Episode 10

The Night of One Thousand Cancellations.

And lo! It came to pass in the inauspicious month of November that Blyth Power had more cancellations than Arriva Trains. It was not a good month for the firm, but we regard the miserable catalogue of incompetence and downright dishonesty on the part of those venues concerned as a fitting tribute to the month as a whole, which will not shine out in our memories as the greatest in a long and distinguished career. Here's how it all happened.

The first gig if the month should have been on Thursday 1st, at The Rock Garden in Easington. Imagine our surprise a couple of weeks beforehand when the promoter rang us up to tell us the gig was cancelled as the venue had been losing their shirts on Thursdays and weren't prepared to put up the guarantee. Embarrassingly enough this phone call came just before TDL was about to depart for the same venue in his capacity as drummer for The Whisky Priests. We are informed that some strained interviews took place on this occasion, during which said promoter vowed he would arrange a new venue for the same date. Needless to say he spoke with forked tongue. Any people wishing to send turdles through the post to the venue are advised that it is probably illegal and we couldn't possibly condone such action.

Likewise The Market Tavern in Birmingham, which septic scumhole blew us out a week before the long-standing November 2nd date, as they'd had a lucrative offer from a private party. Their general line of apology was something akin to 'tough shit,' and we only found out about the cancellation in the first place because we rang to check the details the week before. Henceforth Blyth Power will choke on Jessi's old knickers before they set foot in the place. Thanks to all those bands who have boycotted the dump on our behalf since.

This meant that the first gig that actually did happen in November was on Saturday 3rd in Bristol at The White Horse, which was now a one-off thanks to the aforementioned stitch-up. Fortunately the International Plastic Modellers Society annual global exhibition was taking place that weekend, so it was with light hearts and eager anticipation that the Northern based contingent set off on the Friday evening for Shrewsbury, wherein we were to liase with Bambi and spend the night in gay carousel at his former residence. The entourage departed Harrogate that evening in the thirstiest white Mercedes van in the world, and TDL and Bambi were obliged to take horse tranquillisers to calm their excitement for the following day's main event.

What do you mean you don't want to hear about the IPMS show? Oh very well then. Suffice it to say that they went and wallowed in plastic, while Annie and Gary had a look at the sights of Telford, which are very few, and which were positively outshone by the dismembered rat we discovered next to the van in the station car park.

While on the subject of cancellations, the Bristol date only happened by the skin of its teeth thanks to Mr Henry Lawrence who found a venue for us after The Folkhouse eventually got round to telling us that they were closed for rewiring. Thanks for the prompt information guys. Much appreciated. Henry, at very short notice had arranged for Blyth to play at The White Horse with Attila the Stockbroker. The event was a huge success, and everyone was happy, especially Bambi who met a man in the bar who was married to a mop. No word of a lie.

Next up was a return visit to Boston, wherein lies that den of juvenile misdemeanour known as The Axe & Cleaver. Special thanks to Bambi for going ahead with this one when his mother had died the night before. We're not going to make any stupid jokes about this particular day, but all respect to him for doing it. We don't believe in all that rot about how 'the show must go on' because under the circumstances it needn't have, but he did it anyway. Cheers mate.
Actually there was one joke on the night. The thirsty Mercedes chose to conk out in the street outside, and we were obliged to call out the AA to relay it back to Harrogate. It was functional, but only without lights - don't ask me why. Highlight of the journey home was Bambi's outrageous claim that 'Alvin Stardust lives round here'. This he informed the patient and professional AA man while traversing a pitch-black tract of countryside that could have been anywhere. You probably had to be there to get the joke…

Saturday dawned. Gary drove the ailing Mercedes back to York, while Annie hired a van from the trusty Harrogate Van Company, which barely sipped at the tank of diesel we fed it on the way to Sunderland and back. The gig at The Ropery was interesting - partially for the varied audience, most of whom had never encountered a Blyth set before, and partially for the onstage antics of Mr Miller in the second set, who seemed to have sipped some kind of potion that had turned him into Jessi Adams.

The best cancellation of all, however, was at The Earlsden Cottage in Coventry the following week. Heading south in the repaired Mercedes, whose thirst had not diminished, we received a phone call from someone who had called the venue to check we were playing, only to be told that Doctor Socrates were on instead. 'No,' quoth TDL, 'I called them only last week, we sent posters and everything. Our new agents have spoken to them as well to discuss a re-booking. There must be some mistake. I'll call the venue and check, then I'll ring you back.'
And so he did. The venue apologised and said that whoever had been spreading the Doctor Socrates information was in error, and must have consulted an out of date diary. TDL called the original informant and explained that all was well. Thus we proceeded.
Imagine our surprise on arrival to find that Doctor Socrates were indeed expected, and that no one would admit to having any clue about the Blyth date - even though we had called the week before to check that it was OK for General Winter to play too. Frantic phone calls ensued, but not enough, as it was impossible to inform everyone who was planning on coming. Extreme apologies to all who turned up on the night, and if you have any turds left over from the Rock Garden and The Market Tavern, then we couldn't possibly condone your sending them to Coventry. Sorry West Midlands. Bowled out again, but we will return…
Not having anything better to do, we opted for a drive down to London to stay with our good friend Joy in Sydenham, in order to be in position for the following day's gig in Rochester. The thirsty Merc was in fine fettle, and spent the two hours idling in rush hour traffic south of Coventry planning its revenge on us for the following day.

Staying in Sydenham is always a pleasure, and with such a short journey for the Saturday night we were able to spend the day in idle pursuits, and to take the opportunity to knock some of the songs into shape for the new CD. Climbing into the van around teatime, we discovered that the windscreen wipers weren't working. 'Let's hope it doesn't rain,' we said. 'We'll have all day to get the AA out to fix it tomorrow.'
It rained. We pulled off the motorway into the Blue Waters Shopping Centre and spent an hour waiting for the AA man, who fortunately fixed it pretty quickly. If we inform you that the high spot of the day from that point on was the hour we spent listening to tunes from the adjacent merry-go-round, then you will understand why we are reluctant to say much more about the evening's gig. Rochester 1, Blyth 0.
Chaos and disaster enough for you? We are pleased to report that the following day's low-key appearance at The Finnegan's Wake in Hammersmith was enough fun to almost make up for the rest of the weekend from Hell. The van behaved, the staff at the pub were pleasant and helpful, and enough people made it out on a Sunday to make what was to be Gary's last performance an enjoyable night out. TDL was particularly pleased with the aviation-orientated Christmas present. Hurrah!

So it was that we made the long haul back to Yorkshire, little realising that Gary would not be in the van next year, but adamant that we were not going to invite the white Mercedes along again. The confounded machine drinks more than all the ex-Whisky Priests put together. It has been picking up some bad habits abroad.

Chapter Eleven

New Year New van New guitarist New Rabies for Old.

So much happened in the two months that were to elapse before the next Blyth outing. Mad Dogs went to Holland, Whisky Priests went to a number of places, Christmas intervened, and with January a whole host of administrative incompatibilities beset the Downwarde Spiral - Whippet alliance, with the result that TDL was forced to conclude he could no longer commit himself to the Mad Dogs project, and Gary decided he couldn't commit himself to Blyth Power. Thus it was that in a fairly dark hour before dawn we finally managed to get our mitts on Mr Steven Cooper, upon whose musical skills and all round excellence as a performer the Blyth recruitment office had long been casting covetous eyes.

Regular recipients of our bulletins will be aware of how far back we go with Steven. With barely six weeks to go before the new CD recording, and scarcely two before the next live commitment, he accepted the pile of CDs and badly scrawled notes and settled down to work with an equanimity and confidence that is a testimony either to his dedication, or to the incredible simplicity of TDL's songwriting. We'll let you decide.

We were all pretty impressed when we got together a week or so later to run through some stuff for February. He seemed to know the material a lot better than the band's drummer, who has grown complacent and cocksure, and had better pull his socks up (those red black and yellow ones) or he'll be out on his ear.

Enter the new era, then, and a first weekend of 2002 in which problems raised their heads as usual, but this time were met head on and overcome.
No longer in the company of the white diesel-drinking machine, TDL and Annie set off for London Town in one of HVC's finest transit vans. These nifty little machines, although lacking the facilities of dedicated band-touring machines have the advantage of practically running on a thimbleful of fuel, and can be handed back at the end of the weekend, which in this instant proved a blessing, as the exhaust pipe snapped during the course of our travels, although more of that anon.
Pausing at Kettering to pick up Bambi, the journey passed pleasantly and uneventfully until somewhere near Huntingdon we received a phone call from Hemlock - the current be-suited avaricious agents - telling us that the promoter in Bridport was having a domestic crisis and wanted to pull the gig on Sunday 3rd. What did we want him to do?

We hate cancelling shows, and never do so given the choice, so we asked him to salvage what he could. Ten minutes later he called back to confirm that another local gentleman had agreed to take the thing on, and to provide a PA for a paltry 10% of the door. Thus catastrophe was averted and we proceeded on to London, where Steven and Fiona were awaiting us at The Hope & Anchor, having driven down from Norwich in a stately Ford Orion. Hurrah!

If we ever return to The Hope & Anchor, then we deserve everything we get. Apologies to everyone who had to put up with the lousy sound, but at least you managed to get in. The gig sold out fairly early on, so even more apologies to those who were turned away at the door. We'll get back to a bigger venue next time, honest. The overzealousness of the bouncer was unwelcome too, and all things considered, what should have been a great night for Steven to make his first appearance was only saved by the warmth and enthusiasm of all those who did get in. It was no thanks to the venue that the atmosphere was great and most people seemed to have a good time.

One major problem was the PA, which was so devoid of leads and DI boxes, that not only could we not have more than two people singing, but we couldn't use the acoustic guitar either, so at least a third of the songs Steven had learned had to be left out. Well done to him for going ahead with songs he'd only barely heard. Strawberries and Castle Cary, and the electric version of Bacchus were drafted in to fill out the set. If anyone can tell us who thought it was a good idea for what little there was of the PA to be sat on the floor halfway down the room facing the stage, we would appreciate the opportunity to set them straight.
Still, we all survived the experience, and look forward to playing London again with Daddy Those Men Scare Me, who rocked utterly on the night despite the unpremeditated absence of their keyboard player. Back we rode to Sydenham to recover, and TDL disgraced himself at breakfast the following morning by eating a whole box of profiteroles unassisted. That's not vegan.

We had a convoy to Bristol, with two of Ford's finest rolling down the M4 in a cloud of soggy spray. Back to The White Horse where we were blessed with a decent PA and were at last able to hear what was happening onstage well enough to confirm that Steven not only can, but does and will continue to do so. Firing on all cylinders, the band played for over an hour and a half, making sure that everything so far learned got a good hearing. At this rate we'll have the entire back catalogue up and running by the next cricket match.

Sadly the man with the mop had passed on, but we were pleased to note that the horrible weather didn't dissuade people from coming down, and we had a splendid time in the bosom of that city known chiefly for its proximity to Jessi Adams' birthplace. We were also pleased to note the posters he had defaced when Eastfield played The White Horse last. You wait 'til we next get him to tour with us as a solo support. Ooh how we'll heckle.

On the way back to the Porter family seat near Warminster (Castle Cary has long since been abandoned) Annie was obliged to pull over when the sound of the engine trebled in intensity. Closer inspection revealed the total separation of the exhaust pipe forward of the silencer, due to heavy corrosion. Fortunately nothing was falling off, so the van was able to proceed, albeit somewhat louder than before.

Highlight of the following morning was when TDL's brother Jeremy called to say he was operating a train between Bristol and Salisbury, which was about to pass along the visible horizon. We all waved hankies and cheered his passing. Brother Jeremy is following in the family tradition of driving trains, and anyone recognising the family chin on a Wales and South West service - where he has been clipping tickets for the last six months, pending acceptance to a driver's course - are invited to say hello.

And so on to Bridport. You might think that the opportunity of cancelling a date in Bridport on a wet Sunday night with no guaranteed fee would have been welcomed, but we are made of sterner stuff. We cannot thank the people involved enough for salvaging what would have been a pointless blown out evening. Michael at Hemlock had the problem sorted within half an hour of its arising, and Richard and the good people who came along to assist him on the evening, pulled out all the stops. There were lights, there was a PA, the sound was excellent, people braved the elements, and there were enough microphones at last for Steven to join in with the singing, which is definitely a bonus, and something we look forward to concentrating on once we've got the next studio recording behind us. Not even the prospect of a drive back to Yorkshire, via Kettering, in a van that sounded like a faulty Wellington bomber could dampen the collective Blyth spirits.

Blyth Power is dead. Long live Blyth Power.

We can rebuild them. Better, faster, stronger, and more fuel-efficient. Here endeth chapter eleven.

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