Blyth Dispirited

I did a gig in Blyth last week. It didn't go very well...

Ignoring the various spoken word only events I’ve performed at over the years, since I stumbled across the No Audience Underground scene, I’ve done three live gigs in the past two years. The first two were with Chris Bartholomew; at the Lit & Phil for a TQ Live soiree in August 2022, which I absolutely loved as it was in convivial surroundings with a supportive and appreciative crowd, then at the Lubber Fiend in April 2023, which I also enjoyed. The problem with that one was, literally, no audience. Other than Shelley, the only person who came to see us was unavoidably detained and missed our spot. Again, it was in a superb venue, though a couple of the audience members, who had already performed, were incredibly rude during the time we were on stage. What is it about live music that makes people want to talk? I know the stuff I do is weird, experimental and potentially challenging (ie: a total racket), but I do deserve to be heard. Surely?

The third and most recent gig was my first solo show since, ooh, July 1987, at Blyth Headway Arts Centre, supporting Deafbed for the launch of their Birth School Work Death album last Friday. Obviously, I’ll return to this evening in more detail, but suffice to say it was a fiasco; a disaster from start to finish and an evening that left me seriously contemplating an overdose in its aftermath.

The massive irony related to this is that I’ve become incredibly frustrated and slightly embittered by my experience of the alternative, experimental No Audience Underground scene on Tyneside, as it has proved almost impossible to break into the inner circle of movers and shakers. In short, despite my best efforts, I simply can’t find anyone prepared to give me a chance to perform live. Initially, during the time when Chris Bartholomew and I worked together, there was a degree of momentum behind our art; the aforementioned live shows and some real interest in our CD Dresden Heist, which came out in July 2023 and had sold out by September of that year, gave a sense that we were doing something worthwhile. Without any shadow of a doubt, Chris is a genius, and he deserves acclaim for his various projects, solo and collaborative. I’m sure he will continue to produce fascinating sounds and carve a niche for himself in the music industry. He doesn’t really need a ranting, semi-Dadaist anti musician cluttering up his career path. 

This can be demonstrated when you contrast the trajectory of his career post BARTHOLOMEW cusack with the pitiful flatlining of my solo ventures, as demonstrated by the utter failure of my CD, the earth is flat, which came out in January 2024; I’ve still got 10 copies left to flog. This is particularly galling as I’ve got almost another album’s worth of material to record, much of which I wanted to play live. Now, when I actually had a chance to air my sonic grievances in public, it all went to hell in a handcart, though I did manage to shift 1 CD and 2 copies of my poetry booklet, Violent Heterosexual Men.  Equally frustrating, a scene that I’d fondly imagined to be supportive and inclusive is as hard to break into as the Freemasons and populated by preening narcissists whose only concern is to shift their own product and get their grids all over the social networks run by other precious, performative popinjays. In that sense, I’m currently weighing up whether the most sensible course of action for my future sense of wellbeing is to give up live performances forever and to try and shift my product on-line and by word of mouth.

However, I do need to consider whether the simple truth is merely that my music is a load of crap, which is why nobody’s interested and I can’t get any gigs. Well, I’ve had some positive comments from talented, creative types that I admire: Alex Neilson, Simon Shaw and Kev Wilkinson for starters. Looking back on the earth is flat, there are probably a couple of pieces that shouldn’t be on there, as they weren’t good enough. That’s one danger I find from working solo; your levels of excitement often outweigh your sense of critical detachment. As a writer, I taught myself to be a ruthless editor. As a sound artist (you’ll notice I didn’t say musician), I need to be similarly decisive with the metaphorical blue pencil.

I was offered the Blyth gig by my former colleague and comrade, but also mate, Lee Dickson who is one of the most endlessly and effortlessly creative people I’ve ever met. His imagination spins like a Catherine Wheel, showering sparks of artistic excellence in all directions at an incredible rate. As a solo performer, he recently released Oddrophenia under his Gerry Mandarin moniker, though the 14^thJune evening was to celebrate the release of his band Deafbed’s Birth School Work Death CD, as I said earlier. Before I dissect the sorry carcass of my death on stage that night, I must say I am in absolute gratitude to Lee for giving me the chance to perform live. Whatever happened on the evening, I’ll never be anything other than indebted to him. Also, Birth School Work Death is an absolute corker of an album; philosophical musings about the title subjects. It makes you think and I’m a great fan of it.

My set for this gig consisted of 7 pieces, scheduled to last around 30 minutes in total; 3 of them appeared on the earth is flat and it is my intention that the other 4 will be on the next release. I made the decision to play guitar rather bass and prepared 4 backing tracks accordingly, which I emailed over to Lee. I’d had a couple of run throughs of the set at home and, after an initially wobbly performance in the bedroom, thought I had things sorted for the actual gig. I took the bus up to Blyth with Shelley and Lewis (though he was just out for some fresh air and headed back home before the gig) and enjoyed a couple of beers on a sunny early evening on the terrace outside The Waterloo, before heading in for soundcheck.

Headway Arts is a deconsecrated church (I wouldn’t set foot in any other sort) and a really good space to play in. The central pews have been removed, for the most part, with tables and chairs in the middle of the room instead. There’s a bar at the back (with bags of Monster Munch in the snack trolley!!) and the staff are lovely. I didn’t fully soundcheck, in the sense of playing any numbers right through, but the levels were right for backing, guitar and voice, so I felt pretty confident. A third act was on the bill; this kind of rapping street poet. As he was a big, bald bloke, I acquiesced and decided to go on first. Coming back from a comfort break, I was caught off guard when Lee introduced me as I walked back into the performance space.

Ordinarily, I insist on performing barefoot, not as a tribute to Sandie Shaw, but because it makes me feel more settled and calmer. However, I didn’t get my shoes off this time as I had to be on stage immediately, so I took a deep breath and went for it. There were about 50 in the audience and, other than Shelley and Lee, I didn’t know anyone. To be fair, I hadn’t expected to. If people couldn’t be bothered to go to The Lubber Fiend for BARTHOLOMEW cusack, why would they trek out to Blyth to see me solo? I tried to be friendly and polite to the crowd, saying how nice it was to be in Blyth, how I hoped it would no longer be a Tory constituency come July 5^th and how sad I was that Spartans got relegated. I tried the joke about how the difference between me and the Shunyata Improvisation Group and me was that their gigs started with 2 minutes silence while mine finished with that. It got a couple of laughs, so I felt alright as I started. How was I to know I was being so prescient?

First up was the semi sean nos number, My Singing Bird, which I first heard The Clancy Brothers do in about 1968. I really belted it out, with the hope that volume would mask technique and the intensity seemed to go down well as I had some applause. Secondly, I did the opening track from the earth is flat, They Killed My Hair, which I actually wrote in 1979 and required me to play guitar. My 1962 Hofner semi acoustic isn’t the loudest of instruments, but it did its job on this one as, again, there was some applause. Next up was a new one, Robbers & Cops, with a backing tape and me reading a piece of short fiction. I really like the music to this one and enjoyed not having to play guitar. The only problem with the latter section of the gig was that the backing tracks played immediately after each other, rather than having to be individually started, which in retrospect, would have been a much better idea.

Robbers & Cops ran straight into Universe of Life, which is the noisiest number on the earth is flat. However, already startled by the immediate switch from one piece to the next, I was thrown slightly off my guard by the fact my guitar wasn’t working properly. It was cutting in and out, before blanking completely. Unless you were next to me on stage, you wouldn’t hear a peep from it. Later, technical issues bedevilled Deafbed’s set, with microphone malfunctions and backing track gremlins, but for me the issue was my guitar dying. Universe of Life just doesn’t make sense without it, and I could see the audience beginning to drift. Their concentration was going, and I started to lose them around this time. Out of frustration, I tore the guitar off and gave it a good kicking on the stage; trying in vain to elicit feedback. This didn’t happen as there was nothing coming through the lead, so the piece dribbled to a close and unintentionally the next backing track started.

This was a real disaster as my 5^th number, another new piece called Catford Bridge April 1972, is an unaccompanied spoken word piece, inserted so as slow the momentum before fairly intense closing numbers. I had to ask Lee to pause and reset the backing track, which wasted time and lost me even more audience goodwill. I could see some people at the front laughing at me, which I found humiliating. Even worse, when I finally started to perform Catford Bridge April 1972, a bunch of pissed blokes at the back were shouting and roaring at each other. They were louder than I was through the microphone, and I wasn’t sure whether to burst into tears or set about them. In the end, I did neither. I got off stage and tried to reason with them. Of course, using logic to debate with pissed people is pointless and I should either have asked them from on stage to hush or ignored them, as I got nowhere trying to be reasonable. Unfortunately, I called one of them a drunkard, which resulted in him getting even more arsey and me to be on the end of the rapper’s wrath later on.

I went back on stage and did the two final pieces, Where is Bryan Connors? and Words are Dead, both of which utilised backing tracks; the first with me on voice and the second with me holding up a Palestinian flag. Suffice to say, the atmosphere was ruined, and half the audience were outside smoking, and the rest were talking. What had started off as a positive experience ended with me dying on stage. I could have burst into tears when I finished. There was a deathly silence. Not one single person, other than Lee, said “well done” or anything like that. I didn’t get any insults either. I just got ignored.

That changed when the rapper took the stage as he immediately unleashed a tirade of abusive invective, directed at me, because I’d called the noisy bloke a drunkard. You see the rapper is in recovery, which is what all of his screeds of rhyming couplets were about. According to him, this gives him the right to direct ad hominem abuse at me. I sat there, on the verge of tears, wanting the whole world to swallow me up, but I didn’t say anything. The rapper is a big bloke, and his posse of followers were equally muscular. Consequently, I remained mute and anguished as he called me out from on stage. How I wish he could just have had a quiet word with me, instead of humiliating me in public. I tried to talk to him about this after his set, but I didn’t get anywhere.

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. Deafbed were really good musically, technical issues aside and deserved the excellent reception they received. Me? We went home and I wanted to take an overdose. If Shelley hadn’t supported me and held my sobbing body in her arms as I fell asleep, I probably would have done. The evening had been an utter fiasco and I felt as low as I’ve done since my last suicidal episodes in 2020 and 2022.

However, I’m still here and a few days on I can rationalise. The support I had on Facebook was amazing and genuinely touching. Not only from close friends, but from some of my musical heroes, such as Lavinia Blackwall, Chris Frantz, Kevin Lycett, Emma Reed, Simon Shaw, Martin Stephenson, Linda Thompson and John Trubee. If the man who wrote Blind Man’s Penis is speaking up for me, than the world will be okay, as shown by the message in a fortune cookie I opened on Saturday night.

If I ever get offered a gig again, unlikely I know, I’ll take more care with my backing tracks and how they are cued up for starters. I’ll also not play guitar, sticking to the bass in all probability. Then again, I may never play live again as this was such an emotionally draining experience. I just don’t feel strong enough to go through such an ordeal again. That said, I will continue to write words and sounds, with the intention of inflicting them on the general public.