Episode Twenty One

Goodbye to the rose and to the taverns then farewell
And HVC and Kenning go to hell

January 10th 2003 will remain enshrined in our hearts for a long time, as it was the day we said farewell to the horrors of van hire - for a few months at least. Goodbye then, we said, to the sleek fleet-footed transits of HVC, to the surly incompetence of that place in the town centre whose name eludes me (Budget – Ed), and to the broken-winded screws of Kenning Van Hire, whose Peugeot wheelbarrows so frequently failed to make it up steep hills without groans of protest.
Groans of protest were still heard from TDL, however, on this auspicious occasion, as the ridiculous distance involved meant the Harrogate contingent had to be up at dawn to plod the length of the country. Once again it was a one-off on the South Coast with an unsympathetic deadline to have the hire van back the following day. Damn their eyes.
Still, it was with a light heart, in the end, that he fell asleep and snored all the way to Kettering, where a successful rendezvous with the chaps was completed. There is nothing else of significance to say about this trip, except that it was extremely long, and took Blyth Power to Talking Heads in Southampton and back, by the end of which Annie was ready for bed.
Not strictly a Blythwatch event, but worthy of note as it introduces the fine grey vehicle in which the band currently travels, is the weekend of Saturday 18th, when Mr. Porter had a one-off solo event in Canterbury, which isn't quite as far as Southampton, but provided an opportunity for Annie and Joseph to meet in London Town and collect the machine.

This involved a fair old bit of gallivanting round in buses (boo!) and trains (hurrah!) but wound up with the northern twosome dining with Lady Rutland and company on the Sunday. Here's the deal: suddenly finding herself with a spare Transit van on her hands until the end of November, Her Ladyship phoned up and asked if we could make use of it. "Rather," was the response. So now it is taxed, insured, and accoutered from the tip of the lovely orange flashing light on the roof, to the elegant grey curve of its supple wheel arches. It is an ex-BT machine of tender years, and will be our constant companion until the end of November.
The recording angel would like to take this opportunity to thank Her Ladyship and all her kin for this rather extravagant munificence. No longer will we have to race the clock from Devon or Hampshire back to North Yorkshire on a Saturday night in order to return one of HVC's contraptions. Now, all of a sudden, there is all the time in the world to dawdle and go trainspotting on the way back.
The grey wonder cruised back to Harrogate on a thimbleful of diesel, and the transport department began to plot and plan the next move...

Which was, of course, to Sheffield on February 2nd, wherein the band had been invited to support Mr John Otway and his Big Band at the Boardwalk.
This was a double treat for our chums, as not only did they get to see the big band in action, always a bonus, but they also got to lie in bed watching Hollyoaks all day, as no one had to get up and collect a hire van. Oh how painlessly simple it was to draw the grey wonder up to the front of the house and fill it with the shabby boxes that constitute the band's back line.

Sheffield was reached in good time, and the Southern contingent appeared shortly afterwards. Following the most painless soundcheck in decades, we were feted with spaghetti bolognaise and played in the armchair comfort of the boardwalk's sound system. Blyth rocked. Otway and co. rocked, and even some dour young men from Sheffield were seen to oscillate a toe or two in time to the beat.
Phase two in the great van ownership scheme kicked off on the evening of Wednesday 5th. Joseph and Annie made a heroic dash to Norwich - a positioning move that enabled the van to go into BREL Norton-Sub-Course for re-fitting. Which is to say the addition of a fine row of seats in the back to conform to all kinds of tedious legislation, and pander to the comfort of those idle members of the band who do not possess driving licenses.

This seat-fitting was accomplished with the aid of Mr Gary Snowdon, whose intimate knowledge of the Norfolk scrap yard scene, combined with some shrewd bargaining allowed us to get away with a three seat bench, with integral seatbelts for little more than the price of a 1/48th scale Tamiya Swordfish. That he then, assisted by Steven, in installing the things was an act of charity that will merit continued liquid repayment for the foreseeable future.

Thus was Thursday profitably spent in the wilds of Norfolk. TDL was happy as he got to watch Discovery Wings all night while the others went down the pub and celebrated.

Friday dawned. It was inevitable really. Surprisingly - for a day on which the band had to go to Matlock Bath - it was sunny and bright. This was all well and good for the morning, as TDL hi-jacked the van to go to Hannants warehouse in Oulton Broad. Thereafter the van sped westwards to the usual rendezvous in Ketters, from whence the chaps were able to sample the delights of the newly fixed seating for the first time. Present among their number was Mr Porter's train-driving brother, Jeremy, who had opted to leave his sprinters behind for the weekend to come and catch his death in a draughty transit. From the crumple-zone of a 153 set to our fine new coach seats. Brother Jeremy knows how to live it up.
If anyone (apart from us) actually does any promotion for gigs at the Fishpond in Matlock Bath, then it is certainly not in this country. Possibly not even on this planet. Sage heads had warned us in advance but eager to avoid the misery of meeting up for a one-off, the besuited avaricious agent had booked it in for a modest guarantee. This was supplemented on arrival by a couple of baskets of chips which the canny Porter made sure we weren't going to be charged for later. You can never be sure at English venues...

Now, we know from distant past experience that people can be induced to come to this venue. On this occasion, alas, it was only a raid by the local beadles on the nightclub over the road that found the ground floor of the fishpond, and the street outside, swarming with under-dressed young ladies and surly teenaged gentlemen. Mr Porter was most impressed to find that the adjacent newsagent stocked a limited supply of Airfix kits, but beyond that no one was impressed with Matlock Bath at all on the night. Thanks to Aston, mind you, for the Escape from Colditz board game, which has proved nothing more nor less than a hoot.

And lo the six-seater grey beast hauled us back to stay with chums in an adjacent burg, from whence we set forth early next afternoon to allow the trainspotting contingent of the band to take a wander round the premises of the Peak Forest Railway, where Jeremy and Joseph encountered a couple of old friends from their days of bunking round Old Oak Common. The intrepid spotters happened upon an 03. "Can you identify this shunter for me?" asked The Dear Leader.
"That's 03119," he was informed by a man in overalls. "Would you like to make a donation to the cost of getting it up here?"
"Certainly," our hero lied, scuttling off towards the exit behind rows of wagons, the loose change jingling in his laden pockets.

Then it was on to the Musician in Leicester, which is one of the more pleasant venues to wind up at.

A support set was provided by Mr Wob Williams, whom some of you will know, and the whole event was perfectly splendid. Even Jessi Adams was there which was an ace laugh, as wherever he goes, there follows the epicentre of fun.

Episode Twenty Two

Where Blyth in transit grey
In northern towns make merry holiday

As if being given a van wasn't enough, the Old Man still awoke on the morning of Feb 21st expecting birthday presents. He certainly had no business doing so. It's not like being 41 is any kind of personal achievement. Lord knows it only happened to him by accident, so the Gods wisely chose instead of showering him with gifts and benedictions, to send him to Blackburn instead.
The North Bar in Blackburn saw the return of Blyth Power to that Northern fastness after an absence of some years. Support was provided by local chaps Pike, who turned out not only to be good eggs, but also a good band as well - and they knew what they were doing which, you will see, as this narrative unfolds, is not always the case.
Oh the delights of a short journey back to base camp after the show. Oh the delights of not having to get up the next day, as we only had to travel as far as Hull, and oh the delights of rehearsing in the early afternoon for the impending Castle Cary re-recording, during which TDL found himself singing Knights on Malta for the first time since it was originally recorded.
If Blackburn had been a pleasure and a jolly lark, then Hull should have been an exercise in ease and leisure, being as how the venue was spacious, airy, pleasant, and free to get in. Moriarty’s it was called, in Baker Street, and represented a change from the traditional surroundings of the Adelphi. It should have been easy. Unfortunately there was the support band.

Ever get that sinking feeling when you know you are about to deal with people whom you would rather let alone? First indications of impending doom came when one of the band - whom we here re-christen Ten Resounding Farts in order to preserve their anonymity - phoned up to ask about sharing back-line equipment. "Are you signed?" the fool asked.
Now, back in the dark days, when we used to audition incoming band members, this was one of the questions we were frequently asked by young hopefuls seeking a career in rock. The other was "Do you have a deal?" None of these people received a hearing, and TDL was frequently moved to soliloquy at their naivety. Still, one has to assume that youth and inexperience can be overcome in a live situation by a bit of common sense and co-operation. Not so. Blyth was soundchecked and reclining with coffee by half past six. Ten Resounding Farts were only finally assembled in one place at about twenty to nine. Then we had to soundcheck them through the fabulous Blyth/Forrester PA gear. "Does that mic stand bend down?" one of TRF asked our glorious leader, as he crawled among the ever growing pile of drums adorning the small stage with reefs of cable in his hands.
"Yes," he replied patiently. "It's what is known as a boom stand. That piece there adjusts through a horizontal axis, and can be moved into a bewildering variety of different positions simply by pivoting it here, and securing it with this conspicuous lever here. Similarly, by twisting here, vertical adjustments can be made thanks to the clever telescopic design of the prototype. This clip here, which holds the microphone, can also be pivoted through a wide arc."
"Can you turn up my guitar?" asked the guitarist.
"I can," replied Porter
"Can you turn up my guitar?" asked the guitarist.
"I am," Porter assured him.
"Can you turn up my guitar?" asked the guitarist."
"I have," Porter pointed out. "Three times."
"Can you turn up my guitar?" asked the guitarist."
"Nothing would be simpler." Porter edged the knob a fraction further in a clockwise direction.
"Can you turn up my guitar?" asked the guitarist.
Eventually the guitarist was satisfied with being sufficiently too loud, and the band were able to continue with their set. Give or take the odd trip by Mr P. onto the stage to turn up the guitar, all went well until the other guitarist broke a string.
"Can I borrow your acoustic," he asked. "I don't have any spare strings with me." Benevolently Steven loaned him the box, at which point the complexity of the strap baffled him so much that he was obliged to finish the set sitting down. This was not helped by his discovery that the other mic stands also bent down, thus enabling him to direct one straight into one of those areas of space that exist in the ether, in the vicinity of monitors and the like, that causes maximum feedback.
"Stand up," we advised him. "Then the mic won't feed back." But it was not to be. TRF finished their set amidst groans of feedback, and the even louder groans of Blyth Power, who lost no time in getting on stage as quickly as possible when the debacle ended. Now, we are not uncharitable, and might have be prepared to accept TRFs inexpertise as simple inexperience had one of them not said, in slightly hurt tones, "I don't think your PA is quite up to a band like us."
How no one was punched is a miracle.

By comparison, the Sunday night in Ashton Under Lyne was a relaxed and pleasant interlude. Te were two excellent support bands, neither of whom fannied about. Everything ran on schedule - except the Hoegaartenn, which I’m informed ran out early – and the weekend was finished on a pleasant note thanks to the immense competence of the engineer, and the quality of the venue's sound system.
We don't mean to be unkind to TRF, but they did take the piss. Getting to the venue in time to soundcheck is a good idea, and not slagging off equipment that you are borrowing is common courtesy, especially when any troubles you have with it are due to your own shortcomings. Here endeth the lesson.
It was not a long week. The chaps went home on Sunday after the gig, and were back up on the following Thursday for the band's first foray into Scunthorpe for what seems like a age. Tanks to Darren for sorting he event, at the Crosby Hotel. Imagine our surprise when we realised we had played there before after all. Old acquaintances turned up to reminisce about Hessian underpants, and in spite of it being a cold grim day, we managed to have fun in the industrial garden town. I seem to remember the band having hysterics all the way home over some complicated folk-song in-joke involving words ending in a gratuitous 'O', but I didn't quite get what it was all about, and was obliged to nod my head and grin as if I understood.
The date at Newcastle’s Tut 'n' Shive on the Friday was memorable only for the quality of the chip shop we discovered afterwards, which seemed to be freely advertising drugs for sale behind the counter. Thanks to those who penetrated the veil of secrecy surrounding this one, and congratulations to the venue on failing to put any of the posters up at all.
Saturday found the band back in Lincoln, where a succession of support bands had pulled out, only to be replaced at the last by the magnificent Doncaster duo The Squirrel Hunters, who did that thing of being funny without being simply annoying, an accomplishment so far exclusive to Eastfield in our experience, who manage to balance things quite nicely. Even though Jessi does have a stupendously large nose.
Nothing really happened in Lincoln that hadn't happened before, and likewise The New Roscoe in Leeds the following day, although the atmosphere at this Sunday night hotspot was not unlike a morgue....
Thus we retired to bed, and Mr Porter took up his axe and began to prepare for his spring tour. See you in April.