Empty Rooms

If anyone reading this has played in a band, then they might be able to emphasise in an experience I went through, that of the Worst Gig Ever.

Here’s my story: back around 2007, my band had played a few gigs around Manchester. Like many, I suspect, it started well with a gig at a decent sized venue, going on first on some unsigned band night. Naturally, a large amount of our friends rocked up, of which about three were mine. And one of those was somebody I didn't actually know, her being the friend of a girl I was semi-interested in and whom I never saw again after that night for reasons far too tediously complicated to examine at this juncture.

The upshot was, we pulled around 100 people through the door and received £150 in lovely ten pound notes, split between the four of us and the guitarist’s step-dad, who had driven us and our equipment to the gig. The mood was good. Only days before, I had finished my brief dive into the murky waters of professional journalism and elected to chance my arm at temping, believing it would keep me fresher and able to commit myself to the band more. Thinking back, I’m surprised at my optimism in this, but in mitigation I thought we were sounding great and that the strength of the songs would cover up the fact our frontman couldn't really sing very well.

Naturally, it was a long fall down from that early high and subsequent gigs were played to a handful of disinterested punters there to see their mates in other bands. Once or twice we would get approving notes, including one incredibly drunk goth who complimented my bass playing, which was odd as I was and am nothing more than steady, but the attention was appreciated. Another time, a couple of French women, also drunk, were compelled to jump up and dance until they sadly had to catch the National Express from Chorlton Street.

Back on track towards the point: one Monday, I was probably daydreaming at whatever meaningless job I had when I got a phone call from a friend who knew the guy who put on bands at a fairly well known spot in the city centre. An American band (who shall remain nameless, partly for reasons explained later and partly because I can’t remember them off the top of my head) were due to play there tonight and the support band had dropped out. Could we fill in?

My instant reaction was to say yes, but I managed to ask for more information. What I could gather was that they were touring an album – a good sign, as it suggested they had some kind of fanbase to justify releasing it – and that they were “pretty good”. It sounded like a great piece of good fortune – the chance to play to a load of people who didn't know us could be a big help in gaining some kind of following.

Quickly ringing round the band, all confirmed they could do it. We had to be there for around seven, giving me just enough time to get home to remove my crappy suit and tie and dress for the occasion. There was a brief crisis when the drummer had to deal with his girlfriend kicking off that we were to be playing in a “strip club”: the place happened to have a burlesque night once a month, and I leave it to you to decide whether that constitutes dancing. At the time, I scoffed at this because said woman’s tits were (and probably still are) available for all to see on the internet through her sideline in “glamour” modelling.

This little (averted) crisis perhaps should have set alarm bells ringing, but as I met half the band at our rehearsal room/storage space, there was some confidence only offset by the fact we’d be missing the United-Fulham game that night (we won 2-0, Ronaldo scored both and I remembered that without looking it up, which may be a bit tragic). When we arrived at the venue, things started to go south at an alarming rate.

For one thing, the band we were supporting wanted to borrow our amplifiers and drum kit. It appeared they were doing this tour “on the cheap” and renting backline equipment was seen as non-essential. The promoter came up and asked us right away how many people we were bringing. As we’d been roped in at short notice, the answer was not many and his reaction to this wasn't good.

The doors opened and an hour later, there were about ten people milling about. Including the four members of my band and our faithful driver. The “headliners” asked if they could go on first. Clearly, they wanted to get out of there somewhat rapid. At the bar, the promoter cursed them, stating he had been assured they would bring in “at least” 100 people.

At this juncture, I was hit by a crippling panic attack. Perhaps somewhat weirdly, I only got nervous before gigs where the crowd was small. If I saw a packed room, it gave me some kind of confidence, but seeing enough people I didn't know to count on one hand, I hid in the corner and freaked out for 20 minutes before an arriving friend calmed me down with small talk. Our American friends took to the stage and played for what seemed 20 minutes before quickly leaving. They left copies of their album to “thank” us. Mine remained sealed in its plastic wrapping on a shelf in my kitchen until it went up in flames last summer.

For reasons I didn't understand, we had been set up on stage in a straight line, with the drummer sat directly to the my right. As we trundled through our set to pretty much nobody, all I could hear was the smash of snares and cymbals through one ear, giving me the most peculiarly lopsided headache of my life. My recollection is that we played every song we knew, lasting about 50 minutes, at the end of which the promoter had stormed off home in a quiet rage.

I made it home around midnight, feeling like crap and unable to get any sleep. A few hours later, I got up for work and somehow got through the day without collapsing in a heap. We never did get the call to “fill-in” again.

Doing such gigs is probably a rite of passage for bands. After all, most of us never graduate beyond that point. So if you happen to see a bunch of plucky chancers ploughing through their songs in front of the proverbial one man and his dog, think of them kindly. It was me once upon a time.