Last Thursday I went to see post-Do Me Bad Things combo The Winners playing at the gorgeously appointed Brixton Windmill, alongside Lutonian friends The Knockouts. On the face of it, it was a good bill destined to pull in a few punters, as Do Me Bad Things were in the UK top 40 eighteen months ago with What’s Hideous?. On the other hand, the gig had been booked a mere handful of days in advance, and ended up taking place on the windiest day of the year so far (and with 17 other days up against it, that’s pretty stiff competition) and, according to BBC London, traffic was tailing back to Chalkers Corner and the Sun In The Sands roundabout, wherever on earth they might be. It was the kind of evening where you look outside,and think “I would rather sit indoors touching myself and whimpering gently than pay £3 to see live music, particular when that music is being played in a venue tucked round the back of a prison and a good 15 minutes walk from the nearest tube station.” I think that kind of thing all the time.

Anyway, virtually no-one turned up, which was a great shame, as both bands were great, and Tommy, Alex and Adam from Winners were playing a smoothasbord of Yacht Rock, including Ambrosia, Steely Dan, and – memorably – “Steal Away” by Robbie Dupree. When you’re in the audience at a sparsely attended gig, it’s a rare treat – you can get to and from the toilet without being stabbed, you can get a drink without having to plan your strategy on a piece of graph paper, and you can see the bands without standing on a crate. But if you’re in a band, an empty venue ranks very highly among hundreds of similarly dispiriting experiences. On a prima donna level, it means that no-one appreciates your art. On a mercenary level, it means that you’re unlikely to get the petrol money home unless you threaten the promoter with a broken bottle. But on a purely human level, you will have expended a great deal of effort for precious little reward. Notable small audiences I have experienced in my time:

1. Bull & Gate, 1989. An “all-dayer”, which as veterans will know, is code for putting 15 bands on a bill beginning at 2pm, in the hope that between 15 and 30 people will pay to get in and watch. We went on at about 3.30pm, and paid Jon “Fat” Beast about £30 for the privilege. As Steve noted in the diary: “A Slight Waste Of Time.”

2. Stockwell Old Queens Head, 1989. The gig was on something like December 28th, which is a stupid day to threaten the capital with sub-Fall ramshackle guitar pop. We had to borrow every single bit of gear from the other band, as all of ours had been stolen from a van about a week previously. We used this excuse for the next 3 years. About 5 people were there. About 3 weeks later we played the same venue, for the same promoter, who was obviously quite taken with our inability to pull a crowd. There were 2 paying customers. The other band, Spit Like Paint, normally a vivacious crew, sat down on stools to play, and who could blame them, really.

2. Dalston Crown & Castle, 1990. Incredibly, this was the same promoter as at the Old Queens Head. Some friends of ours from France were in the UK, and they were supposed to play with us at this East London fleapit. It was the same night as England were playing Germany in the World Cup. After we’d played a disinterested set to an empty room, the landlord ordered the gig to stop as the 4 crusty anarchists who had paid to get in were sitting in a dark corner and refusing to buy any beer. The French band never even got onstage. As we were leaving the promoter said “Yeah, I’d like to put you on at the 4 Aces (an East London club notorious for shootings.) We never returned his calls – the only time, I think, we ever turned down a gig.

Actually, this is depressing, I’d better stop there, otherwise I’ll be doing this list for about 3 weeks. All this nostalgia, however, has led to me posting lots of Awkward 80s Beefheartian Music on multiply.com, if that’s the kind of thing that cheers you up.