Episode
One
Not a great deal happens, but we have to get started somewhere
So here it
is! The long-awaited, exciting first instalment of 'Blythwatch' in which
we chart and follow the progress of the band in their travels around and
about and up and down the land. Or in this case, to Matlock Bath….
It all seemed so promising at first - when the besuited avaricious one
booked the date he was told 'It's our monthly punk night! It's really
good - we'll get you on with a few local bands, and it'll be a great night.'
We believed them, honest.
As things turned out, we did have a good night, but this was largely because
our noble colleague Jah Glee turned up during the soundcheck with a camper
van full of dinner. It was even vegan, so Jessie A. was able to smack
his plant-eating chops around some too. Shame really - few things are
so amusing as a thwarted vegan.
The promised support bands failed to materialise. The promoter had been
mysteriously dismissed, apparently, and we can count ourselves lucky that
the management had honoured the engagement. It is far more usual, in such
circumstances, for the venue to ignore the bookings, and we only find
out about it when one of you lot calls us up to tell us that the XYZ in
Bollockley Bottom is advertising a karaoke night instead of the expected
Blyth gig. Bah Humbug. Grateful for small mercies, we played two sets,
and were delighted to find that by a freak chance, the sound was really
excellent, and that against all the odds the sound man knew his onions,
so all was well that ended well.
Those of you who may have been confused by some of TDL's stage announcements
may be relieved to know that the ageing fellow was a little bewildered
by the startling array of disco lights on the back wall of the venue.
They were only really visible from the stage, and they combined with the
shadows of the balustrade on the balcony to present him with an image
of thirty giant peacocks swooping down from a star-speckled nightscape.
It was all a little too much, what with the excitement of playing Signalman
White again. He claims that he will be less obscure next time.
While on the subject of obscurity, it turns out, oh dearly beloved, that
one of your number still owns a copy of Yessongs, and has in fact owned
it since 1974, or thereabouts. What were you doing in 1974? The Dear Leader
claims he was copping his first class 50s, and waiting on the pleasure
of burly prefects as an oily new tick at grammar school - chiz chiz. Not
yet seduced by his brother's Genesis albums he still had some years to
go before his downward spiral commenced. This column would be interested
to hear any learned and intelligent criticism you may have on the matter
of Yessongs, or anecdotes connected with the mighty work, as your correspondent
had the misfortune to listen to it once, all the way through, and cannot
remember a thing about it.
Of course, there are far worse things out there than Yessongs. Most of
them can probably be found in a certain record collection in Lincoln.
We think we should be told.
So that's about it. We went to Matlock Bath, and it rained. End of part
one. Watch this space for the next exciting episode though, because, like
the sands through the hour glass, these are the days of our lives.
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Episode Two
How our Famous Four Outfoxed the Fuel Crisis
It may not be immediately apparent from the above, but our gallant band were in fact engaged upon a rigorous touring schedule, which was to take them, during the course of September, to two and a bit of the four corners of our island home. Hurrah. The besuited avaricious one had spent many long hours leaving messages on people's answerphones, and the upshot was a veritable dream of a tour. All hail his competence. Not since the age of DEE have we had an agent of such skill and devotion. How the nation trembeled in eager anticipation of the delights of a touring Blyth. Oh how ready we were. Oh how keen....
The weekend of 15th-17th September was to encompass Sheffield, where the band were booked to support Half Man Half Biscuit, Otley, where a considerable FOLK FESTIVAL was to be held, and Hull, at the legendary Adelphi, home of a trillion Blyth gigs past, and hopefully, to come. Then up reared the ugly heads of Thatcherite lap-dogs whinging about the price of petrol. This is not the time and place to castigate these brutes - Mr Big H has said it all on his pylon fanciers site in far subtler prose than I am capable of when confronted with the bigotry, imbecility, and pathologically self-centered whinging of these forces of darkness. Suffice it to say that we suddenly found ourselves up the proverbial creek. We had plenty of paddles - we even had a van on hire for the weekend, but NOBODY HAD ANY DIESEL.
Except The Whisky Priests....
The first thing that happened was that Half Man Half thingy pulled out of the Sheffield date due to a bereavement, although with impending petrol Hell on the cards it looked like a non-runner anyway. The besuited avaricious one (BsAv) made a few panic stricken phone calls and managed to establish two things:
The Boardwalk in Sheffield would take a chance and run a gig anyway, with Blyth Power and a Matlockian poet. Transport would be provided courtesy of The Whisky Priests - Glenn was away and Gary was having a quiet weekend at home with cups of tea, slippers and Dad's Army videos etc. Not so. There is an ancient proverb which says that 'He who has a van full of diesel parked outside house during national fuel crisis must be prepared to be harassed by friends and acquaintances.' This proved to be the case, and Mr Miller was enlisted for the duration of the crisis.
Did I say crisis? God help this country if we ever have any real problems to deal with. The wealthy wives of Harrogate - who are still stock-piling coal from the 1984 strike, even though they all have central heating and no chimneys - had bought up everything either combustible or comestible within a forty mile radius by mid day on the Friday. Whatever happened to the spirit of the blitz, old fogeys wondered? As the 60th anniversary celebrations of the Battle of Britain raged around us, the country fell to its knees and sobbed in a collective panic at the whim of a bunch of Yorkie-Eating capitalists. Oh how we laughed.
Well, once we had a van sorted we did. Gary queued for an hour or so in York and managed to top off the tank, and we winged our way to Sheffield in the white Whisky van, meeting the crypto-apes of the guitar department (not my choice of expression) at the hop. Fortunately National Express had retained enough diesel to get them up, so there we were. Considering the circumstances it wasn't a bad night. Thanks to the Boardwalk for going ahead with it, and very special thanks to Gary for giving up a weekend's gardening - or more likely faxing phoning and e-mailing stroppy agents - to drive us about.
On the Saturday - 16th that was - we all piled into the van at tea time to make the short trip over to Otley, wherein the firm were engaged to play at the annual Folk Festival. Otley is one of those events that takes place in a number of venues around the town. We were due to take place in two of them - the band were on last at The Black Horse, while TDL was due to do a solo spot at 8.30 in the Civic Centre. Golly Gosh.
Soundchecking was painless, then TDL and senior staff repaired to the CC for the first show. This had been advertised as Blyth Power too, so a sentry was posted outside to warn unwary punters that the tenner they were about to part with would not get them to see the band, and that if such was their desire, they should repair unto the Black Horse, wherein a suitable helping of PUNK ROCK would be inflicted on them from 22.30 hours onwards.
In the meantime TDL did his usual collection of 'Private Eye set to music' numbers, and was joined onstage by fellow Mad Dog Gary, who joined in with a couple of trio songs. Just as well as it happens as TDL broke a string and scuttled offstage to fix it. 'Hold the fort,' he said as he slipped behind the curtain.
'I only came to drive the van', Gary explained to the auditorium, before ripping into a cracking version of 'A Rich Seam,' which coped perfectly well without an atonal second guitar droning along.....
Later at the Black Horse the roof was duly removed. Party faithful and unsuspecting folk fans all had a jolly fine time, and we were particularly pleased when our old chum Yvette (she crooned on Paradise Razed) materialised and found herself roped into sing on Signalman White. It turns out she was in the area performing with The Roots Quartet - which isn't by the way, as there are only two of them, but that suffices. We turned up on her doorstep in Somerset the following week, but more of that anon...
Hull on the Sunday found us short of a support band, so Gary did a solo set, much to the surprise and approval of the chap in the corner wearing the oldest and most gnarled Whisky Priests T-shirt I've ever seen - even more wrecked than TDL's Timeless Street one, which has seen some duty. Gary also joined in on Stitching in Time at the end of the night, supplementing the customary Lou Reed intro with some picking, and generally capping off the weekend for us in appropriate style.
New to the set in Hull was the long-awaited return of Vane Tempest. House of Cards is back too, which means we now have 8 out of 12 up and running for the next CD.
Thanks again to Gary for bailing us out this weekend. Not only did he enable us to actually get to the venues, but he also pitched in all the way down the line. Cheers old chap.
Blyth 3 Lorry Drivers 0
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