Episode Nine

Long Hard Summer I'm Working Through.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Let's go back and do The Boatrace in Cambridge for a really iffy door deal - after all, I know it's been three years or so, and the students are all on their hols, but what the heck. Students hate Blyth Power in anycase. Too much like hard work.
So it came to pass that we returned to sleepy Cambridge, and established just how hard it is to fit a five-piece band on a tiny stage when one of them is Jessi Adams. Jessi was with us for this first weekend in August, as there was a lull in the juggling trade, and all his Indian clubs were in for servicing. Rome Burns played with us, which was excellent, as they are V.fine, and in spite of the more modest attendance than last time, we had a jolly nice evening.

That night we made our way over to the lovely town of Reading, where ex-Maccabee and now Whisky Priest Mr. Stephen Cooper was putting up with us in his fine apartment on the Oxford Road. Sweet were our dreams, and sour were our farts as we slumbered.
Bambi and Gary, being insomniacs and parents respectively, were up with the lark. TDL and Jessi made the most of the opportunity to pay a visit to Reading station, and a bit of rehearsing was squeezed in as well. Thanks to Steve and Fiona who bravely put up with both the reek of foot and the shriek of guitars playing the chords A, D and E.

Who says Didcot isn't on the way to Southampton? The pressing need for band mugshots - and the ever-present urge to photograph trains - led us to the station car park at Didcot Hauptbahnhof, wherein the kids all lined up in front of a railway siding, and TDL set his camera up on a tripod and did a fairly convincing job of running round in front of it after firing the self-timer. Strange things went on behind his back, which later emerged on print. Dare we reveal all? The usual traction was present stabled next to the station, and all things considered we were well pleased with the afternoon's work.

Arrival at Southampton was greeted with the news that Atomic Kitten had shocked revellers in nearby Gosport by refusing to play at the festival. They were due to go onstage at about the same time as the PA turned up at The Talking Heads, wherein Blyth were to play that night (August 10th). One In the Eye played support, and Blyth went on afterwards and did their still five-pieced thing until curfew time, after which we retired to Romsey and caroused until dawn.

That was Jessi Adams' fault, as he is the original party animal. Jessi was heading off to the wilds of Brighton the next day, as Eastfield were playing a benefit concert for an anarchist centre. TDL wants to know why they can't just squat one, and goes on to point out that BRIGHTON, ANARCHIST and BENEFIT are three words you should never use in the same sentence if you want to keep his attention.
Blyth had a day off, which was spent driving to London, signing up with dynamic new agents Hemlock, and then retiring to Joy's luxurious accommodation in Sydenham for some serious R and R.

The sharp eyed among you will have deduced that the band played on the Thursday and Friday, and then took the Saturday off. This is because their previous besuited avaricious agent was a turd, and possessed of no business acumen whatsoever. The following day, the Sunday, they played with Miss Rachael Pantechnicon at The Verge in Kentish Town, sans Jessi, who was still benefiting the anarchists of Brighton. TDL is intrigued to know if there is anyway in which the anarchists of Brighton have ever managed to benefit the rest of mankind, as he wasn't aware they were concerned with much beyond the price of Special Brew, but that is because he is a churl.
Still, it was a four-piece Blyth that played The Verge that night, and a four-piece Blyth that thundered North afterwards, back to the frozen wastes of the lofty latitudes in which they do dwell.

Unless you have been very remiss, you will be aware of the events of the following weekend. It was of course the weekend of The Tallington Ashes, and is well documented elsewhere. The night before the Tallington date was passed at The Victoria in Derby, which is a righteous place. The day after was spent at a conservation festival in Epping which warrants closer scrutiny.

You know those dozy support acts who take 45 minutes to get on and offstage? There were lots of them. Blyth eventually got to play for 20 minutes or so at the end of the night. The act on before them was a weird Japanese cove who screamed and gibbered a lot in front of a projection screen, while some people meddled incompetently with woodwind mouthpieces. It was crap. Or was it? Some people claimed it was a brave and original approach to art. We might have been more sympathetic if he hadn't spent all of TDL's solo set erecting the projection gear in front of the stage in a most discourteous and obtrusive fashion. Still, he still did more of a show than Atomic Kitten. If only they had been in Brighton the previous weekend benefiting the anarchists.

Crikey! Where was Jessi the following weekend, when the band played Sheffield, Newcastle and York? Come to think of it, where was anyone in Newcastle, which we shall pretend never really happened.
Sheffield did, with Poke, who were extremely splendid. York suffered from a huge Glastonburyesque festival taking place in Leeds that weekend, to which even the bar staff from Fibbers had sloped off, so we'll just gloss over this weekend.

By the time we reconvened almost a month later in Swindon, Jessi had passed on to greater juggling experiences. Swindon was Gary's first gig as official only guitarist. TDL prefers to reminisce instead on the day he spent at the station, as it was more fun than the gig. He had 57601 for haulage and photographed lots of HSTs. Hurrah!

Next day we went North to Lincoln, which had changed date at short notice. Don't you hate it when that happens? It was, however, an auspicious occasion, as it was a joint celebration of the birthdays of celebrated railway photographer Mr G.M. Hill, and celebrated cricket cheat Mr. Chris From Bishop's Stortford. The evening is memorable for two reasons. One was the inaugural game of gaffer tape rolling, which held TDL and Bambi spellbound until Annie joined in and proved better than both of them. The other was the sheer amount of silly string that was sprayed onto the aforementioned bass player during the performance. Some of it had been intended for Jessi, but as he was no longer with us by then, it was not to be.
And there were pants. Huge droopy horrible baggy pairs of nylon pants were flying everywhere. Folk are so strange.

And so we came again to The New Roscoe in Leeds, wherein the gaffer rolling reached new heights. Those who came out on a Sunday were rewarded with a set of nearly two hours duration, which was intended to make up for all the years of 45 minuteish leftovers bequeathed by support bands at The Duchess over the years.
Here endeth Chapter Nine.

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