Unlike some memorable experiences I’ve had with previous outfits (the stage at a bike rally majestically sinking into the mud, a drummer playing blindfolded with his beard on fire, and narrowly escaping with our lives from a nightclub in the middle of Belizian jungle), the most recent AUF gig started off normally enough….

Having found the venue, a rather charming pub in the wilds outside Swindon, Stuart (drums), Martin (bass) and myself proceeded to set up as per usual, with the addition of Stuart’s shiny new lighting rig, and settled down with a beer for the usual “waiting for the singer to arrive” routine. Fifteen minutes to kick-off, and a hasty phone call to the lovely Suzi reveals…that she is not answering her mobile.

 Showtime comes…and goes.

Ten minutes later, the sound of an approaching B-17 bomber heralds the arrival of her battered blue Sierra, which screeches to a halt in the car park. The window rolls down, and a single word is croaked out, aimed presumably at the world in general, “W*nkers!”

It transpires that in addition to the Sierra’s exhaust collapsing, a headlamp has blown, which attracted the attention of the M4 Plod, and occasioned them to pull her over and deliver a long lecture on the subject of road safety, and the importance of regular automobile maintenance. Once she finally escaped their clutches, she was sufficiently distracted to come off at the wrong junction and get hopelessly lost. An attempt to phone in for directions was rather spoiled by her flat mobile battery, but eventually she managed to find her way to us.

Her mood has not been improved by the bout of laryngitis she has managed to contract, and my cheery suggestion that she has caught it deliberately to elicit sympathy falls on rather stony ground. Instead, I receive some curt comments on the subject of “dedicated professionalism”, and a Look which makes me rather glad I play a nice rounded shape Strat, and not one of those nasty spiky Flying Vs, which would be quite difficult to extract afterwards.

So, a hurried bout of car-unloading and PA setting-up has us ready to roll within ten minutes, no time for a soundcheck, what the hell, one-two-three-four…

All goes reasonably smoothly, until we notice the smoke starting to pour from the top of one of the PA cabs. Yes, our new lighting rig is jolly powerful, isn’t it? And whose idea was it to put the PA so close to it? Off go the lights, a couple of minutes for the smoke to clear, and away we go again, carefully avoiding those songs which cause poor Suzi’s throat to shred any more than it has already. No problem, we don’t  have time left to play everything anyway. We finish the first set safely, albeit on five strings for me due to some over-enthusiastic riffing (and the fact that I’m too mean to change strings as often as I should).

In the break, a helpful punter suggests I turn up a little, something I don’t need telling twice. Suzi is also requested to “crank it up a bit”. Meanwhile, a 12-year-old is begging Stuart for “a go on the drums”. We make a straight-faced, fingers-crossed promise to see what we can fit in.

Second set, off we go, we still can’t hear Suzi too well, but storm through anyway, and get to the end. Punters all seem reasonably pleased, no time for an encore due to the late start, but the 12-year-old is standing right in front of stage, fixing us each in turn with that “You promised…” stare. As are a fairly large contingent of potentially menacing (presumably) fathers, uncles, older brothers…..oh, all right then, give the lad a chance.

He jumps behind the kit, decides we’ll play “Teen Spirit”, and fires into it at around Mach 7. Now, I’ve played in a couple of punky / metally outfits before, and like to think I can keep up with most people, but this kid is going for it big style. In fairness, he can play, but left me feeling my age, which for me is generally an unwelcome experience.

Stuart takes advantage of his temporary unemployment by going to the bar and not buying me a pint.

That’s it, all over, the kid gets a standing ovation, we get grudging credit from the locals for our indulgence, and we set about packing up.

This is where we discover why we couldn’t hear the vocals too clearly…..the dreaded curse of the “dodgy lead” has struck, and at least one channel of the PA has been pumping out silence all night! So, our poor darling laryngitis-ridden Suzi has been straining to be heard above the full-throttle rock band racket without the benefit of amplification. And apparently managed to do so pretty well……..

Everything packed away, some quick running repairs to the moribund remains of the Sierra, and we even get paid at the end of the night.

Suzi offers to waive her share of the cash “because she was late, and not singing up to scratch”. Given her Scottish origins, I am tempted to call an ambulance on the spot. Instead we press the meagre sum into her unsresisting hand, escort her in convoy until she is safely out of reach of the M4 constabulary, and head off home into the night.

Not exactly the stadium gig experience I got into guitar playing for (an indeterminate number of years ago), but actually, I’m quite looking forward to next time we play there – even on a bad night, this rock and roll thing is still more fun than you can shake a big stick at……