Pocket at rocket speed

Pocket Rocket played for the corporation again last night. To at least a hundred admen and adwomen, employees of the advertising agency Wunderman, whose London office is at Greater London House on Mornington Crescent in south Camden. My drummer works for the company, as did my late-father in the 80s and early 90s. This is a coincidence. As is the fact my drummer and I share a birthday, and were both adopted.

The gig is an annual affair organised by my drummer. For Pocket Rocket, it is a guaranteed audience of young people enjoying a thousand quid or so behind the bar and the chance to let their hair down on a Wednesday night.

I'm on the wagon, so a corporate card behind the bar is no good to me. After three or four days of abstinence under my belt, I have decided to push on, and at seven days, I resolved to remain abstinent for the entire month preceeding the silly season. Typical of me. No real reason for it, I just like to challenge myself, I suppose. And I do sleep better, and I'm less grumpy.

The result is that I feel like a spectator all night. I feel like the bouncer must do every night. And the bar staff. Like them, I'm here to do a job. To load equipment in. To lend backline. To soundcheck. To play. And bring down and load out equipment.

Soundcheck is without our bass player who has a dreadful cold and will be arriving minutes before we play, to perform and go straight home to bed; another one of us doing a job. I bet he wished he could ring in sick.

Soundcheck goes okay though. Only the bass drum is being miked. Which is okay. But I can't get the brightness I'd like to hear from my amp.

We go on at 8pm, after our drummer's daughter's band Roxxi, who are all thirteen and sound very good indeed. I'm pleased for them.

From the off I cannot hear my guitar. And I wish it was miked up. The stage is low and we are playing to a wall of people standing in high-ceilinged wooden-floored space. The result is a fuzzy wash of cymbals and guitar and chatter. I'm pushing my voice to be heard. I cannot relax 'cos I can't hear what I'm playing or if I'm my guitar's in tune. When I come to the resignation that it must be in tune, I relax a bit, but I still can't get into it. We play everything at rocket speed, and this kills any funkiness. We are against the clock. And our set is too long. We have to cut a song. But I can't wait to get off to be honest, so that's okay. Did I say that I was less grumpy off the booze?

I'm sure, all in all, it sounded fine. The girls at the front are dancing and the first few rows seemed attentive enough. I just didn't enjoy myself. It's a shame.

Band five of six have the place jumping in hip-hop stylee. I'm glad we didn't have to follow them.