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NETWIFM= "Not Exactly The Week In Folk Music"
But we went out, anyway.
You see, a few weeks ago at the Tudor Barn, there was a band there with semi-regular Grahame Hood, called "Walking the Witch." I really liked this band name, and all the stuff they did in the singaround was great, so when I actually won a lottery prize for the first time evah, I grabbed their CD right quick. It's a 5-song CD with a mix of blues, folky rock, and it's got to be really difficult to classify. I think there's some very good stuff there.
Anyway, these guys were really good, a tight band that looked like they'd been playing together for awhile, and their singer, Bob, has that admirable ability to just sit there, look like he's not doing anything special, and just turn the heads of everybody in the room. Don't get me wrong: he's not bad to look at, but it took me awhile to get used to the fact that that voice was coming out of fairly-innocuous-looking Bob (OK, Bob has gorgeous long greying blond hair and twinkly blue eyes, but I digress-- it's really the voice that makes you remember him).
So after I won that CD, Bob came over to our table and slipped me a secret decoder invitation to the Beacon Pub in Hayes Bromley for 24 November. "It's not exactly a folk club," he said. "It's kind of an open mic, but it's not really big, and we'd love you to come and have a spot there." So, OK, I put it in my calendar.
And then this was a stressful week. Sharps was great on Tuesday night, with a big American presence (several people visiting from the states), but I wanted to loosen up a little bit, and the Tudor Barn club got cancelled this week because the pub double-booked us. So, despite the fact that it was a stressful week and I was feeling really kind of low and grumpy-emotional, we decided to go on out.
I even left work before six o'clock, but last night's commute was a bear. All in all, I think I waited close to 50 minutes for buses. We grabbed a very quick dinner (which I counted as Thanksgiving Dinner because Chicken Kiev is stuffed) at home and hurried to miss our train and have to wait in the freezing cold for another, at which point I was really inclined to just give it up and not go. Everyone, give![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
filceolaire a big pat on the back, because he is the one who made me sit outside at New Cross, in the freezing cold (and I do mean freezing: I am not a cold wimp) for half an hour to wait on the next train to Hayes. He is also the one who made me take the "easy walk" from the train station to the Beacon. Now, I am growing used to walking a lot in London, and it's been great for me. But for J, everything is "about 200 yards away," and this was just not. It was more like a mile. In the freezing cold. Did I mention it was freezing cold? Before we were there, I unkindly told J that the only way I could possibly be happy about the evening would be if I sold every single CD I'd brought.
Right, so we finally get to the Beacon, after 9:00, and we know we're going to have to get on a train back Londonwards at 10:59, so we know we're not going to stay all that long. But Grahame seemed happy to see us when we finally made it to the door, and Bob settled us at the big table in the back where the band had parked their coats. I removed layer after layer of clothing, got cider, and looked around the room.
Well, it was definitely a pub scene. People talking loudly, people laughing loudly, guys with nice guitars singing and barely able to be heard above the din. Two performers went by-- actually it was amalgamations of Bob and Grahame and their friend and one bluesman who had the serious gravel in the voice thing going on and an over-the-top but listenable slide guitar style. I looked at J. I looked at the harp, warming itself on the little table. I took a big drink from the pint of cider. "Do you think," I mused, "that they invited me here as a joke?" I mean, pub, loud talking, rock bands and bluesmen, cigarette smoke, lots of people just kind of not seeming to pay attention to anybody.
"Nope," he replied. "I think they invited you here because they like you."
I shrugged. Whatever. Grahame came over and tried to tell me about some liner notes he'd done for some CDs, but it was so loud I had to mostly read his lips. The liner notes looked good, though; he has a good sense of music history and knows how to write so it makes you feel like he knows a little more than what he's putting into the bios, which gives him an easy style to follow.
"We've got a special treat for you later," the MC said. "We've got a young lady who's going to do something very unusua-- not what you're thinking, [name I can't remember]." Heads turned to the back of the room as I sat there thinking of nothing more than how much bigger I was than every other person in the room and how I was probably heading for a real Blues Brothers in the Honky Tonk kind of experience. Only it's England so of course it was too late to go anywhere and get enough chicken wire to protect me from disgruntled rock and blues fans who would like nothing more than to get the fat chick with the harp off the stage.
It took about an hour to get us thawed out, Bob reminded everyone that they'd be treated to a special guest again, Graham accused me of being an optimist when he saw I'd brought CDs to sell, and I was really beginning to wonder.
But, you know how these things go. Grahame and Bob led me in with a nice selection of songs with dulcimers. There was just a little three-chord-boogie break in the middle.
Somebody must have slipped me an on pill; that's all I have to say about last night. I did a three song set with a pullout instrumental (The South Wind, because Grahame had played it earlier and it was in my head), and I really think I had them from "hello." I played "Little Boy Blue," "Discovery," and "Like Their Feet Have Wings," and although it was a pub and nothing was completely quiet, people really were listening. I was catching actual eyes every time I looked up and around the room. This was a great audience! People shushed other people while I was telling the silly story I use to introduce the fairy song to people who might not have heard it before. The banter was good, I plugged CDs (only twice, I swear! Once at the beginning and once at the end.), and when I got done, I said, "Thank you," hopped down off the chair, and walked to the back of the pub to quite a lot of applause.
And-- I sold three CDs! *boggle*
I swear. I can't sell CDs to save my life at folk clubs where people are so quiet and respectful and outwardly thrilled with what I do-- but I can sell one of each (two band one solo) in a pub with guys who are playing rock standards and the ubiquitous only-Robert-Johnson-song-I-know-and-I-learned-it-off-a-KebMo-record, "Come on in My Kitchen."
Maybe I'm playing in the wrong places? Perhaps, instead of folk audiences who openly acknowledge the tradition behind what I'm singing, I should seek out bars full of tattooed ironworkers and taxi drivers?
But now it's time to head out to the House in Camden Town for work, so enough rumination about venues (and I suppose my own preconceptions about them). At least until later.
But we went out, anyway.
You see, a few weeks ago at the Tudor Barn, there was a band there with semi-regular Grahame Hood, called "Walking the Witch." I really liked this band name, and all the stuff they did in the singaround was great, so when I actually won a lottery prize for the first time evah, I grabbed their CD right quick. It's a 5-song CD with a mix of blues, folky rock, and it's got to be really difficult to classify. I think there's some very good stuff there.
Anyway, these guys were really good, a tight band that looked like they'd been playing together for awhile, and their singer, Bob, has that admirable ability to just sit there, look like he's not doing anything special, and just turn the heads of everybody in the room. Don't get me wrong: he's not bad to look at, but it took me awhile to get used to the fact that that voice was coming out of fairly-innocuous-looking Bob (OK, Bob has gorgeous long greying blond hair and twinkly blue eyes, but I digress-- it's really the voice that makes you remember him).
So after I won that CD, Bob came over to our table and slipped me a secret decoder invitation to the Beacon Pub in Hayes Bromley for 24 November. "It's not exactly a folk club," he said. "It's kind of an open mic, but it's not really big, and we'd love you to come and have a spot there." So, OK, I put it in my calendar.
And then this was a stressful week. Sharps was great on Tuesday night, with a big American presence (several people visiting from the states), but I wanted to loosen up a little bit, and the Tudor Barn club got cancelled this week because the pub double-booked us. So, despite the fact that it was a stressful week and I was feeling really kind of low and grumpy-emotional, we decided to go on out.
I even left work before six o'clock, but last night's commute was a bear. All in all, I think I waited close to 50 minutes for buses. We grabbed a very quick dinner (which I counted as Thanksgiving Dinner because Chicken Kiev is stuffed) at home and hurried to miss our train and have to wait in the freezing cold for another, at which point I was really inclined to just give it up and not go. Everyone, give
filceolaire a big pat on the back, because he is the one who made me sit outside at New Cross, in the freezing cold (and I do mean freezing: I am not a cold wimp) for half an hour to wait on the next train to Hayes. He is also the one who made me take the "easy walk" from the train station to the Beacon. Now, I am growing used to walking a lot in London, and it's been great for me. But for J, everything is "about 200 yards away," and this was just not. It was more like a mile. In the freezing cold. Did I mention it was freezing cold? Before we were there, I unkindly told J that the only way I could possibly be happy about the evening would be if I sold every single CD I'd brought.Right, so we finally get to the Beacon, after 9:00, and we know we're going to have to get on a train back Londonwards at 10:59, so we know we're not going to stay all that long. But Grahame seemed happy to see us when we finally made it to the door, and Bob settled us at the big table in the back where the band had parked their coats. I removed layer after layer of clothing, got cider, and looked around the room.
Well, it was definitely a pub scene. People talking loudly, people laughing loudly, guys with nice guitars singing and barely able to be heard above the din. Two performers went by-- actually it was amalgamations of Bob and Grahame and their friend and one bluesman who had the serious gravel in the voice thing going on and an over-the-top but listenable slide guitar style. I looked at J. I looked at the harp, warming itself on the little table. I took a big drink from the pint of cider. "Do you think," I mused, "that they invited me here as a joke?" I mean, pub, loud talking, rock bands and bluesmen, cigarette smoke, lots of people just kind of not seeming to pay attention to anybody.
"Nope," he replied. "I think they invited you here because they like you."
I shrugged. Whatever. Grahame came over and tried to tell me about some liner notes he'd done for some CDs, but it was so loud I had to mostly read his lips. The liner notes looked good, though; he has a good sense of music history and knows how to write so it makes you feel like he knows a little more than what he's putting into the bios, which gives him an easy style to follow.
"We've got a special treat for you later," the MC said. "We've got a young lady who's going to do something very unusua-- not what you're thinking, [name I can't remember]." Heads turned to the back of the room as I sat there thinking of nothing more than how much bigger I was than every other person in the room and how I was probably heading for a real Blues Brothers in the Honky Tonk kind of experience. Only it's England so of course it was too late to go anywhere and get enough chicken wire to protect me from disgruntled rock and blues fans who would like nothing more than to get the fat chick with the harp off the stage.
It took about an hour to get us thawed out, Bob reminded everyone that they'd be treated to a special guest again, Graham accused me of being an optimist when he saw I'd brought CDs to sell, and I was really beginning to wonder.
But, you know how these things go. Grahame and Bob led me in with a nice selection of songs with dulcimers. There was just a little three-chord-boogie break in the middle.
Somebody must have slipped me an on pill; that's all I have to say about last night. I did a three song set with a pullout instrumental (The South Wind, because Grahame had played it earlier and it was in my head), and I really think I had them from "hello." I played "Little Boy Blue," "Discovery," and "Like Their Feet Have Wings," and although it was a pub and nothing was completely quiet, people really were listening. I was catching actual eyes every time I looked up and around the room. This was a great audience! People shushed other people while I was telling the silly story I use to introduce the fairy song to people who might not have heard it before. The banter was good, I plugged CDs (only twice, I swear! Once at the beginning and once at the end.), and when I got done, I said, "Thank you," hopped down off the chair, and walked to the back of the pub to quite a lot of applause.
And-- I sold three CDs! *boggle*
I swear. I can't sell CDs to save my life at folk clubs where people are so quiet and respectful and outwardly thrilled with what I do-- but I can sell one of each (two band one solo) in a pub with guys who are playing rock standards and the ubiquitous only-Robert-Johnson-song-I-know-and-I-learned-it-off-a-KebMo-record, "Come on in My Kitchen."
Maybe I'm playing in the wrong places? Perhaps, instead of folk audiences who openly acknowledge the tradition behind what I'm singing, I should seek out bars full of tattooed ironworkers and taxi drivers?
But now it's time to head out to the House in Camden Town for work, so enough rumination about venues (and I suppose my own preconceptions about them). At least until later.
