You don’t have to accept the invitation, but …
Remember, your mate wasn’t being polite when they asked you along to their show. They’ve invited you because they have a gnawing fear that nobody will turn up. Consequently, they’re firing around the place asking everyone they know (and complete strangers) to attend. If they’re wrong and the room is heaving, they won’t notice whether or not you’ve made the effort. But if they’re right, and it’s just the doorman and the bassist’s mum, you’ll be squirming like a salted slug as you explain your absence the next day.
They’ll ask you what you thought of the gig, but …
Once the gig is over and post-set cold drinks are being taken, there’ll be just one topic of conversation: ‘What did you reckon then?’. Stay focused. Your mate is not looking for a Lester Bangs-style analysis of every note and nuance. In fact, they’re not even looking for honesty. Whether the performance was akin to Springsteen at Hammersmith or a legless Pete Doherty busking in a toilet, all they want to hear is ‘Blistering, man. You were on fire up there.’
They’ll ask you for a hand loading out the gear, but …
That’s the thing with a mate’s band – no staff. The sound guy comes with the venue, the manager is the drummer’s uncle and there are absolutely no roadies. Roadies want paying, and by the time the band has split the £25 fee between them, and put it all in the bar till, there’s as much budget for road crew as there is for a helicopter home. However, you should feign a war wound or lumbago. Have you ever picked up a bass bin? It’s easier to give a rhinoceros a piggy-back (rhino-back?) than it is to manhandle PA equipment into an estate car. And once you do, you’ll realise the guitarist has spent the whole ‘packing away’ period chatting up a girl waiting for a taxi.
They’ll ask you to ‘get the crowd going’, but …
The loyalty of friendship is rarely so tested as it is by a request to whistle, cheer, clap or (save us all) dance to a mate’s band. Bear in mind, if you agree to this most undignified of duties, you will be expected to rise from your table, run to the front and begin your promised gyrations and cat-calls from the first number. At best, the rest of the room will assume you have lost your mind and will point in pity and laughter; at worst, the bouncers will assume you have lost your mind and will escort you to the nearest pavement. Laughing.
You’ll be leant on to give band members a lift home, but …
Predictably, the van outside belongs not to the band, but one member of the band. He or she was quite happy to pick everybody up that afternoon – however, they are now exhausted and looking forward to a Pot Noodle in bed. What’s more, they are more than aware of the likelihood that the singer, brimful of cheap lager, Drambuie and jazz cigarettes, will projectile vomit as soon as he’s in a vehicle. Not only that, but the keyboard player’s girlfriend lives three counties away. Of course, this hazard is easily avoided by ending the evening royally drunk and not owning a car.
You may be asked to join the band, but …
If the evening has gone particularly badly, it’s not impossible that at least one band member will quit there and then. For some reason, it’s usually the one with the really expensive rig. At this point, even if your musical range extends no further than one chord and a set of bongos in the loft, the crisis-stricken group may turn to you. After all, they’re booked to play the scout hut in the next town in a fortnight and they can’t let down the ‘fans’. Refuse. Tell your mate you’ve just accepted a job as a lifeguard in the Yukon. Or you’re about to enter NASA’s astronaut training programme. Honestly, however flattered you may be, you don’t need the hassle of being in a mate’s band. And your other mates don’t need the hassle of coming to your gigs.
Remember, your mate wasn’t being polite when they asked you along to their show. They’ve invited you because they have a gnawing fear that nobody will turn up. Consequently, they’re firing around the place asking everyone they know (and complete strangers) to attend. If they’re wrong and the room is heaving, they won’t notice whether or not you’ve made the effort. But if they’re right, and it’s just the doorman and the bassist’s mum, you’ll be squirming like a salted slug as you explain your absence the next day.
They’ll ask you what you thought of the gig, but …
Once the gig is over and post-set cold drinks are being taken, there’ll be just one topic of conversation: ‘What did you reckon then?’. Stay focused. Your mate is not looking for a Lester Bangs-style analysis of every note and nuance. In fact, they’re not even looking for honesty. Whether the performance was akin to Springsteen at Hammersmith or a legless Pete Doherty busking in a toilet, all they want to hear is ‘Blistering, man. You were on fire up there.’
They’ll ask you for a hand loading out the gear, but …
That’s the thing with a mate’s band – no staff. The sound guy comes with the venue, the manager is the drummer’s uncle and there are absolutely no roadies. Roadies want paying, and by the time the band has split the £25 fee between them, and put it all in the bar till, there’s as much budget for road crew as there is for a helicopter home. However, you should feign a war wound or lumbago. Have you ever picked up a bass bin? It’s easier to give a rhinoceros a piggy-back (rhino-back?) than it is to manhandle PA equipment into an estate car. And once you do, you’ll realise the guitarist has spent the whole ‘packing away’ period chatting up a girl waiting for a taxi.
They’ll ask you to ‘get the crowd going’, but …
The loyalty of friendship is rarely so tested as it is by a request to whistle, cheer, clap or (save us all) dance to a mate’s band. Bear in mind, if you agree to this most undignified of duties, you will be expected to rise from your table, run to the front and begin your promised gyrations and cat-calls from the first number. At best, the rest of the room will assume you have lost your mind and will point in pity and laughter; at worst, the bouncers will assume you have lost your mind and will escort you to the nearest pavement. Laughing.
You’ll be leant on to give band members a lift home, but …
Predictably, the van outside belongs not to the band, but one member of the band. He or she was quite happy to pick everybody up that afternoon – however, they are now exhausted and looking forward to a Pot Noodle in bed. What’s more, they are more than aware of the likelihood that the singer, brimful of cheap lager, Drambuie and jazz cigarettes, will projectile vomit as soon as he’s in a vehicle. Not only that, but the keyboard player’s girlfriend lives three counties away. Of course, this hazard is easily avoided by ending the evening royally drunk and not owning a car.
You may be asked to join the band, but …
If the evening has gone particularly badly, it’s not impossible that at least one band member will quit there and then. For some reason, it’s usually the one with the really expensive rig. At this point, even if your musical range extends no further than one chord and a set of bongos in the loft, the crisis-stricken group may turn to you. After all, they’re booked to play the scout hut in the next town in a fortnight and they can’t let down the ‘fans’. Refuse. Tell your mate you’ve just accepted a job as a lifeguard in the Yukon. Or you’re about to enter NASA’s astronaut training programme. Honestly, however flattered you may be, you don’t need the hassle of being in a mate’s band. And your other mates don’t need the hassle of coming to your gigs.
