I was going to turn in with the current crappy detective novel, but a conversation with Lisa from The Flatmates reminded me that this blog is the closest thing that I have to a diary. My living room is cosy at the moment- there's a gale blowing into it from somewhere but I'm dressed for the Arctic so writing about the weekend wins over retiring to bed with a paperback.
Our gig in Falmouth was cancelled due to the promoter being ill- but I'd already bought a train ticket and the rail strike on Saturday was due to go ahead, so I decided to travel to the west country a day earlier and just wait for the Dartington gig. I was lucky enough to find a cheap night at Dartington Hall, and didn't realise till I got there how fortunate that was. It's a huge complex of art studios, accommodation, a café and even a pub, centred around the huge mediaeval hall where classical music concerts are held. There are conference rooms too, and lovely gardens and a riverside walk with deer. I managed the lovely gardens, which at this time of year were a sensory delight of autumnal smells and decaying vegetation, with rather an unfortunate soundtrack of braying women who seemed to have been imported wholesale from the posher parts of London. Most of the time they were avoidable, but it's odd how many people think that everybody wants to hear what they have to say. I slipped down some stone stairs under a tree, and soon I could only hear faint hoots in the distance.
It's such an odd place: the furniture is comfortingly shabby but it's all just been repainted in very smart colours. The lock whizzed out of the toiled door and clattered on the floor, and there was no hairdryer and no TV, but very posh toiletries. There's a cinema, which more than makes up for the lack of TVs. I watched The Banshees of Incherin, which was an entirely appropriate film for the setting, before heading back to my room and having a solo rehearsal for the following night. I'd describe it as a retreat. I don't think I've ever had such a nice breakfast. There were even roasted potatoes.
I checked out and walked into Totnes under faint drizzle which became heavier as the day drew on and eventually soaked me to the skin without me realising it. Totnes has to have the best charity shops of any town ever. I could have filled an articulated lorry and driven it home, but I restrained myself to a jacket and a t-shirt, and went for a slap up lunch of pie, cabbage and chips. I spent the afternoon trying to get dry in the Dartington Hall café, before being picked up by the very swanky tour bus that Rocker had hired for The Flatmates tour.
It was so nice to see them again! We drove to Dartington, not far, and set up in The New Lion Brewery. It's one of those venues that reminds me of being young- there's a definite Youth Club feel to it. I played first, and struggled with the chills of being so wet. I was thankful to the audience for being so supportive and singing The Sea with me for Noel, my foster Cousin Ted's husband, who died of dementia earlier this year. I think at the end of the gig we all realised we sounded better out front than we did on stage.
The Phil Wilson Combo includes members of The June Brides, who certainly haven't lost the ability to write good songs. They were a well-rehearsed trio and were the perfect jam in the sandwich between my set and The Flatmates.
As always, The Flatmates pulled it out of the bag. Lisa and Matt are energy bombs, and flanked by Rocker on keyboards and Martin on guitar and driven by Jamie on drums, the upped the positive vibes and played a storming set of short and sweet songs.
Afterwards there was a bit of time to chat to people. A woman in the audience told me that she works with refugees and I was glad to have sung the song. I'd almost put it away in the cupboard for later, but the horrible toxicity of the refugee debate in the UK at the moment means that it hasn't lost its meaning. And who would have thought So Long, Elon would revive itself? Elon Musk is the awful gift that keeps on giving. Oh deary me.
We stayed in a beautiful old house that appeared to have thousands of rooms. At last I could dry out. My fingers during the gig when I was playing had felt like metal skewers that wouldn't bend, and I resolved to have warm hands at all costs the next day.
So off we drove to Oxford with a short stop on the way. We talked about horses, donkeys and guitars: just normal band talk, really. The venue, Port Mahon, transformed itself as the afternoon progressed to evening and the promoter Aidan turned up with tubs of chilli and rice. The sound engineer Beth was lovely and had a simple mixing desk; the night before had been rather challenging to mix, I think.
The first on was Emma Hunter, who creates soundscapes with looped vocals, guitar and drums. Her music is dramatic and atmospheric and was a perfect start to the evening. Next up was Moogieman and the Masochists, who even with a missing member had a rally intriguing sound driven by vintage synths, sax, bass and guitar, plus almost sprachgesang vocals. I really loved their stuff.
For some (very nice) reason, a small and enthusiastic clutch of Chefs fans turned up independently at this gig. They didn't know each other and only said hello just before I went on, but I was charmed by this and because I'd kept my fingers warm (gloves and double jumpers), this was a much more fluid gig to play and I felt really at home on the stage and in the room, which always feels good.
Bang! The Flatmates were off again! Immediately the energy levels in the room rose, the beer slopped on the floor and they launched into their set.
I only saw three songs because I had to leave to catch the bus back to London, which luckily left from just outside the venue. I could still hear them while I was waiting, and I sent them good vibes from the bus stop for the rest of their tour.
So four buses later (one homeless man wanting money, one young guitarist wanting to chat music, one small Romanian gang at the bus stop trying to cadge cigarettes), I was back home in my bed. Big luv to the bus driver who let me travel back from Oxford despite the fact that I hadn't paid enough for my ticket.
My Doctor Martins were still a bit wet, but they didn't win: I did, because a potentially challenging weekend turned put to be a great one. Long live live music! We play for you, we love it, you come to see us play and we hope you love it too. Thanks to Rocker and the gang for a lot of fun and goodwill!
