Rhythm and Blues and Brown Bottles

An encounter with live music and hot sauce

Hello again,

I've always loved live music. It doesn't have to be anything grand or anyone famous. Put a three-piece band in the corner of a pub, and you'll find me near the front of the crowd, jiggling my shoulders and moving my feet, both, I might add, precisely in time to the music.

If there’s a musical bone in my body it's attuned to rhythm rather than the diatonic scale. I especially like to watch the drummer. They may be at the back, bashing away while the lead singer gets all the attention, but to me, the drummer is the key to the whole thing. Didn't some drummer once say, ‘Without me you're just busking?’

You may have gathered by now that I'm not going to look this quote up. I heard it somewhere, it fits, it's going in. We move on.

aside: I'm not entirely sure what the diatonic scale is, but I harbour the secret suspicion that along with the bizarre system of notation, these terms were invented to keep ordinary people out of the elite musical academies.

People talk about perfect pitch; I am endowed with the opposite. Imperfect pitch? I'll take it. We're all imperfect in some ways aren't we? So take that, music teacher who asked me at the age of 11 if I was tone deaf.

That was just rude, wasn’t it? And anyway, I really didn't want to play Three Blind Mice on the recorder, thank you very much. Who does?

Live bands come in all shapes sizes, and that variety is to be cherished. They're out there, giving it their all, performing their work, and how many of us can say the same?

When I publish a piece like this or put a book on sale, I know some will not enjoy it; that's the nature of the beast. But if a disgruntled reader hurls one of my books against the wall in disgust, I'm not there to see it.

A musician, on the other hand, will notice the indifference of an audience. They'll see and hear if people carry on a conversation during the performance, and if a few members of the audience walk out, that's got to be off-putting.

Mrs C and I recently attended a low-key music festival in the playground of Chudleigh, a small nearby town, the whole thing tucked away behind an attractive church.

By the way, that looks like one of my book covers, doesn’t it? It’s the path and the passing bird that make it.

The event was free—part of the town's summer celebrations—and there were a handful of food stalls and a bar. A family-friendly event, there were kids running about all over the place, some of them on scooters or small bikes. Families had brought picnic rugs or folding chairs, and there was a nice atmosphere.

Rain had been forecast, but it held off. The June evening was warm, and the playground felt like a small sanctuary where the business of daily life could be forgotten for a few hours.

We queued up at the Middle-Eastern food stall, and the queue moved very slowly, but no-one seemed to mind. In fact, contrary to my assertions in a previous piece (We might be friendly), the chap in front of us in the queue turned around to chat. He'd overheard us talking about vegetarian and vegan options, and he was a veggie himself, so he assured us we were in the right place. He was with a couple of other people, and we exchanged a few light-hearted remarks, none of which I can now remember.

Across the playground, a trio played and sang some old favourites, California Dreaming and that kind of thing, and some of us in the queue were singing quietly along—very, very quietly in my case so as not to offend any music lovers nearby.

When we arrived at the stall, we discovered the reason for the slow-moving queue. The cheerful crew of two had a range of accompaniments, any and all of which they could throw into a wrap or a carton, and they were offering everyone a choice. Cue indecision.

We opted for the falafel wraps, and while Mrs C eschewed the pickles, I went for a bit of everything from the salads and so on, along with salsa and sriracha.

When did sriracha become so ubiquitous? Was it always there, under my radar, or is it a new thing, a phase of popularity akin to the rocket effect?

aside: Rocket isn't quite so popular anymore, but I've taken to it. It grows like Topsy, even when you try to get rid of it, and it has that dark green hue that makes you think it must be packed with vitamins and minerals. Yes, it can be a bit fibrous, but that, too, is good for you, and anyway, you can always chop the stuff up small. Drizzle it with oil and vinegar, and it's excellent.

Back at the food stall, Mrs C asked for sweet chilli sauce, and the woman grabbed a bottle of lethal-looking brown stuff. In the ensuing confusion (a recurring theme in these pieces, I admit, but with good reason), the brown chilli sauce was dispensed, and it turned out to be hottest sauce known to science.

I exaggerate for effect, but it may as well have been that hot as far as Mrs C was concerned. There was no way she was going to enjoy it, but she’s far too nice to make a fuss. Fortunately, I'm partial to hot sauce, so we swapped, and the balance of the universe was restored.

We plonked our picnic rug on the grass and waited for the next band. This turned out to be a mildly eccentric middle-aged duo, one armed with a tambourine, the other sporting a glossy blue electric guitar. Their performance was a triumph of optimism over ability, but they did their best, despite the guitarist occasionally going into a song before the singer was ready. They abandoned several songs after a few bars, though we weren't sure if this was pre-planned or they'd simply decided the songs were going off the rails and ought to be brought to a halt before disaster struck.

They played rock and roll, old and new, all of it at the same hectic tempo and in the same rhythm. After a while, it was hard to tell one song from another. The audience were mildly bemused, and I think the same went for the duo, but that was okay.

Later, we moved into the marquis where a six-piece band were getting ready. Their name was Narramore, and these folks meant business. They had lights, a banner, and a chap on a mixing desk. Our hopes rose, and I'm pleased to say the band were excellent. They gave us highly polished performances of various pop songs, and all went well.

Until they got to Sweet Child of Mine. Sorry, fans of whoever it was, but it's not one of my favourites, and I have made my feelings known. That very morning, the song had been on the radio, and I'd banged on about it. Mrs C is a fan of the song though, so when that distinctive guitar intro began, we laughed. This was karma, my pettish grumbling coming back to bite me, so I listened with good grace.

Here are a couple of snaps I took and edited on my phone and on the fly.

Incidentally, I recently found out that the original band weren't keen on the song. They liked to play rock rather than ballads, and they didn't have a full set of lyrics, but they recorded it anyway, filling in with a long guitar solo. But still, the thing wasn't long enough, so the singer improvised, making his feelings clear by singing, ‘Where do we go?’ over and over.

I believe something similar happened during the recording of Sitting on the Dock of the Bay. Just whistle and we'll fix it up later, they decided.

This is the sort of thing you pick up if you listen to a show on BBC Radio 4 called Add to Playlist. A panel of experts link disparate pieces of music by slender threads, their explanations partly baffling and partly enlightening.

They throw musical jargon into the air like confetti, but they generally have the decency to explain and demonstrate what they mean. I might not understand all of it, but I can catch odd glimpses of meaning in their talk of keys and time signatures and… well, there are other musical terms, but they've passed me by.

And all this brings me back to the start. I may not fully understand the intricacies of music at an intellectual level, but I know a good performance when I hear one.

Especially if there's a drummer.

*

I hope that piece diverted you for a while.

Bookishness

In case you missed it, the new edition of A Study in Stone is out in the world. Thanks to everyone who has already bought a copy.

Here’s a handy link:

books.michaelcampling.com/8wfany3rhq

I’d better dash off. I’m scheduling this post as I’ll be at our son’s wedding this weekend. This makes me feel very happy and also very old, but I’m sure it will be a joyous occasion.

I hope you have a great weekend, Look after each other and take care,

Mikey