Wednesday was drizzly and dull, the perfect night for pickpockets and n'er-do-wells and the perfect night to play an East London pub down an alleyway. Round the table sat various Nightingales and Ted, examining menus and waiting to sound check. Oddy, there was a slight Gentleman's Club air to the pub lounge: something to do with the wing chairs, perhaps. The hanging about before the gig bit was nice. I like talking to them. Luckily, the three bean salad had more than just three beans in it; there must have been around 50 in there, which was a good omen. The venue manager even conjured up a cup of tea in a beer glass. Now that's keeping the artist happy!
Downstairs through a warren of corridors with mysterious black doors, the sound engineer was setting up; in the box, the sound was good, the lights were snazzy and it looked like it would be a good night. Upstairs, it was filling up: Katy, Wilky, Andy, Jaime, Cheri, lots of people who like Peel-scented artists had come out to play, or rather to listen. I finished the chilled chips that the guys had kindly guarded, then went down to play.
You know, I had such a great time. On one side of the stage were Fliss, Cheri, Dolly, a little crowd of grrrls, and on the other was Katy, singing away at the top of her voice. It can sometimes be unnerving playing to a lot of people you know, but other times you just get swept away by the energy, and its massive fun. Thank you for being so supportive, audience!
Ted came on next, and actually made me yell with laughter at his description of the neighbour who is so scared of him that he wouldn't come out of his car after his shopping trip, and who phoned the police because the frozen food he'd bought was going to melt. And the slugs! Everyone has a slug story, but only Ted tells them on stage; nobody else values slugs enough. The little slug, patiently making it's way through the cat flap across the hostile carpet so that it can eat the cat food, that's everybody's kinda slug. Bless!
So, to The Nightingales. What a power-packed quartet. They just get better and better; their songs are the aural equivalent of rockets shooting across the stage from one person to the other, ricocheting from Robert to Andreas to Fliss to Jim. Robert rediscovers his lyrics anew every time he sings 'em; he raises his arm to each band member in turn, and fishes a Swanee whistle and a kazoo out of his pocket at just the right moments. Andreas and Jim fire riffs at each other at astonishing speed, and Fliss: what can I say about Fliss? She is just incredible, and she is quite possibly the best drummer in the UK: she is a proper musical drummer.
Fireworks! They had new songs, even a rockabilly one, and they actually stopped playing after one song: this is unheard of. The audience clapped after they had got over the shock.
Bang! The gig was over. Dazed, we went home.
Tonje and Peter were on the train home, and we shared stories of snails, of course.
I have taken the liberty of posting some of Peter (Tainsh's) photographs. The Nightingales moved too fast for my camera, although I did manage to take a pic of Fliss's cymbal!
Jim Smith; Fliss Kitson; Rob Lloyd; Andreas; me. All by Peter Tainsh
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