Tim Dowling: have you ever heard the one in regards to the out-of-tune banjo? My banjo, to be precise

0
11
Tim Dowling: have you ever heard the one in regards to the out-of-tune banjo? My banjo, to be precise

The band I’m in is in the midst of its autumn tour: Hertford, Stroud, Nottingham, Scunthorpe. On the primary night time, in Oxford, we play in a giant church, the place I make a acutely aware determination to censor the profanity of sure lyrics, then neglect all about it and depart the F-word ringing towards the previous stone columns.

On the second night time we’re within the theatre of a specialist music faculty. In all places we go backstage we hear devices being performed brilliantly on the opposite aspect of the partitions: piano, drums, trumpet.

“It’s a bit worrying,” says the bass participant. “These folks all know the way music is meant to sound.”

“They don’t appear to have a banjo programme right here,” I say. “Which is fortunate.”

Within the second set, the fifth tune begins with a brand new association: a sonorous drone supplied by the keyboard participant which is supposed to set the environment. Sadly I’m obliged to tune my banjo whereas it’s happening.

“Don’t fear,” I inform the viewers. “That is a part of it.”

For the third gig of the tour we head to Cornwall to play at Carnglaze Caverns. Forward of our arrival I’ve managed to glean just one truth in regards to the place: it’s a cave. I think about which means the venue is a few form of cellar, or a constructing making the most of a pure dent within the panorama, maybe with a craggy again wall.

However what it really means is: it’s a cave. Or extra particularly, an previous slate quarry hollowed into huge underground vaults by centuries of digging, 150 metres again into the hillside, with the stage on the far finish. There’s a golf buggy obtainable to drive our stuff into the cave, and a giant field of arduous hats sitting in entrance of the cafe exterior.

“Do I’ve to put on one in all these?” I say.

“Not whereas we’re taking part in, apparently,” says the drummer.

There’s surprisingly little echo within the cave – due, they are saying, to the chisel marks protecting each vaulted floor – however the venue presents different challenges. It’s a relentless 10C inside, and humid. My glasses fog over and keep that approach. My banjo, once I decide it up, is slippery to the contact.

Our dressing room is definitely the entrance room of a bungalow – by the cave mouth – the place the cavern’s homeowners Tony and Lisa reside. The remainder of the band are warming up their devices, however I’ve left my banjo within the cave as a result of I was nervous it might be unattainable to tune after a journey from a moist 10C to a dry 21C, and again once more. The fiddle participant comes into the room and seems to be at me.

“Your spouse is right here,” he says, in a tone supposed to convey delicate alarm.

“Uh-oh,” I say. I’m going exterior to search out her dripping in a gentle rain.

“I bought so misplaced,” she says.

“Come into the dressing room,” I say. “It’s a home.”

By present time the rain has let up. There’s, after all, just one approach to the stage from the cave’s entrance: by means of the viewers, up the central aisle. We determined to play ourselves in, like a marching band, however as a result of I’ve left my banjo onstage I’m obliged to stroll behind everybody with my arms in my pockets, like an previous uncle who for unspecified causes can’t be left unaccompanied. My banjo, once I get to it, is slimy, however in tune.

Enjoying within the cavern is frankly superb – the lighting is dramatic, the acoustics are unbelievable and the viewers can hardly consider their environment. By the sixth tune of the second set, nonetheless, the humidity is taking its toll on the banjo. By the point I’ve tuned the final string, the primary one is out once more. This isn’t the primary time this has occurred; we have now a contingency plan, which consists of a well-rehearsed anti-banjo monologue which the guitar participant has already launched in to, and which finishes with a joke written on a chunk of paper sitting in my breast pocket.

The entire arrange works because it ought to – we attain the punchline simply because the banjo lastly holds its tuning. Then the guitar proclaims the identify of the following tune, and my abdomen drops.

“Wait, what?” I say. The room falls silent.

“Have you ever tuned up for the incorrect tune?” the guitar participant says.

“I don’t even play the banjo on this one,” I say.

As I stroll to the again of the stage to change my banjo for a guitar – a guitar which I’ll quickly uncover can also be out of tune – I’ve time to replicate on the distinction between an viewers of a number of hundred folks laughing with you, and laughing at you. The distinction, I realise, lies mainly in forgetting to say: that is a part of it.


Supply hyperlink