The One I Like
The character at pub gigs I find most irritating and at times frightening, is the fellow who comes to face you out with the stance of a pit-bull terrier and says in an aggressive tone of voice:
“WOT DOO YOO DOO THEN?”
I usually respond with the answer: “Oh you know, a bit of everything …some rock covers, some blues, reggae etc. But I’m just setting up now so why don’t you stick around and you’ll find out.”
This rarely appeases the chap with the bolt through his neck however as he generally wants more specific answers. “Don’t yoo doo any fuckin’ Stevie Ray or Hendrix?” comes the incredulous reply.
“Well what sort of fuckin’ stuff DOO YOO DOO then?” he continues. By this time you’re hoping that he will be so unhappy with your programme for the evening that he will leave the building.
A female member of a pub “audience” asked me on one occasion: “DOO YOO DOO THE ONE I LIKE?”. It was no use asking what epic piece of music this might be, because she wouldn’t have known anyway. Where there’s no sense there’s no feeling etc.
Itinerant pub musos like myself also have to put up with the folks that walk up to you and shout a string of requests to your face as you’re trying to sing something. It’s as if they just want to press a button and change the program on the juke box but can’t, as even after so many years of appalling gigs, you still vaguely resemble a human being rather than a machine…
A young girl came up to me one time whilst I was in mid-song and insisted that I play some Dolly Parton.
I said: “Listen, does it seem likely that I would sing Jolene or (worse still) He’ll Come Again?”
But she didn’t understand at all and later, I overheard her saying to her boyfriend that she was amazed that I didn’t play any “Dolly”. She seemed to be suggesting that she didn’t much like my manner either. Perhaps it was me telling her that I didn’t do any Johnny Cash either. Hey ho.
Some years ago my old friend and voluntary roadie Stewart Browne and I were playing a really grim gig called “The Eastgate Hotel” in Pembroke SW Wales. The first thing you noticed arriving at the rendered pink building was the brown stain emanating from the soil pipe attached to the gable end. Getting inside we were greeted within seconds with the old “What doo yoo doo?” routine but it seemed to have a particular menace attached to it. To put it bluntly … we were scared.
“So wot fuckin’ time’r yoo startin’ then?” the unshaven slob asked me.
The impossibly thin girl who was sitting next to him was slumped over the table. He hit her round the face.
“Wot’s up wiv yoo y’ fuckin’ cow?” he bawled.
We tried to pretend we weren’t there but he continued:
“’ope yer goin’ t’ play some decent fuckin’ stuff!”
“Maybe we ought to get out of here,” I said to Stew.
But just then a man-mountain turned up from somewhere and hauled them out of the place. He kicked them out like he was chucking the garbage into the dust cart. It was a relief.
Stewart is probably the most unlikely roadie in the business. Looking as he did on this particular occasion, rather like a Columbian drug baron it wasn’t that surprising when another rough looking character sidled up to him whilst I was playing and said:
“Does ‘e do cocaine?”
“No, he doesn’t touch drugs”, Stew replied a little testily.
“ I’m not askin’ if ‘e likes the stuff, I’m askin’ if ‘e fuckin’ plays “Cocaine” by Clapton” came the response.