Loyal Trooper Tour Dairy Part 2
Sheffield Pomona
A mission. A genuine mission. It wasn’t that bad for the most part but after about seven hours of constantly being on National Express coaches you get a little tired of the whole experience. Sort of journey where you periodically get up to the toilets just for an excuse to stretch your legs! My head hurt from trying to digest five hours of philosophical theories. Ouch. After leaving Sarah’s at 9.30am I finally arrived at the Pomona at 19.15pm. Long day. The pub was okay I guess, pretty standard cheap northern sports related boozer. After starring aimlessly into space for twenty minutes in the pub wondering if it’s wise to do 230 odd mile journeys on National Express coaches I soundchecked and located my friends. All’s well.
I was meant to be ‘headlining’ but realistically I just wanted to play early and have fun with my friends and Sky Sports News was blatantly winning the contest for peoples attention as it was. So I get up and play. I play quite well considering the sound wasn’t ideal to say the least. I have grown much more confident as the week has progressed especially after excellent London and Southsea shows. My tour poster is next to Chappers and Dave and Tom Hingley formerly of the Inspiral Carpets. I feel honored. I dedicate a song my mate Dale is running a half marathon on Sunday. I thank everyone and finish my set.
We go to the bar. We work our may through my rider pretty quickly (solo artists don’t get big riders seemingly) A guy plays some covers. We drink. A band come on who look like Right Said Fred but sound like a watered down Stereophonics who’s opening line to the audience is “Let’s fuckin’ ‘ave it!” Three songs in an I can’t see anyone heeding their advice. They almost give me tinnitus so I suggest we leave. We’re joined by more friends. We have more drinks at Varsity next door. This road is studentville.
Eventually we end up going for a curry which is easily the most civilized part of my week. The large Kingfisher beers are excellent and hit the spot. I do like a good pickle tray. My garlic mushroom starter is delicious and my vegetable Karahi with rice and garlic naan is tasty but I’m used to eating a baguette per day at present so I’m handing in the towel pretty quickly. We say our goodbyes and Dale drives me back to my parents. I talk at great length in a sketchy but enthusiastic manner about the prison system and rehabilitating inmates (some of the focus of todays marathon philosophy read). I get in and pass out. Decent sleep tonight, 2.30am – 10am. I eat food all day, have fun with my parents and watch Sky Sports News with Wednesday losing at Ashton Gate. Another glorious day of sunshine and I’m in Leeds station now so I must go.
Leeds Primrose
I am a bit of a mess. I got to the Primrose and caught up with my mate Jamie who was also playing. I went on first, I think I played well and was well received. I met a barman from Sheffield who got ‘Division Street Blues’ and bought an EP. These trousers stink of cigarettes, it’s vile. Anyway, the night progresses and there comes a point where everyone I know has gone. I unintentionally knocked over a guys cymbal earlier, I apologized profusely and he starred at me and said “don’t worry, I’ll get you back by throwing some sticks in your face later” He didn’t smile. It wasn’t a joke. If I leave during this guys set I’m going to be blinded seemingly. I watch everyone else alone, really not having fun.
The night finishes and I get a ride into town with some others from the pub. I’m really not chatty and answer questions in a pretty simplistic and monosyllabic manner. We get to the Elbow Rooms and get in on the guest list. I get starred at by half a dozen people, perhaps I don’t have the right haircut maybe I have the right haircut. I don’t know. Maybe someone’s tattooed a particularly obscene four letter word on my face. Maybe I’m overreacting because I’m bored, tired and haven’t got a clue where I’m staying. I’m in a foul mood. Day six has created the biggest low thus far. I don’t want to party, I don’t want to drink or dance or talk or smile. I find part of the club that’s empty and I lay down and stare at the ceiling. Some guy comes over and tells me I can’t lay down. What the fuck? I’m laying down, I’m not punching anyone or being aggressive, I’m fucking laying down. I sit and write three pages of drivel lyrics. I’m in a foul mood.
Eventually I snap out of it long enough to go and socialise. I talk to a guy about Grammatics, Wild Beasts, Dinosaur Pile-up, This Et Al, Duels, Sky Larkin and other Leeds bands I like. I talk to a guy who is a Wednesday fan about Tommy Spurr for what seems like four days. He’s not impressed my family are from outside Sheffield city center, I’m “not really from Sheffield”. I chat to his girlfriend about the 1996 Blackburn Rovers side. We drink some free Jägermeister. It’s vile but I’m having a better time. These trousers are disgusting. Free pints arrive. The music stops. The lights go up. The free pints are taken away. I say hello to Whiskers and we have a brief “how’s it going?” type discussion. Outside I talk to some more people. I think I’ve got a gig out of it. We go to some bar. It’s packed so we leave. We go next door. It’s marginally less packed. We drink double vodkas. Then more. We dance a little. We shout loudly at each other. We laugh. I’m having a good time.
Kickout time. We go home. I play ‘Outdoor Type’ as requested by my host. We sit and talk nonsense very loudly and intensely for hours. It’s 6.35am. I play again upon request. I kip on the sofa next to Edward the bear. Edward has been turned on his side to made it apparent that he’s sleeping. I wake at ten and lay starring at the ceiling for an hour. We drink tea. I’m playing Leeds on the 23rd May I’m informed. I blag a shower. I feel better. We talk about West Brom. I say my goodbyes and thank my hosts profusely. I walk to town. I feel awful. I get the coach. I’m low again. I’m tired, hungry, dehydrated and I’m questioning how or why I am this person now. He doesn’t seem like a fun or enjoyable person to be or be around at present. He questions the directions he’s chosen with his life and his trousers smell like they’ve been through and ocean of manure. However, history tells me this is a phase, most commonly known as a hangover. It’s my own fault but it’ll pass. This person passing through me will play one more gig, drink, sleep and be gone by Monday morning.
Stoke
Aside from the three hours on the coaches, walking for an hour to the venue I had an hour and a half wait in Manchester for my connecting coach. Not ideal. The band already at the venue soundcheck for an hour and I sit and wait patiently clapping each song when it finishes and telling them it’s sounding good. Band claim the vocals sound “dull”. I’ve worked in studios and I record all my own songs and have modest capabilities but I know how three-band EQ works. I offer my opinion. The soundman/barman ignores not only my suggestion but even the fact I’ve spoken to him. Normally when you speak to someone, they respond to you in some way, right? Nope, not here.
After an hour the band stop. I soundcheck. The barman/soundman stands talking and laughing with the band whilst I can’t hear a thing on stage of what’s going off. He laughs loudly, points at me and I stop and ask how it’s sounding. He replies, “yeah, you’re done”. I go to talk to the band. I ask them about their upcoming gigs, where they normally play, where they went out last night, what its like round where they live, what they do for a living etc. Not mind-blowing conversation admittedly but I’m being friendly an showing an interest which is more than anyone has done to me since I arrived.
I’ve been traveling all day, so I go to the toilet for a piss. I return to the room with their guitarist talking through the mic to the others saying “Oh yeah he’s been in the toilet ages, his soundcheck was shit and it lasted about ten seconds”. I look at him and he says “Oh, you’re here”. I’m not feeling particularly comfortable right now, everyone I’ve met so far is ignoring me an seemingly talking about me behind my back much to the amusement of their little group. Can I play a gig to these people? As I sit about a meter away from their table the guitarist calls me a “fucking midget” and the barman/soundman character lambasts the bloke who booked me saying “I keep telling you not to book these shit out of town acts”. I’ve had enough of this. I pack up my things and walk out. Someone yells “Oh what the fuck?” at me as I leave. I don’t storm out. I don’t retaliate. I just leave with my head down feeling pretty amazingly low.
I could have done anything with this day and this is what I spent my day doing, traveling for this!? I’m gutted I went all that way and didn’t get to play. But I’m confident I did the right thing. I don’t expect to be treated like royalty, far from it. But I would hope I’d be treated fairly. I’m a friendly, down to Earth and hard working bloke. What did I do wrong? Is it because I’m from “out of town”? Is it because I play with an acoustic guitar? Is it because I wear pointy shoes? Is it my hair? Or is it just because these guys are dickheads and it’s nothing I’ve done? Whatever their reasons for being such fuckers with me they’re ignorant, small minded and pathetic. I don’t need to be around that.
This how April’s tour ends sadly and it leaves a sour taste to what has been in general a very positive tour which I have enjoyed. I guess this tour diary tells the story of meeting very different types of people. I mean compare the stories from Southsea to Stoke!? I’m sure at some point I’ll be able to write without the obvious negative slant to tonight’s events. I want a drink. I’m gonna get some scotch on the way home. Hmmm…scotch.
