Road Life 5
One of the things that intrigues me about rock concerts – everyone afterwards has a different story to tell. Did the band suck? Weren’t they fantastic? They didn’t play the favourite song, the bass player’s cute, the sound was awful, the drummer rocked, they’re not as good as they used to be… the best band in the world!
Every single person in the room, be it a club or an arena, has had an adventure just getting there; the missed train, the last minute babysitter, meeting old friends, the weather, the broken-down car, the lucky parking, the lousy meal, the great seats, who’s got the tickets? Potential catastrophes and near misses, highs and lows – nights to remember. Sometimes shit happens but most people who have done this many times know the hows and wheres of attending a rock concert – what to prepare for and what to avoid, what to bring. The seasoned fans have it down; travel light, take only what you need – water, a bit of cash, phone, camera, lightweight clothing. On the other hand, casual fans can easily get confused just finding the right entrance, the right seats, disposing of their overcoats, locating toilets.
Musicians go through similar experiences, or rather we would if we didn’t have people to guide us through the maze of endless backstage corridors and concrete staircases. And our road stories are just as varied and memorable, at least the ones that I can remember, as anyone’s.
An instance: An evening off in Lyon, Don and I, in need of a gastronomic reward for days of hasty gobbling on the road, wander out to find a decent restaurant only to discover a street full of them, all very cute and French and appealing. Spoilt for choice, we walk along and see two members of our team, Sally and Kat, through the window of an attractive-looking establishment and as we head for the entrance we spot them waving and giving us a discreet thumbs down. Thankful for the tipoff we leave them to it and find an even better looking eatery. The place is packed (a good sign), the waiters are arrogant (a bad sign) and the steak is a veritable symphony of hastily cooked gristle and fat (a very bad sign). A complaint only brings two shots of some ghastly alcoholic peace offering. Then we have the cheese. The cheese that saved the meal. It was absolutely delicious; runny and mysterious, it melted on the tongue and sent waves of pleasure coursing through our highly attuned taste buds. At least they got that right. I would have liked to known what it was but by now the waiters were ignoring us completely. Even now, Don and I reminisce about that cheese.
Another one: On the Australian tour earlier this year, after the concert in Brisbane, getting back to the hotel at about 12:30AM to find that the bar was closed, somewhat of a disappointment as the hotel manager had agreed to keep it open. No amount of complaining could persuade him to re-open it. At first we heard that Spandau Ballet had ordered it closed but as we were arguing with the recalcitrant night manager, they appeared in the lobby and vehemently denied that it was them, it was Tears For Fears, with whom they were touring at the time. Apparently, the Tears For Fears tour manger had insisted that the bar be closed as they had an early flight in the morning and didn’t want the band or crew tempted into staying up late. What? We are guests too, and didn’t we have an arrangement? This isn’t rock’n’roll. This isn’t cricket! The lobby was rather large with abundant seating, enough for us and Spandau ballet and various others of our party, maybe a dozen people, to hang around and glare at the uncooperative night manager behind the reception desk – his barrier – pretending to make phone calls in his suit and careful hair. Idiot! The venue we had just played was close by and so someone organized a large case of beers, spirits, wine, etc. to be ferried to the hotel – emergency supplies. Spandau Ballet also brought down some Champagne and we proceeded to have a party in our own bar in the lobby, right in front of reception and the glowering night manager. And we had a good old time talking for hours about music, stuff, telling stories, laughing… musos all. Spandau are a good bunch of lads. It wasn’t until gone four in the morning that the last of us left standing dribbled up to our rooms, leaving the baleful night manager to his own sad fate. Prick!
A sad story: On this tour, the show we did in Paris was one that you get only so often – a gig that is so fulfilling it brings tears to your eyes, at least it did to mine. Nations’ capitals can frequently be anticlimactic because the people are used to seeing so many bands and therefore usually more muted and discerning than provincial city crowds. However, the Paris audience was fantastic and gave us oceans of support. The onstage sound was great, the band’s performance rose in response to the warmth of the people, and together we all experienced something quite special. I had invited Patrice Vigier, who makes my Vigier bass guitars, and his wife Lena to come and see the show and say hello, as they usually do, but didn’t see them when I came offstage. I found out later what had happened… Since they live in Paris it is a local gig for them. Accordingly, they left their home in plenty of time to get to the Zenith by car. However, they got stranded for well over an hour in a traffic jam and decided to abandon their car and take a train instead. Arriving at the station they found the entire train service closed by the police due to a suspicious parcel scare. So they walked. After getting a little lost they eventually made it to the Zenith half an hour after we had started. Worn out. By then the box office, where they were to pick up tickets and passes, had closed and so they walked round to the stage door and managed to get the attention of a security man. Since he had no access to the guest list he refused to let them in and no amount of cajoling would make him change his mind. With the muffled sound of the concert ringing in their ears they had no recourse but to give up and find their way back to where they had abandoned the car and drive dejectedly home, arriving long after we had finished the show. Talk about frustration and disappointment!
Good luck for your next concert.
RG
One thought on “Road Life 5”
Hello Roger, I’d like to thank you for the funny stories, wonderful art and great photos they help keep me awake at night I hope you keep them coming. I answer calls on the midnight shift here in the midwest so I’m always desparate for a laugh or something beautiful to look at between calls and I find myself coming back to your site over and over again. Many blessings to you and your lovely family and your kick-ass band. Jean. P.S. The bass player absolutely is cute, always has been and always will be.