<"One Night Only (Thank God)"/
The Reckoner>
<i.>
Every musician has some type of "road story gone wrong, about The Event That Wobbled. Amps that pack up. Strings that break during your signature set closer. Guitars that won't tune up, no how hard you struggle. The proverbial five punters and a dog who turned up for you, because all those other bastards scuttled off to the "cool" gig by (FILL IN FLASHY HEADLINER'S NAME HERE).
Keep going, son, you're getting warmer: what else could go wrong? Plenty. The soundman who makes your guitar pop like Rice Krispies run through a flanger, or the family dog, caught in the blender.
The organizer who a) mangles your name on the flyer, b) forgets to mention you existence on the flyer, or c) leaves the stack you sent him a couple weeks ago sitting proudly on their counter, having forgotten to stick them up anywhere.
Today's Event That Wobbled story ticks a fair number of these boxes, and then some. To coin a phrase, it was 20 years ago today, when I found myself in the wilds of northeast central Indiana, headed off to something...Let's call it, The Hit & Miss Folk Festival.
Seemed like an easy way to keep my chops up, on a crisp fall Saturday afternoon. They'd even taken out a sizable newspaper ad, which seemed like a fair degree of commitment, right? What could possibly go wrong? you ask yourself.
I should have known the game was up when I called to ask for directions. "I'm sorry, but I haven't managed to leave quite yet, so I may be a few minutes late."
Back comes the response, breezy and reassuring. "No worries. We're still sorting out the lineup. We'll figure it out once you get there."
"Hm, really? So how's the traffic going, then?" I asked. "How's the turnout looking?"
The line crackles with a reassurance that bounces right into my eardrum. "Oh, great! They're all just streaming in, as I look around."
"Great! See you then." Click! What could possibly go wrong?
The line crackles with a reassurance that bounces right into my eardrum. "Oh, great! They're all just streaming in, as I look around."
"Great! See you then." Click! What could possibly go wrong?
The answer comes when I arrive at the site, which seems like the county fairgrounds. It doesn't seem to earn a lot of maintenance time and attention, even though it's the off-season.
The turnout is the sort that you could fold up and crumple in your pocket. Not exactly "five people and a dog," but if there's a hundred people here, I'd feel pleasantly surprised.
Most of them are just aimlessly milling around. They don't seem particularly engaged by what's going on. Getting more than a sentence or two to pass their close-mouthed lips makes me feel like I'm negotiating a trade agreement with a hostile starving nation.
<"I'm Just-A Wastin' Time..."/
The Reckoner>
<ii.>
But nothing prepares me for the sight that smacks my senses upside the head, with a resounding thud, when I finally edge over to the so-called Mainstage, where they actually want the performers to play. It's nothing more than an 8-by-8-foot postage stamp, plunked randomly in the middle of some wide open space or other.
On that stage is a big guy, bent over his shiny expensive Martin, croaking and gargling through "Dock Of The Bay," like he's sung it for the umpteen millionth time, and can't wait to get it done.
He sounds like he'd rather be folding the laundry, or parking the car, or washing the dishes. Anywhere but here. Actually, I decide, he sounds like he's walking the Green Mile. Watching him fold the laundry might seem way more exciting, somehow.
My ears brace themselves for what's coming next. He's doing his best to channel the ghost of Otis Redding, all right -- only with a fraction, mind you, of the man's gritty vocal chops, let alone the energy, that made him a legend.
"Sitting on
the dock
of the baaayyy..."
He sounds like he'd rather be folding the laundry, or parking the car, or washing the dishes. Anywhere but here. Actually, I decide, he sounds like he's walking the Green Mile. Watching him fold the laundry might seem way more exciting, somehow.
"Watchin' the
tiii-dddes-just-rollin'-away..."
My ears brace themselves for what's coming next. He's doing his best to channel the ghost of Otis Redding, all right -- only with a fraction, mind you, of the man's gritty vocal chops, let alone the energy, that made him a legend.
"I'm just, sittin'
on the dock
of the bayyy-uhhh...
Waaastin' Time..."
A few droplets of rain slap my cheek. The so-called stage has no cover -- no roof, no tent, nothing. The sky seems to be losing more and more patience with us, as it's darkening by the minute.
"Hang on," I tell myself. "This is madness. I can't do this. This doesn't make any sense."
"Hang on," I tell myself. "This is madness. I can't do this. This doesn't make any sense."
<iii.>
So I do what any person in my position does: I make my excuses, both real and imagined. I scurry back to the main entrance, where I see a pay phone. I push a couple quarters down the slot, get the same breezy, self-assured person on the line, and start piling on my excuses."Hey, man, I'm not gonna make it.
I just had a flat tire.
"Yeah, I'm just gonna have to
limp back home. So sorry."
limp back home. So sorry."
Then I pack up my guitar, back out of the muddy field they're calling the main parking lot, and head home, tail between legs, and all that stuff. If you play music, it's the same old story, repeated across Anytown USA.
Indeed, at some point, everybody's experience is basically the same, as I discovered on a Pink Fairies/Deviants fan page on Facebook, where I spotted a lengthy discussion of why guitarist Ian "Sid" Bishop wasn't gigging anymore.
For those who don't know, Bishop played guitar and sitar on the Deviants' first two albums, Ptoof!, and Disposable, both released in 1968. He then quit to get married, continue playing in various bands, and writing for guitar mags. I hadn't been aware of what he'd been doing lately, but in any event, the post focused on his recent move to Crete, and why he'd hung up his gigging papers.
In short order, Sid ticked off three reasons, starting with the aging process ("These days, I doubt if I could event lift a Twin Reverb, let alone carry it up steps to the stage. Humping all that gear just got to be too much"), followed by logistics that often turn into a real grind (load the gear, drive many miles to the venue, set up at seven, head home at midnight, wash, rinse, repeat):
"At my age*, I really would be much happier sitting at home in the warm, watching TV with a glass of wine. Far too much hassle for little reward, the little reward aspect of this being another factor."
"At my age*, I really would be much happier sitting at home in the warm, watching TV with a glass of wine. Far too much hassle for little reward, the little reward aspect of this being another factor."
Not surprisingly, Sid expounded at length on his third reason, "the little reward aspect," or lack thereof. Most of his gigs happened in bars, pubs, and the odd working man's club, whose turnouts and vibes left something to be desired, as he observed:
"Although there were notable exceptions, most of these places were miserable and depressing, as indeed were most of the audiences. At a good uplifting gig, there could have been upwards of 100 enthusiastic pubgoers, but there were times when we've ended up giving our all to ten old codgers and a Yorkshire terrier. Depressing indeed, and at the end, you ask yourself, 'Why on earth do I bother?'"
Just then, a flash of jealousy shot through me. Hey, buddy, at least you had ten people and a dog. I only played to five! Of course, I'm only joking. But not by much.
Of course, it's a phenomenon that picked up an unholy steam during the COVID-19 pandemic, which saw many venues closing their doors. It's a perfect storm that's led to a drastically shrunken market, and one that's made it tougher than ever for musos like himself to earn any kind of living off it, as Bishop noted:
"This often means that you have to drive even further to find a gig, and then discover that you are in competition with many other bands in the same position who are vying for the same gig. The usual result of that is that they will offer to do the gig for less than you, then you undercut that, the end result being that you end up playing for nothing and not even covering the petrol money. Taking all of that into account, I just gave up. Seemed the sensible thing to do, and come to terms with the fact that the golden years are over."
"Although there were notable exceptions, most of these places were miserable and depressing, as indeed were most of the audiences. At a good uplifting gig, there could have been upwards of 100 enthusiastic pubgoers, but there were times when we've ended up giving our all to ten old codgers and a Yorkshire terrier. Depressing indeed, and at the end, you ask yourself, 'Why on earth do I bother?'"
Just then, a flash of jealousy shot through me. Hey, buddy, at least you had ten people and a dog. I only played to five! Of course, I'm only joking. But not by much.
Of course, it's a phenomenon that picked up an unholy steam during the COVID-19 pandemic, which saw many venues closing their doors. It's a perfect storm that's led to a drastically shrunken market, and one that's made it tougher than ever for musos like himself to earn any kind of living off it, as Bishop noted:
"This often means that you have to drive even further to find a gig, and then discover that you are in competition with many other bands in the same position who are vying for the same gig. The usual result of that is that they will offer to do the gig for less than you, then you undercut that, the end result being that you end up playing for nothing and not even covering the petrol money. Taking all of that into account, I just gave up. Seemed the sensible thing to do, and come to terms with the fact that the golden years are over."
Sometimes, it's simpler to cut your losses, and call it a day. In Sid Bishop's case, I certainly don't blame him. We've all been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, so to speak. There's a lot of bad actors taking advantage of people's enthusiasms, it seems. And a lot of inept ones, too, as I found out that day.
Whether The Hit & Miss Folk Festival ever made it back for another go-round, I can't tell you, because I moved away from that area. But something tells me, I don't really care to know. And deep down, I suspect, it's better not to ask. --The Reckoner
Whether The Hit & Miss Folk Festival ever made it back for another go-round, I can't tell you, because I moved away from that area. But something tells me, I don't really care to know. And deep down, I suspect, it's better not to ask. --The Reckoner
<Rainy Day (FFS, Go Away)..."/
Take II: The Reckoner>
(*Reckoner's Note: The Deviants' Wikipedia entry claims a birth year of 1946 for Sid, which would make him 77. Wikipedia itself can often be a bit wobbly, but given the era in which he came of age, it sounds about right to me.)
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