related a possibly wildly interesting story. The youngsters smiled in embarrassment and tried to ignore him. I told Muckle his brother should leave – he denied any previous knowledge of the fellow.
Next, a couple of wide-looking fat men came in and stood at the bar, one of them dressed in slacks and a blazer and looking like a 1960s minder, the other in a leisure suit. I had a brief chat with leisure-suit in the toilet – seems they were from a pub in the Vale of Glamorgan, out and about in Cardiff, looking for acts to book. Curious that they should look for talent here, of all places, where such a thing is frequently conspicuous by its absence – though tonight Thoby Davies raised the standard with his polished set of guitar real-time multi-tracking wizardry.
Perhaps on my second half by now, and feeling decidedly drunk and unsure whether to play, I found myself in the toilet again, and was shocked to find the bulky minder sprawled on a latrine with his trousers around his ankles and the cubicle door open, taking a shit, acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Assuming an air of relaxed nonchalance, I chatted to him as if it was indeed the most natural thing in the world, though in fact it was the first time I had ever encountered such a sight. I suspect he was very drunk, but couldn’t swear to it. I remember him saying his friend had a pub in Llantrisant. I wouldn’t want to be booked by this particular talent scout. I think his parting words as I scooted out the door were, ‘Oh, fucking skid marks again’. I had no desire to cement our friendship any further. An unpleasant encounter.
Decidedly drunk by my third half of Staropramen, I could just about see Rowan gesturing to me from the other side of the room – did I want to play? I shook my head. Then after considering for a moment and thinking ‘fuck it’, I nodded that I would play. I went outside for a breather and talked to Newcastletonian Andy, back in Cardiff after touring with Frankie Valli and Beach Boys tribute acts as a sound man. I was pleased to be able to dedicate one of my songs to him.
Time to play – Rowan kindly assisted me to the stage area with my music stand, and I played about five numbers. Everybody joined in with ‘Can’t Take My Eyes off of You’ – the baseball-capped drunk danced wildly – and as I played ‘I’m Gonna Make You Love Me’, Muckle joined in – afterwards he told me it was the first single he’d ever bought, around 1968. During one number, somebody lurched at me and handed me a £10 note, much to my surprised delight.
After my set, the £10 donor latched onto me and insisted on buying me a drink. He was Polish, named Peter, drunk, and claimed to be a chef – though the barman was of the opinion that he was involved in organised crime, on account of the rough tattoos he’d spotted on his forearms. Peter deposited the change from his round into my chest pocket. Apparently it is the custom for Poles to treat musicians with respect. Unlike in Wales – tonight alone I had spent over £10 for the privilege of entertaining people with my music, though my new friend had almost covered my costs. Tonight I was lucky enough to be the one onstage as Peter had walked in – so I got the prize!
Symbolically leaving my music stand behind at the Buffalo once again, I gracefully sailed forth into the April night on my bicycle, arriving home to stuff my face with cheap bacon-flavoured snacks before crashing at a fairly respectable 12.45am, not too drunk considering I’d been out for six hours of socialising, music and drinking. A successful day.
