Flaky 'manager' booked us on a few 'shows' in Tyneside, north east England many years ago. He knew some guy down that way, apparently, and the money seemed good. He was reluctant in mentioning venue names which was red flag number one. I had my doubts about the jaunt and, right enough, we get down that way and red flag number two hoists itself glaringly in the shape of a Miners' Welfare Social Club. Now, I had played similar places back in Scotland in another incarnation and knew that these places were pretty much Top Twenty and some nostalgia stuff. The band I was with was not prepared for that kind of repertoire and we had gone out on the condition we played our own material.
We swung it on the first gig. The second place, they weren't prepared to let us play and had to ******** them with a Musicians' Union intervention. They caved in, we played; we went down like a lead balloon. Totally demoralised, we travelled to third gig where more shid went down when they found out we weren't a covers act. After twenty minutes cardboard beer coasters started frisbeeing onto the stage, first with requests then with obscene instructions. When those obscene requests started becoming vocal, I turned around to the band and said 'I've had enough!', switched off my amp and started packing my gear away. The place was in turmoil.
A shouting match developed with one of the club conveners, and our so-called 'manager' finally appeared from his hiding place to tell us that we had to complete the set or we wouldn't get paid. My heart sank. Reluctantly, we sparked up again, did a few more numbers and called it a night. We de-rigged the gear to howls and cat-calls.
Whilst the others were loading out and Mr Manager in hiding again, myself and the keyboard player went in hunt of the club treasurer who was due to pay us. As we prowled the corridors in Liam Neeson 'I will find you' mode we were met with silence from club officials and abuse from drunken punters. Mr Manager eventually appears, and with the countenance of a condemned man proceeds to tell us that the treasurer has, Elvis-like, left the building. And he's not coming back. We are not getting paid. Nor was our accommodation being honoured that night.
Another shouting match with Mr Manager ensued and he knew, from that point on, his days with us were numbered. We boarded our splitter-bus and headed north in silence, each of us nursing anger, disappointment, and not a little sense of betrayal. My mind buzzed with possibilities, with regret for even agreeing to this jaunt when my hindbrain had smelled a rat from the off. The only sound heard was Mr Manager in the driving seat, muttering away to himself, sotto voce. At one point on the journey he gave me a brief gallows-humour laugh: he said that when he got back home he was going to throw himself off the nearest pier, but he feared that he wouldn't drown because 'Shite floats'. We lost the guitarist after that (he was temp, anyway) and Mr Manager was gone within the month.
I can safely say that the events recounted above stand as my biggest let-down as a musician. Thankfully, there are no photos or footage from that three-day trip through Purgatory.
