Hello my darlings!
And a fabulous welcome to this glamorous edition of Angel Update, the weekly blog charting the adventures of perhaps the most fashionable rock outfit in the South West.
I’m sorry, I have no idea where this is going, shall we just carry on and pretend that last bit never happened?
Friday, you may have noticed, was a Wet Day. So was Saturday. Nonetheless, it takes more than intemperate weather conditions to halt your rawk’n’roll heroes, so, undeterred – but slightly damp – we made our way to the Trident in Downend.
To our surprise, the place has rather changed – specifically, previous landlord Paul has been replaced by our old bonkers pal Bev, formerly of the Giant Goram in Lawrence Weston. The place has been VERY thoroughly decked out for Halloween, and we are asked to set up to play at the far end of the pub, near the dartboard. No worries! Except – the floor, which has recently been waxed – or greased – or something, and is UNBELIEVABLY slippery. Even just loading the gear in is a hazardous process; I feel like Ranulph Fiennes traversing Antarctica, only carrying a 4 x 12 speaker cabinet. Although to be fair, it’s not as cold. It’s actually quite warm, and as a result halfway through the night, everything (including us) is covered in a fine sheen of condensation, which makes the floor even more treacherous. Every time I stomp on one of my pedals, it goes shooting across the floor away from me.
Still, we are delighted to see that most of the regular punters from the old Giant Goram have actually come out all this way to see us, and we have a very enjoyable evening, and somehow manage to get through the night without any of us ending upside down – even if we weren’t bouncing around quite as much as usual, and occasionally had to retreat to the relative safety of a carpeted corner of the pub, just to regain our balance.
Saturday night, and up to the Trout in Keynsham. We’ve decided to opt for Halloween fancy dress tonight, despite the fact that it’s too late and nobody else has – so really, we just look a bit odd. But, we’re used to that.
All is set for a jolly night, until we start the first number and I discover that a small cut on my finger, which I acquired somehow during the day, is EXACTLY where my “B” string sits under my hand, and directly in like with it – meaning that every time I change chord, a 0.011 inch diameter stainless steel wire is dragged along the inside of the cut, deepening it and – frankly – hurting like buggery.
I stumble clumsily through the first song like this, but I’m clearly not going to last the whole night. Fortunately, gaffa tape comes to the rescue – a strip wrapped around the offending digit stops the string from getting inside, and the rest of the night is gloriously pain-free.
I still play like a twat, but that’s because I am one, and we’re all used to that.
So another jolly night, very sweaty and hot, and after a little coaching, the crowd get the hang of things too. Most satisfactory.
Coming up this week – a weekend off, actually.
I leave you with a random thought that struck me yesterday, for no obvious reason, but it did make me chuckle.
Imagine, if you will, Jesus Christ and his Musical Theatre Disciples.
“That should be me up there…”