I am cursed.
Saturday evening I turn up on time for the last rehearsal before the gig. Nobody is there. So I start to get worried. The last gig (prior to me joining) was at the Baptist church. All our rehearsals are at the Baptist church. I know our gig is at “the church”. Surely it is the Baptist church? Isn’t it?
A lad appears?
“Are you here for the gig?”
“Choir practice.”
I worry and phone L.
“… St Andrew’s Church, Wheeliebinfen … ”
I hobble off in the evening heat. Sweating away, lolloping along with music stand, score and gig bag waggling along.
20 minutes later I arrive. There are conveniently two St Andrew’s of Wheeliebinfen churches in the village, both of the same denomination neither of which are Baptist. I have opted for one at random and for once the gods have favoured me, as in the graveyard I see three of our number wandering about like lost wise men before an epiphany.
My epiphany comes when I see them all dressed in black trousers and white shirts. They stare back at my all black outfit. I have broken the dress code.
“No worry.” They all say as I hurry inside sweating and worrying. Not a good start.
“I’ve brought my music recorder to record the gig.” I announce.
“Oh, good I forgot mine.”
I feel vindicated. Purchasing my over priced and highly unnecessary man toy has proved useful in the end. I turn it on.
“Battery too low.” It sneers before winking out.
The leader of our merry band looks me up and down.
“… No need for you to come on at the beginning.”
I am instructed to hide behind a pillar till The Greek Suite is to be played and then jump out and sneak to the back of the group where my sweaty black t-shirt wont be seen. Hopefully, playing 4th mandolin in The Second Mandolins section I will be almost invisible and inaudible.
“Listen everybody, I don’t think we have time to rehearse The Greek Suite so we’ll just play bits of … everything else.”
I am crest fallen and depart briefly to Tesco-lite to buy batteries and a bottle of water. By now I have squeezed out what little moisture I had through every pore under my black t-shirt.
On the way back I guzzle the water and think of Ice Cold in Alex, except without the desert, ambulance, tasty nurse or indeed the beer.
I set-up the recorder and scurry to my hiding place. The concert begins.
The mandolins are excellent. Hardly a note missed they gaily skip through The Ambrosias Suite and Percy Granger’s Gay But Wistful. After the dying applause I sneak into my seat at the back and gear up to play. A brief introduction to the works of Manos Hatzidakis follows and we strike up. 3 pieces later I’m done. A few bum notes but my first ever concert for the paying public and I was reading music and playing and everything.
Finally from behind another pillar comes the flute soloist. I skip off stage and she is simply brilliant leading the last of the Ambrosias Flute Concerto.
We break for a glass of wine and I turn off the recorder.
Now, I’m off plonk due to it not agreeing with the medication I’m on for RA. But to hell with that. I’m off the hook. We’re done. I’m done I mean. I need to relax so I neck a glass and a half of cool white in the evening shade of the churchyard glade.
Eventually we return for the saxophone quartet. 3 very tasty young girls and a lad. Sort of The Corrs with saxophones. I start the recorder which immediately says “card full” before sniggering into oblivion. I retreat.
The sax Corrs are amazingly professional and sound even better than they look. The place goes mental. Applause. Exit.
“You were coming in too early and playing too fast” one of The Seconds repeatedly tells me as we tidy up and put our chairs on the tables. I frown briefly before imploding.
In the pub later I dive into the Ice Cold in Alex style tall glass of German weiss beir. I’m sure my liver will not be amused but I no longer care.
In the corner of the pub the sax Corrs respond to the demands of the landlord and strike up a medley as a beer glass is passed round and is soon bulging deservedly with bank notes and coins.
The pub stays open late for us and the night is merry. In the wee small hours I stagger home to bed and sleep like the dead.
Next day I examine the recording. It sounds good. Partly due to the technology, partly due to the orchestras masterful playing but mostly due to the card running our literally seconds before I hit the first string. The Manos Hatzidakis blurb sound very interesting though.
Lessons learned for the next gig on Friday.
