Week 2 - Thursday 13th January 2011 - The Globe, Cardiff – NO SWEAT present: Siencyn + Fjords + The Sky Designed - £4.50 (Including online transaction fee of 50p, lest we forget)
“This place is emptier than Tiger Woods’ ball bag. . .”
These were the immortal words uttered by Sandro as we entered The Globe before our 2nd gig of the year. I assumed he meant after Tiger had been to the driving range, but I may have missed something.
There were about 15 people inside the venue at the time. Considering that the lineup consisted of Fjords, a 7-piece, The Sky Designed, a quintet, and singer/songwriter Siencyn (who was at least one person), Sandro and I may have been the only real audience members. For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether this gig would meet the criteria for Gigaweek, so I checked the Gigaweek commandments. Thankfully there was nothing in the scriptures to say we couldn’t be the only people in the crowd. Or that Sandro couldn’t wear frilly knickers.
It was to be a night of four key elements: Expensive alcohol, interesting local music, and bad maths.
It must be said that the audience did grow throughout. There were 16 people by the end.
It must be said that the audience did grow throughout. There were 16 people by the end.
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The gig was part of The Globe’s Twenty4Eleven festival that I referred to last time, a mini-festival taking place over the course of 20 days throughout January. With tickets at four quid per night, it had the three most crucial ingredients for the Gigaweek challenge: It was cheap, it was local, and it was cheap (I know my priorities).
The night had begun excitingly as I joined my old man and amateur chauffer, Parge, to pick up Sandro from outside the Hilton hotel in the pouring rain. It was edge-of-the-seat stuff. Sandro had been to Birmingham for a work related meeting, so as you'd expect, he’d already helped himself to a few beers by the time I met him. By 8 o’clock we were in The Claude, one of many pubs in the vicinity of The Globe, enjoying a pre-gig pint.
Crucially, Sandro got the first round in, and being a man of taste and refinement he opted for two bottles of strawberry Brothers cider. “They’re £3.65 each mind you,” the barman warned him wild-eyed. Unlike many men deeper of pocket, Sandro was unfazed and he bravely nodded his approval. However, Sandro was fazed when the total cost was declared to be £7.50.
“You said £3.65 each,” he replied to the barman gravely. The barman’s eyes rolled up to the calculator in his mind as he called on the memory of his 365 times table.
Sandro waved his right hand slowly from left to right,
“You don’t need the extra 20p,” he told him.
“I don’t need the extra 20p,” the barman replied entranced.
“We can go about our business,” Sandro continued.
“You can go about your business,” the barman agreed.
“Move along,” Sandro finished.
“Move along,” the barman repeated.
“These aren’t the coins you’re looking for,” I chipped in, in my finest Alec Guinness voice.
“You what?” the barman said coming to his senses. Sandro hastily shepherded me away.
“You said £3.65 each,” he replied to the barman gravely. The barman’s eyes rolled up to the calculator in his mind as he called on the memory of his 365 times table.
Sandro waved his right hand slowly from left to right,
“You don’t need the extra 20p,” he told him.
“I don’t need the extra 20p,” the barman replied entranced.
“We can go about our business,” Sandro continued.
“You can go about your business,” the barman agreed.
“Move along,” Sandro finished.
“Move along,” the barman repeated.
“These aren’t the coins you’re looking for,” I chipped in, in my finest Alec Guinness voice.
“You what?” the barman said coming to his senses. Sandro hastily shepherded me away.
We left soon after and headed for the main event. I’d tried to down the last 100ml or so of my cider and succeeded only in spilling half of it down the side of my face, but that’s how I roll.
Surprisingly there was no queue outside The Globe (have people not heard of Fjords?).
On entering, even the old boy manning the till was surprised to see us. “Oh hello!” he welcomed, looking startled. Sandro gave him the reference number for our tickets and he looked even more perplexed.
“Oh! You bought online, did you? Really!?” he said taken aback, seemingly both at the fact that this was possible, and that we had done so.
Surprisingly there was no queue outside The Globe (have people not heard of Fjords?).
On entering, even the old boy manning the till was surprised to see us. “Oh hello!” he welcomed, looking startled. Sandro gave him the reference number for our tickets and he looked even more perplexed.
“Oh! You bought online, did you? Really!?” he said taken aback, seemingly both at the fact that this was possible, and that we had done so.
This was becoming disconcerting. Did he greet all the customers this way? (“You’ve come here?? Really? Oh dear, you must be from out of town!”) But he continued earnestly. “Is it any band in particular you’re interested in seeing?”
“Uh, yeah, Fjords,” Sandro replied hesitantly, but the old boy looked none the wiser.
Whether he knew there was even a band called Fjords playing is open to debate, all I knew was that it was quiet, too quiet. Also, I wasn’t sure if I could smell burning incense, or if the old boy had been at the marijuana. The incense sticks dotted around the place were offering me no clues.
“Uh, yeah, Fjords,” Sandro replied hesitantly, but the old boy looked none the wiser.
Whether he knew there was even a band called Fjords playing is open to debate, all I knew was that it was quiet, too quiet. Also, I wasn’t sure if I could smell burning incense, or if the old boy had been at the marijuana. The incense sticks dotted around the place were offering me no clues.
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There followed Sandro’s allusion to Tiger Woods as we entered the almost deserted main room. Like all right thinking individuals, we made a beeline for the bar. Suffice to say there wasn’t a queue, so I stepped up to the plate. A pint bottle of pear Gaymers for £3 and a £4, 660ml bottle of Peroni later and I knew I’d already forgotten my aforementioned priorities.
In terms of value for money, I was pleased that things had improved since last week. I’m still bitter about those £3.50, 330ml Bulmers bottles I willingly paid for. I must admit I was impressed by the 660ml bottle of Peroni in particular, although the barman seemed to be overawed completely by it, referring to it as a litre and a half bottle. Maybe he meant a pint and a half, but either way he clearly had the same maths teacher as the barman at The Claude.
Sandro and I struggled courageously through the crowd, fortunately managing to find a couple of spare seats and a table to park our massive bottles (that’s not a euphemism). It turned out that Fjords had moved to second on the bill. A major blow. The reasons we were later given by a shady character, was that there was an agreement with someone of influence that they shouldn't be listed as the ‘headline’ act.
I’ve found myself in such predicaments many times myself. “It’s not that we don’t want your name associated with the evening,” I’ve been told sympathetically, “It’s that we don’t know who you are or why you keep asking to perform, so piss off.” Who’d have thought people could be so protective of karaoke?
Whatever the actual reason, it meant The Sky Designed would be last on, with Siencyn set to open proceedings. Regardless, this was a momentous occasion indeed, one that may well be talked about for decades to come. Not only was it Fjords first ever gig under the name Fjords (having previously been known as Don’t Tread On Spiders), it was also The Sky Designed’s first ever gig under any name whatsoever. And judging by the way the crowd reacted, it was Siencyn’s last ever gig. Only kidding, he’s got at least one more in him.
The internet tells me that Siencyn is the alias for Adam Jenkins, who is also the singer and guitarist of a South Wales based progressive rock band named Opious. I couldn’t believe it either. He had a very thick valleys accent (as opposed to a thin valley), and a quiet unassuming stage presence. I quite enjoyed the six songs he performed in total, which included three of his own, plus covers of Bill Withers’ ‘Grandma’s Hands’ and Seasick Steve’s ‘Last Po’man’, and then due to popular demand, as a bonus we got a rendition of Radiohead’s ‘Karma Police’ to close. The less easily impressed Sandro, seemed entirely unmoved.
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Hot on his heels were Fjords! who sadly don’t really have an exclamation mark after their name, unlike Sandro! They had home made T-shirts to show off their new name. Well, two of them did. The lead singer and lead guitarist both wore white T-shirts on which they’d sprayed on black letters, presumably with the idea that if six of them wore them, they could spell Fjords (why one of them had the letter C on his is beyond me).
But they're a 7-piece remember, so what would the 7th member wear, you ask? Exactly. That’s where the exclamation mark comes in, my first act as new manager of the band.
But they're a 7-piece remember, so what would the 7th member wear, you ask? Exactly. That’s where the exclamation mark comes in, my first act as new manager of the band.
They were notable for having dual vocalists, a trumpeter, a female drummer, and importantly, a short bassist, all unique selling points. The female vocalist had Florence red hair, and Sandro was sure that she used makeup/foundation to make her skin paler.
“Nobody’s that white,” he said knowingly. “She’s a user, trust me.” She also played a violin rather well, although it may have been a viola and she could have been shit at it for all I know.
They opened with a proper stomper called 'Russian Doll' that rattled along and caught our attention. They continued apace following up with several more songs including one unforgettably called 'My Week in Shinjuko'. It kept Sandro and I entertained and interested, and the rest of the audience, which by now may have hit the 50 mark (!), seemed to feel similarly.
“Nobody’s that white,” he said knowingly. “She’s a user, trust me.” She also played a violin rather well, although it may have been a viola and she could have been shit at it for all I know.
They opened with a proper stomper called 'Russian Doll' that rattled along and caught our attention. They continued apace following up with several more songs including one unforgettably called 'My Week in Shinjuko'. It kept Sandro and I entertained and interested, and the rest of the audience, which by now may have hit the 50 mark (!), seemed to feel similarly.
Sandro had seen enough to give them his seal of approval, though not without a few minor criticisms.
“If I was their manager,” (Shit, I’ve got competition, I thought.) “I’d start by making some slight alterations. Firstly, the short bassist is underused. He was great in the first few songs, they need to utilise him more and I’d make him wear platform shoes,” I made a mental note.
“Secondly, the lad on the trumpet, with the big curly hair: he’s gone. Twiddling his thumbs too much, unless they make more use of his multi-instrumentalist skills.” (During one song he’d shown his flair with a glockenspiel.)
“The trumpet isn’t really worth the tour bus space. The girl too, Florence. She’s out. The other singer’s better when he’s on his own. Plus we don't want any users in the band. That guitarist too: he can go.”
“So these slight changes,” I surmised. “Basically involve decimating half the band. Do you think they’ll approve? I imagine they’re all friends.”
Sandro nodded.
“Once they’ve seen my track-record, they’ll approve.”
He had a point. 47 seconds in the 400m hurdles for a man of Sandro’s size and shape is incredible.
“If I was their manager,” (Shit, I’ve got competition, I thought.) “I’d start by making some slight alterations. Firstly, the short bassist is underused. He was great in the first few songs, they need to utilise him more and I’d make him wear platform shoes,” I made a mental note.
“Secondly, the lad on the trumpet, with the big curly hair: he’s gone. Twiddling his thumbs too much, unless they make more use of his multi-instrumentalist skills.” (During one song he’d shown his flair with a glockenspiel.)
“The trumpet isn’t really worth the tour bus space. The girl too, Florence. She’s out. The other singer’s better when he’s on his own. Plus we don't want any users in the band. That guitarist too: he can go.”
“So these slight changes,” I surmised. “Basically involve decimating half the band. Do you think they’ll approve? I imagine they’re all friends.”
Sandro nodded.
“Once they’ve seen my track-record, they’ll approve.”
He had a point. 47 seconds in the 400m hurdles for a man of Sandro’s size and shape is incredible.
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The Sky Designed finished off the gig. Another unsigned Cardiff band, they shared some musical similarities with Fjords. An alternative/indie band with a penchant for trumpets, plus male and female vocalists, though they couldn’t quite match Fjords’ tunes. Then again, who can? Their bassist had a great moustache though.
(I may not be able to remember their songs, or describe their music in any way, but by God I’ll get the details of their facial hair spot on.)
The male singer was curly haired and bearded, by the way. He also had a booming voice, and wasn’t afraid to use it. For a first gig they can be proud. If it wasn’t a first gig and I just misheard, they should be thouroughly ashamed.
(I may not be able to remember their songs, or describe their music in any way, but by God I’ll get the details of their facial hair spot on.)
The male singer was curly haired and bearded, by the way. He also had a booming voice, and wasn’t afraid to use it. For a first gig they can be proud. If it wasn’t a first gig and I just misheard, they should be thouroughly ashamed.
Our night was topped off in the only way it should be, by some healthy kebab meat and chips from the Adonis on city road, followed by a taxi home. Sandro paid for the kebabs, not in an act of generosity, but in the understanding that I would therefore pay for the taxi, which I did. Sort of.
After the previous week’s gig (the YMAS extravaganza), we’d ended with a heated discussion regarding who’s supposed to pay for the taxi. On that occasion, I’d paid from the back seat and Sandro had added a £1 tip from his position in the passenger’s seat in front. I’d not seen this and tipped the driver a pound coin myself.
The driver had therefore received £8 for a £6 fare. He must have thought we were high rollers.
The driver had therefore received £8 for a £6 fare. He must have thought we were high rollers.
On realizing this drastic error, Sandro and I then discussed, in detail, the future protocol for tipping a taxi driver. I had explicitly requested, nay, stated, that whoever pays the fare should also pay the tip. Now I’d drunk a fair few £3.50, 330ml bottles of Bulmers, but I was convinced that this had been agreed by Sandro.
On this occasion, the fare was £6 once more. My wallet contained a fiver and a tenner. I dallied, in two minds. Sandro intuitively realised my predicament, and responded faster than I did. Showing remarkable dexterity for a big man, with one hand he reached for his own change, and with the other he took my fiver and paid the driver. Crisis averted. . .
But what of the tip?
On this occasion, the fare was £6 once more. My wallet contained a fiver and a tenner. I dallied, in two minds. Sandro intuitively realised my predicament, and responded faster than I did. Showing remarkable dexterity for a big man, with one hand he reached for his own change, and with the other he took my fiver and paid the driver. Crisis averted. . .
But what of the tip?
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“I gave him a 40p tip,” Sandro said.
“40p!” I replied in shame. “You gave him £6.40?”
“No I gave him £6.20. The fare was £5.80,” Sandro responded.
“No it wasn’t, it was £6! So we tipped him 10p each! He’ll starve!” I said, feeling guilty.
“So what? Serves him right for being so boring,” Sandro said compassionately.
Our voices were raised now. It would’ve been a bizarre argument to overhear at midnight on a school night.
“Maybe he’s shy!” I said, defending the poor mute.
“He’s a taxi driver!” Sandro said unsympathetically.
“He’s a taxi driver!” Sandro said unsympathetically.
“You can be a shy taxi driver,” I protested. “Look at Travis Bickle!”
Maybe not the best example I could have used, I thought.
“My tip to him is: be a little friendlier and entertaining if you want a tip. We paid him for his services. He should be satisfied with that. He’s got an extra 20p to go toward his next sex doll,” Sandro said scathingly.
“I wonder how many tips he’d have to take off us before he could afford one,” I wondered aloud.
“I’ve no idea,” Sandro lied.
“This is why we agreed what we agreed last week. To avoid this kind of travesty, it’s an inequality of tipping is what it is. One guy gets a 25% tip and the next gets a 3% tip,” (it was a night of bad maths).
“Well why didn’t you give him any tip then? Wasn’t that the agreement? Isn’t it therefore you, who has brought poverty on this innocent, shy driver?”
I ignored this logic, because I knew it was correct, and my sarcasm sensor was tingling,
I ignored this logic, because I knew it was correct, and my sarcasm sensor was tingling,
“You’re like an itch on the elbow of a one armed man,” Sandro continued with disdain.
“Reassuring?” I suggested hopefully.
“No, a persistent irritation.”
“You’ve got a nerve,” I countered, “I smell a rat. . .” I then added, in what was nothing other than a not-so subtle allusion to next week’s gig, and probably didn’t really make sense in the context of our actual conversation.
Expect alot of that.
Expect alot of that.
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January
1-7 - You Me At Six - ✓
8-14 - Fjords - ✓
15-21 - The Walkmen
22-28 - Walter Schreifels
15-21 - The Walkmen
22-28 - Walter Schreifels
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