The thing about doing gigs on the same bill as bands who only use keyboards
is that there's no resorting to the time-honoured cry of panic, mid set:
“Can I borrow a guitar?” When I was in The Keatons, such was the ferocity
with which strings were pummelled that we would inevitably have to
redfacedly ask this question at virtually every gig. Generally, people would
be unwilling to allow their instruments to be subjected to the kind of abuse
that we meted out, but would eventually agree when we said things like “I
promise I'll be good to it.” In one notable example of “not being good to
it”, Steve succeeded in creating many dents in a bass guitar (with a broken
beer bottle – don't ask) belonging to a band from Birmingham called
Onionhead. Blur were on the same bill; Graham Coxon's amp exploded during
their set and had to borrow ours. Ours was rubbish. It sounded abysmal.
Graham was visibly annoyed. But hey, we can't all afford high quality
equipment that doesn't suddenly stop working.

Graham Coxon happened to be sitting in the bar of Water Rats at 4.30pm
yesterday with the rest of his band when I showed up, carrying all our gear
and lots of spare gear in case anything went horribly wrong. He held no
animosity for the Birmingham incident(s) and shook my hand firmly. I noted
that Spear of Destiny were playing in the same venue on Thursday and
attempted to make a joke about Kirk Brandon. He smiled politely. Rawk
brotherhood, there.

After minor disagreements about stage layout, we got on with our soundcheck
and decamped to Casa Mama, a little-used Italian restaurant opposite Kings
Cross station which is consistently great. We struggled through gigantic
pizzas and waddled back to the venue, to see The Vichy Government sitting in
the bar. “Hi! How was your soundcheck?” I asked. “I don't know, I wasn't
listening,” said keyboard player Mr Chilton, while looking at a wall. I
don't think I'll ever understand him. But TVG were great, with “The
Protestant Work Ethic” getting a rare but welcome airing. Paw Paw were on
next, a trio of keyboard-playing singers delivering slick, hummable pop
tunes which suggested that the period 1987-2005 had never happened.

We gave a reasonable account of ourselves, to a slightly subdued
post-Valentine crowd. There were various warm, reassuring, moments: being
heckled by Keith John Adams, and seeing Shirley from Spearmint wandering
around the venue, p!ssed out of his head on 3 pints of weak lager. At the
end of the set I threw my orange hand-towel into the crowd at the behest of
Richard Dedomenici, and then immediately went to retrieve it. I only have 2.
The only downside of the set was me slightly spoiling what many (well, 3)
regard as the best bit of our best song, “Holiday At Home”. I've just had to
write a press release, as it comes out as a single on April 4th. It reads,
in part:

“We meet a possessive man who, while, co-habiting with his increasingly
disgruntled girlfriend, ensures that she can't get away from him for some
much-needed thinking time, by booking a holiday for them both – in their own
house. People might find this creepy. It's meant to be.

So, if you're feeling trapped
just go and grab your slippers
you know you're free to roam –
we're on our holiday at home…