That's the Spirit... take a Gamble.

Thankfully, organising this weekend's Libertine gig didn't take any gambling. Just some salvaging. All that was needed was a bit of luck, some courage and good spirit. The result was a blessing which arrived in disguise at the last minute to kick off a great evening of acoustic and electro-acoustic pop.

That blessing was Claire Gamble, who stepped in to fill the gap in the bill left by The Flakes who cancelled their appearance a few days before the gig (Alright, I think we can drop that one now - Ed). Without her own band, who were unavailable to perform with her at short notice, Claire courageously offered to play with just a little help from her friend Abby.

Planet Claire is a place where one travels to find meaningful relationships and true love. A place where one is safe from disingenuous friend-requests and endless scrolling activity feeds. Planet Claire is a place where people still talk to each other. There, young people still write love letters and carry pencil cases scrawled with band names and intials in love hearts. It's a coffee-less, iphone-less, email-less, technologically-static place in a past-future. Claire herself is an heterosexual Aimee Mann for the reluctant Facebook generation. She is tall, with late-70s Roxy-LP-cover-girl looks and presence. We love her.

Spirit of Play are the young end of the RTYD demographic. They are thirty-something professionals who contacted me back when RTYD was only weeks old, hoping to become involved in my little community of parents and professionals who continue to rock and roll. Thankfully they are now a well established part of it. They make quirky witty intelligent pop. And tonight due to a turn of events they get the headline slot they should have had without fate playing any part in it. The place on the bill that they deserve. They also get 45 minutes to pull out all the stops. It's their last gig of the year. Their last gig of this decade.

For a moment I dream. You know me, I like to. I dream it's 2010, and they're playing on Later with Jools Holland. And why not? It's entirely possible.

If you haven't seen or heard Spirit of Play, imagine the three flatmates in Shallow Grave played by Ewan McGregor, Kerry Fox and Christopher Eccleston. Then imagine the West End musical version of the film, in which the protagonists are renamed Michael, Lucy and Will. They all work at the Times Literary Supplement, and they have a rock band that includes their friends J. and Tom.

As they attempt to dispose of the body of their dead flatmate Hugo and decide what to do with the large amount of cash that they have found by it, they periodically break into song, harmonising about human burial practices, Homebase, hacking up a human body and the resulting post-traumatic stress.

Get the picture?

Flakes

This blog is meant to be honest. So here's how I honestly feel:

PISSED OFF.

What is it with bands that cancel gigs a few days before they are due to play? Gigs that have been booked for months. Usually, they give a good reason. Usually. Though there was the time a singer told me at the eleventh hour that his band couldn't do the gig because his lead guitarist had just informed him that he was going to see Jeff Beck play instead.

Usually, a good reason, as I said. It's whether you believe it or not. And whether you feel the band has made enough of an effort to avoid last-minute cancellation, and ultimately letting you down. Remember, total cancellation can be avoided by an acoustic performance, for instance, or by turning up and playing without the Jeff Beck fan, the injured or the unwell.

When you pick up the phone to your band contact five days before the gig to check that everything is alright, and the voice on the end of the line answers, in a pleasantly surprised tone, "Oh, hi, I was gonna ring you today actually...", you can't help feeling that the gig has never been terrifically high on their give-a-shit list.

The primary reason for this gig cancellation is an injury incured by the band's bass player. Secondary to this, and as if to preempt any suggestion by me of a solo appearance by the physically intact singer/guitarist to salvage the gig, comes details of how the singer/guitarist is currently in the midst of an overwhelming personal and domestic situation.

An offer is made of the contact details of a friend's band that may be able to fill the headline slot. "Okay", I say, "I'll work on finding a replacement today and get back to you if I can't get one myself". No thanks, though, is what I think. Only if I'm desperate. And I ain't. I got my own musician friends and bands, and I can rely on them, thank you very much. I only wish I could have said that on the phone.

Karma. As Colin Gillman will tell you, is a powerful thing.

This is the type of band that it is not worth dealing with. The sort of band that makes me wonder why I bother.

In return for the booking, I asked them to sign up to the Bands, Fans & Industry site. Nothing.

The gig wasn't even on their MySpace. Still, that'll save them calling round all their friends to tell them not to bother turning up.

Unfortunately, with hindsight it's too easy to see the clues.

12 Mince Pies and 14 Carat Grapefruit

Those mince pies have been playing on my mind since Morrisons put them out last week. 'It's too bloody early for mince pies, it's still October', I kept telling myself. Yesterday morning though, I just couldn't hold off any longer. I had a dozen in my trolley before I'd reached the fruit and veg.

So yesterday I ate my first mince pie of the year. And yesterday night I heard my first Christmas song of the year. Courtesy of 14 Carat Grapefruit. If you don't know them, you should. Their songs are rock rants and raves about tarts and posh birds, Scotsmen and Yorkshiremen, Colins and Daves, clergy and hippies, teenagers and modern technology. Virtually no one or nothing is left off 14 Carat Grapefruit's lyrical list of the loathsome.

Just off the far east end of London's Oxford Street, which incidentally already has its Christmas lights in place, if not illuminated, there is a basement club/lounge bar called Punk. No toilet, it is quite respectable, a bit posh even, for a music venue. Tuesday nights there are promoted by Dead or Alive Promotions who also put on gigs at The Comedy, off Leicester Square, as well as at other venues in the capital. This is where I cycle to see 14 Carat Grapefruit.

14 CG take the stage at 8:15. Despite it being a Tuesday night, they are playing to enough of a crowd to make it feel worth while; for them I mean - it's always worthwhile watching them. They are the first of four bands. They are not bothered about headlining, about bill-status, they're bothered about playing regularly, and to their fans. Many of their friends and fans work in the West End and the City, so going on early not only assures that they get to see them in a high-spirited after-work-drinks kinda-situation, but also that the band themselves aren't all too pissed to deliver a good performance.


They are a little ragged tonight, but this is not unusual and is all part of their charm and punkness. There are a few false starts, mostly the result of technical problems caused by what lead-ranter Otto Pthrugg (above) describes as the "IKEA house drum kit", but then musical tightness is not what they're about. Musicianship, I'm sure Otto would tell you, is for musicians, and musicians are all a bunch of righteous and lazy c#*ts. And he wouldn't be exaggerating that much, would he?

They kick off with three newer songs. The first, My Mate Dave, is an attack on Otto's mate Dave, a new-age hippy-type, who despite a diet of health foods, is always unwell. Everyone knows someone like this. Second is Volvo Driving Woman, which finds Otto at his most belligerent yet and sitting at the wheel of his car which is stuck in a car-park queue behind the female protagonist who is attempting to park said vehicle. He is helped in this rendition by a car steering wheel apparently recently acquired on Ebay. A 51-second two-chord wonder follows, and ends with Otto berating his band for always overruling his authority. This leads to string of old favourites including Minger, 40 years, Posh Totty and the afore-mentioned Christmas song.

As well as making me laugh, their Christmas song starts me reflecting on what a good year 2009 has been for 14 Carat Grapefruit. And it ain't over yet. They have a gig at The Enterprise in Chalk Farm for London Tourdates and a Christmas PUNK-ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP gig at the legendary Hope and Anchor, with Punks Not Dad, to come.

The Grapefruit are where what many of us hope to be. They have achieved what many of us aim to achieve. And that is simply to play regularly -they play about once a month. And they don't just look like they're enjoying it - they are enjoying it. And we, the audience, are enjoying ourselves because they are.

After their set, I cycle home for an early night and a mince pie, or two.

Yours acoustically

Hopefully, youhave noticed my recent attempt to spam-rally writers and written contributions for the R-T-Y-D-Webzine. Well, I'm pleased to report an enthusiastic response from a number of members who have put forth a variety of proposals, all of which sound very exciting. I look forward to reading their finished pieces and regular columns.

In other news: I continue to work my way through my repertoire of acoustic songs in preparation for the RTYD Acoustic Afternoon gig on Sunday 15th November at The Libertine. I mentioned the gig to my old saxophone player the other night, in the hope that he would agree to play on two or three (older) songs with me. Songs that he played on ten years ago, or so. It was hard to gauge his reaction, though. He diarised the date and told me it was a question of whether he had the time to rehearse hard and get it spot on, or whether he totally winged it on the day. Bearing in mind the problems I'm having getting my own band to rehearse I wonder whether trying to rehearse another act is further folly.

We'll see. I shall prepare without him and keep my fingers crossed.

I plan to play a mixture of older and newer, upbeat and down-tempo songs from Pocket Rocket's acoustic era, circa 1998/9, and other less well known, even yet to be aired, compositions - if I may call them that. It's been a while since I've performed acoustically. My only recent reference point is of course the infamous Guildford gig, where in lieu of an acoustic guitar (and a headline act!), I played a sedentary set on a Fender Strat. I actually rather enjoyed doing this. But I had very little time to think about it, which probably helped.

Back in the late-90s, Pocket Rocket were quite at home on the chilled acoustic circuit. We were essentially an 'unplugged' or acoustic band for a while there. We became very adept at playing with the dynamics of an acoustic sound. If you listen to A Transitful of Broken Hearted Rhymes, you can hear some of the songs we performed as an acoustic band, and us making a transition into an electric one.

Tomorrow night, Pocket Rocket begins rehearsal for its gig at the Monarch on 11th November. Its a corporate event arranged by our drummer and we're going on early-ish. There should be a guaranteed audience of ad-men and women, enjoying a few thousand quid put behind the bar for them. If you want to blag your way in, let me know and I'll explain how. We are however returning to The Libertine on Saturday night 5th December to play. Watch this space for more details.

How to pack it, that racket: the ongoing saga of the Pocket Rocket EP

So having uploaded Pocket Rocket's new music to all of the band's sites; set up all the necessary links in an attempt to suck any passing surfers into a Pocket Rocket maelstrom; and created the website/gateway URL, which is now the epicentre of the Pocket Rocket web experience; we get to the question of the hard stuff. The stuff you can hold in your old-fashioned hands. Once known as the record, then the CD. Both round, and both now history. The latter is however still useful to up-and-coming, and even down-and-going (over-the-hill) bands such as mine, as a kind of musical business card.

The question is how to present our new CD EP? Despite being in a band of (mostly) working men, we are all feeling the pinch. This is largely due to the fact we all have young children. That disposable income that we look forward to returning one day soon, has yet to re-materialise. For me, a full-time job would help, I suppose. Right now, I can flick through the Argos catalogue, I can even go there and put the catalogue number on that little bit of paper with the little blue-biro that they provide. I just can't take it to the counter and pay for it. Some nights I sit in my living room and look at my hi-fi system and wonder how I ever afforded to treat myself like that.

So, cost is a concern.

Back in the early days, this EP would have been on cassette. The master copy of the cover would have been lovingly designed, cut and stuck together, and given to my dad to photocopy at work. On receipt of the 'demo' design, my dad, being an ad-man - and a direct marketing ad-man at that - would then say something like, "you know, son, you don't want to do it like that, you want do it like this", and would proceed to show me a Radio Rentals direct-marketing campaign in full colour and with flaps that folded up and bits that fell out and stuff. Right, Dad.

But this is a CD. And my Dad has long since shuffled off this mortal coil. So I/we need to decide on what type of 'case' or cover I/we want. And how many CDs I/we want to produce? I say 'I/we' because, while I have discussed much of this with Pocket Rocket's drummer, to call a meeting of the whole band and discuss the issue, would delay the decision making process by about six months.

My thought process goes like this: Full plastic case-thing? Yuck! Digi-pack? Nice, but probably too expensive. Card wallet? Possibly. Have to check the cost.....No, too expensive. Colour insert in vinyl sleeve? More affordable, but could look a bit demo-ish, if not careful. But then, who are we trying to kid? We ain't got distribution. We ain't got a record deal.

1000 CDs? Too expensive. 500 CDs. Too expensive. 100 CDs. More affordable. 50. Not enough CDs.

The thing to also consider is that we will be giving most of these CDs away at gigs. Most bands do this. And if they don't they are losers. The best, and quickest way to get your music out there is to give it away. You can put a price on your CD on-line, but this is only to keep up appearances.

So after considering all of the above, I've decided to opt for 100 CDs which I can get copied for 80 pounds. This and a colour insert (12 x 24cm printed on one side and folded in half) in a vinyl sleeve (Maplins, 9.99 for 100).

Including the colour copying then, this amounts to about 120 quid for 100 CDs. 40 quid each. Not a great price, but getting more money together right now to manufacture more, for a better price per unit, would be almost impossible. We can barely afford to rehearse. And we have an equipment-cage bill of about 200 quid.

Me and Mark McKendrick reminiscing (A review of ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP at The Fiddler's Elbow, Chalk Farm)

It's 2015, and I'm backstage at the Forum in Kentish Town chatting with Mark McKendrick of The Dipsticks. His band is minutes away from playing a set at ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP/LIVE-in-LONDON.

Me: Hey Mark, you remember the time I had you on at the Fiddler's down the road? What was it? A Wednesday night, or somethin'? 2009 or '10?

Mark: It was, it was a Wednesday, man. 2009. That's right. I remember we headlined.

Me: That's right. That was the first time you headlined a ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP night. You'd played one of the early Dublin Castle gigs and gone on first and the place was packed from the off. Great night that was. Remember the Grapefruit played that night too?

Mark: And Spirit of Play, man.

Me: That's it. But the Fiddler's man, remember how empty it was?

Mark: Not as bad as Guildford, man!

Me: Fuck, no. I mean, it wasn't a total disaster, or anything. It was just alright. You were great. All the bands were great. It's just there was only about 30 people there. And I'd worked my arse off to promote it, it was all over the internet, and on Facebook and stuff. Fucking Facebook. Remember how much time we used to waste on fucking Facebook, man?

Mark: Yeah, I do, man.

Me: I remember I had to run home and get a CD player to play those CDs of
ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP bands, cos the PA guy didn't have one. And I put a Pocket Rocket CD on, cos we'd just recorded it, and I wanted to show it off. I remember that. And I remember how the cymbal stands were held together with parcel tape!

Brian Caulfield, alias The Lone Groover enters the room. He's sweating profusely through his customary shirt and waistcoat, and clearly buzzed, having just come off stage.

Me: Hey man! D'you enjoy that? Sounds like they want more?

Brian: I really enjoyed it Tobe, thanks, man,

Me: I saw the first part of your set out front, but I had to get back here and sort some stuff out. Sounded fantastic though

Brian: It's like a dream come true playing to an audience like that. They were all singing along to me last song, man. Me wife and the twins are out there too. Shall, I go back out?

Me: Why not, man?

Brian: Is there time?

Me: For you Brian? Just quickly though, I was just saying to Mark, you remember that gig at the Fiddler's, way back? You came down on your own, as always...

Brian nods enthusiastically, but the words don't come out, he's too excited. Naturally, his mind's on getting back out there to play an encore. He looks repeated from my face to the door and back again.

I persevere.

Me: The twins we're even born yet, if I remember. You came to all those shows, man. Even before you were playing 'em.

Brian: (hurriedly) Yeah. Well, it's been worth it mate. Look at today.

Mark: Yeah, man. Look at today.... Where's Angie, man, anyway, she should be here by now.

Brian: Anyway, I better get out there.

Me: Sure man, go for it.

Brain grabs his towel and legs it out of the room.

Me: C'mon Mark. You can't be fretting about Angie, you know she'll turn up in the nick of time. Always does. Shall we go and watch this encore from the side of the stage?

Mark and I get up and make our way down the narrow corridors that lead to the side of the stage. We pass Barry from Strange Behaviour on the way.


Me: Well played, Barry. Happy?

Barry: Thanks Toby, yeah. Great. Loved it.

Me: And the boys?

Barry: Yeah, apart from Gerry. He didn't think he played as well as he could've.

Mark: Didn't notice, man.

Barry opens the door to the loos.

Me and Mark (virtually in unison): See you in a bit, man.

Me: Didn't Strange Behaviour play that night too? At the Fiddlers.

Mark: Yeah, man. They did, you're right.

Me: I think that was the beginning of me booking you and them to play together. So well matched you too, your bands, I mean.

At stage-side, the other Barry, Barry Charman of Free State Prophets and The Gowletts is bouncing up and down to the Lone Groover's encore of Eton Rifles. I tap him on the shoulder.

Me: Alright, Barry. How was it for you?

Barry C: Yeah, wicked, Tobe. Wicked. Gotta play with the Prophets next time, man. You should hear our new CD. And our new drummer. Fucking wicked, mate. Really on it, you know?

Me: Great stuff.

Barry turns and continues to pogo to Brian's rendition of the Jam classic and I return to my conversation with Mark.

Me: Do you remember there was that guy playing lead guitar with first band, and he'd played in Buddy Miles' band for a while? Amazing player.

Mark: No, man, I don't .

Me: No? I remember cashing up that night, and not really having any money left over to pay you guys.

Mark: I think you gave a tenner or somit, man?

Me: Shit. I made no money from those gigs in those days, man. I do remember wondering whether to carry on with it around then.

Mark: Fucking glad you did, man.

Me: Me too, man.

Better out than in: October's Acoustic Afternoon at The Libertine

Another fine afternoon was had by all those assembled for music, beer, roast and colouring-in, at the Libertine yesterday.

Colin Gillman opened proceedings by sitting down with a cup of tea and playing his first ever solo acoustic gig. And why not? I really enjoyed his set, which included new songs Elvis Night at Andy's and Goodbye Ophelia, as well as songs that he composed for his former band Magic Ship.

A bespectacled Patrick Begley, he of Dipsticks fame, also sedentary, performed an engaging set of songs with guitar playing that wouldn't have seemed out of place on Led Zep 3. His bold a capella rendition of a Leadbelly song, was a highlight, and silenced the room.

Tracy Picardi, upstanding, lightened the mood with a set of upbeat songs, and the sweetest voice of the afternoon. Toes started tapping and children downed colour pencils and started dancing and whooping.

Brian Caulfield (pictured above), stalwart of the RTYD scene, and his new guitarist Matthew Quinn (united by RTYD itself, I'm proud to say), were next up, performing under the alias of the Lone Groover and Wonder Boy. Brian's playfully lyrical musical commentaries on modern life and his nostalgic reminiscences kept the adults amused and the ankle-biters on the dance-floor. Between his set of self-penned songs was sandwiched a well-chosen Lone Groover-ised version of The Jam's Eton Rifles, which cleared up one or two of Weller's lyrics that the modfather himself has managed to masticate into incoherence since 1979. Thanks Brian.

Finally RTYD member and professional musician, Jay Stapley, demanded quiet and got it, by wowing the audience with his technical ability and his witty, narrative songs. Delivered with aplomb and mid-song banter, he made it all look so easy. Which, of course, it isn't.

Virtually all of the musicians playing yesterday afternoon, we're nervous about performing. I know 'cos they told me. But they we're all rising to a challenge that they had set for themselves. This challenge involves disconcerting one's self and laying one's self and one's songs bare. It's one of the hardest gigs a musician can play. Either the audience are hanging on your every note, or you need to try to impress them into doing so.

But if you don't have a band (yet), it's better to be playing and developing your songs and craft in this sort of situation, than doing fuck all with 'em. Songs need to be sung. Songs, as Michael Caines of Spirit of Play reminded me at the show yesterday, don't come alive until you perform them and you project them in a room like this. Better out than in.

If you do have a band, though, sometimes you can feel the need to break out of its mould. Of the trappings of it genre, or instrumentation. To make music that differs from that which you play regularly. This is my reason for wanting to book myself to play The Libertine. The challenge for me, is to do it next month. As it is for Graham Hunt, alias mature musician blogger Furtheron and writer of the Guitars and Life blog. Check out his blog, as he too rises to the challenge.