Rochester Rams Micro Brewery

Almost three weeks ago I picked up a nasty bug when I went to have a biopsy in a local hospital. I have been on Planet Weirdo for what seems like a very long time, too exhausted even to go out for a walk. But there was no way I was going to miss this lovely night in the bijou environs of the Ram's Microbrewery in Rochester.

Calm through every storm, Kevin has been promoting bands for a long time, both through the pandemic when his online Mr Unswitchable Saturday nights were a lifesaver, through the bi-monthly club Scaledown in London, and through various events in his native Rochester.

Rochester is a secret jewel in Kent's crown; it has a spectacular castle and bridge, a gorgeous view across the river, and a hearty normality to its citizens that is a breath of fresh air in these untrustworthy and facile times. It even has a seaside fox (or a riverside fox).

With assistance to carry my guitar, it really wasn't as daunting in reality as it had seemed in my addled imagination. The pre-gig bantz was superb: the smugness at the heart of Kevin's workplace, slugs, books, hymns, you name it, we talked about it.

Ruth cousin Sally turned up and we talked about lawn mowers and her friend and erstwhile Helen and the Horns fan Alan Bird-Book. And there was Robert and Judith too! What a lovely surprise!

Rachel Lowrie's set was sublime; she has a lovely, open personality and a voice to go with it. Apparently she sings in a folk band, and her voice has that assurance in it, but is also much more mellow and fresh than some of the harder-edged female folk voices. She sang of hills and the countryside and transported the audience to the places she sang about. Wonderful!

I'd decided that it was a Rickenbacker night (I needed the colour) and oddly, despite the health circumstances (and very cold fingers for the first few songs), felt very much at ease with the audience. They forgave me the most appalling onstage banter faux-pas, and for an encore I wheeled out Women of the World, which I've only just started singing regularly. How odd that the high notes were so easy to sing with a compromised system. 

Everyone under the age of 25 was out carousing in the High Street when we made our way back to the station, including some rather merry Spanish chaps, one of whom rummaged through the rubbish bin on the train platform looking for food. I should have given him the slimy quiche that I found in the bottom of my bag and forgot to eat earlier in the evening.

Anyway, I'm bloody glad that I got off the miserable sofa and did it. Charming venue, charming audience, lovely evening!