Failing In Public...

....or living with a bad gig.

Normally the kind of chap that breezes through life with little preparation for whatever I’m doing, yet managing - by some fluke of nature - to always get the job done well, I think I finally learned a valuable life lesson this past week. A little late in the day you may think, for someone who will be 52 next birthday, but we’re never too old to learn. My approach to gigs has always been to wait to see who’s in attendance, then tailor the entertainment on-the-fly, as it were. It’s worked very well for many years and managed to keep the bills paid for as long as I can remember, but last week I managed to do the seemingly impossible, and steer my train clean off the rails in spectacular fashion.
I have to break one of my cardinal rules - the one where I keep my trumpet in its case and never blow it regarding the charity gigs I do. I’ve done hundreds over the years in various guises, but hate it when people want a medal and a fanfare for simply helping their fellow man (and woman of course) when they need help most - but I have to do so here, in order to tell the story.

I’d been recording a young lady called Zoe, singing Christmas songs for the mental health charity M.I.N.D. She’s had free use of my little studio for the entire day, and I was happy to help, providing the backing music for the project, then spending the entire night mixing and burning the tracks to disks. So, having been up all night, and with 2 gigs the following day to do, I knew it would be tough, my being so tired and all, but I wasn’t unduly worried. I had no time to think about the Friday evening gig and hadn’t even thought about what I’d sing and play, and as I left for my afternoon gig I knew I’d barely have time to go home to pick up my guitars between gigs, and certainly have no time to get a shower etc. It got to around 4pm on Friday and as I was enjoying the company of the regulars at the Cranker, I decided to break another of my rules and have a few drinks. This turned into half a dozen drinks (on a very empty stomach) and by the time the car came for me at 6pm (for a 7pm start several miles away at the evening gig) I was feeling slightly fuzzy around the edges, but still not too worried.

As I collected my guitars I was asked by the landlady what I’d be doing at the gig. I said I was going to go online and print out the music to a few things I’d had a mind to doing for a while, but never actually played at all, and maybe start with three or four songs that were new to me - and of course to anyone else who knows what I do. I was told very clearly that this didn’t seem a great idea, given that I was obviously tired, had obviously had a drink and was heading for a bad night at 1,000MPH. Nonsense, I said, heading upstairs with the laptop to use the printer that there isn’t room for downstairs.
Several minutes of whirring and clicking sounds later, I was all set. I’d begin with the new stuff then stroll gently into familiar territory. Everything would be fine, you’ll see. Besides, I’d done this kind of thing well over 4,000 times before, and had been doing upwards of 6 gigs a week since I was 16 years old, so if I can’t do it, who can? At the venue, The Anvil, I met with a couple of musician pals of mine, Pete Shields and Eddie “Nice Guy Eddie” Duncombe, who introduced me to the other group that would be on, a due called “Emily Needs”. They were lovely people, Alan and Verity and we got along just fine. I was enjoying myself as I began getting my stuff out of the cases, and even had another drink. I had a slight setback, when I realised I had no strap for my guitar - I’d taken the Gretsch, where I’d normally take the Gibson Frankenstein or the dreadnought I’ve had forever for live solo gigs - but Lou (road manager, confidant and all round nice chap) said he’d go back to Gadrock Towers and get my strap and off he went.

I began settling in for a sound check, but couldn’t do it right without my guitar around my neck. I cursed having brought the Gretsch, which is a great guitar for recording, but the neck is much thinner than my other guitars, so I normally have it cradled in my lap, in order to have full control over it. I felt the time was right to bring it into the live arena and learn to control it from my normal (standing) stance, after all a guitar is a guitar, right? Lou came back, but he had the black lockable strap that lives on my white guitar. The strap locks that prevent an expensive piece of wood from a fight with the cement, were made to fit custom buttons (the strap connection on the guitar body) and wouldn’t fit the Gretsch. I said no matter, I’ll just hold the guitar, it’ll be fine. I set up a music stand and propped up the sheet music to the songs I didn’t know and had never played before. I sat scanning the chords to the first one, the Stereophonics track “Maybe Tomorrow”. I strummed the first chord and right away I didn’t agree with the first chord the Tab author had written above the lyrics. I get the sheets from Ultimate Guitar Tab.com and all of the music is the interpretation of other guitarists, with the best guesses at how the tunes go being ranked by a voting system and stars from 1 to 5. As this had been the top scoring tab, I had no worries about it, after all they were normally spot on and had I been at home playing it to upload to the net - as I often do when something takes my fancy - I could have simply gone onto You Tube to check what the real writer of the song was playing live, or at least go and check out a different version of the sheet music. But I was at my gig and it was almost show time.
I didn’t like not having a strap on my guitar, and the choice of seating was between a tiny chair that looked like it belonged to nursery school, or a bar stool that was around 4 feet tall. One way too high, the other way too small.
Faced with the Goldilocks syndrome, I plumped for the tall option and climbed up onto the lofty perch. The second obstacle was the mic stand. I have my own set up upside down, so instead of the stand coming up at 45 degrees, then the end of the arm (with the mic clip) bending level to your mouth, I have mine so it comes up the same, but I have the end of the boom inverted, so it comes up under my chin, as opposed to being in front of my nose. It was the stand that belonged to the other band, so I felt a little wary of altering it, as I was worried they might have thought I was saying “You’re doing it all wrong” and as they’d been together for 19 years it wasn’t like I was talking to rookies in this game, so I decided to just go with it. Once seated I realised I may as well have been doing a headstand to play, I was so uncomfortable and in such and unfamiliar position, I began to have a slightly sinking feeling, but I still wasn’t too bothered as I thought I’d do a quick sound check, then ask Alan if he minded my bending his stand into a funny shape, maybe finding a different seat and maybe borrow a guitar strap too. It would be no problem.

I strummed a few chords and did a little bit of la la laaaa - ing into the mic and was satisfied with the sound. I’m not hard to please, as long as I can hear myself, that will do.  I’m always irritated by bands and artists that take an hour to sound check and I’ve even seen people do their entire set as a sound check, to make sure it sounds OK for every track. I never understood this as my sound checks are normally strum, strum, “la la la one two- one-two. Thank you.” I looked at the organiser, Pete and said “What time am I on Pete” expecting to have time to make the corrections necessary to my kit and stance position. “You may as well start now” he said and right away Eddie was telling the people waiting that we were now on. Well, I ditched the Stereophonic's track and was horrified to notice the next sheet had the music printed so small I couldn’t even see it, so that was soon floating lazily toward the ground. I played another unfamiliar song, the U2 track “In God’s Country” which I’d been asked to play earlier at my DJ gig in town and thought “I’ll do this one tonight!”. SO that didn’t go down too bad, I wasn’t knocked out by my rendition (seriously, a fast-paced rock song played solo on acoustic guitar?) but it wasn’t bad. To hell with the unfamiliar stuff I thought, I may as well start knocking them dead with my familiar stuff. I put my harmonica rack on my neck and right away realised I couldn’t get from playing harmonica to singing without a little neck gymnastics.

My usual setup allows me to blow the harmonica, then just tilt my head down a couple of inches to sing. This was the other way around and I struggled. I blew the intro harmonica riff to Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” then came in very weakly with the vocal. Normally, you have to fall off the stage and break a bone, that has to be very visible, very sticking out and very bloody, spraying all over the ceiling, in order to be noticed by an audience. Something like a bum note normally doesn’t get picked up on, except maybe by more technically aware crowd members and fellow musicians, but I played a stinker and I started badly, noticeably badly too.
I felt something happen that I haven’t felt since I was a teenager, backing Kim & Dave - a country duo from Great Yarmouth - in 1979, I felt my confidence shake. This, in turn caused my to have a mini panic attack, as this just wasn’t me. Pete had walked around introducing me before the gig, with “This guy is a legend” and “This bloke is blah, blah, blah” I cringed while he was saying it, secretly liking it, but also wondering if he was just taking the piss. So there I was, living legend, playing as if I had just gotten a guitar the same day. The door of the venue flew open and in poured practically every girl in the village and worse still most of them called out to me as they came in. I saw Sam Collingham, who’s seen me a thousand times before over the years and I had another first in many years, my stomach turned over a couple of times.

I thought I’d rescue this early part of the set with Coldplay’s “The Scientist” after all, I love to show that I can still do the high bits I used to be so good at when younger. I’m not as good at hitting these notes as I once was and they don’t come as easy, but I CAN still do it and sing it well too. As I fingered the first chord, a tricky Bm7 (Capo on the 3rd fret, then finger fret 2, hit a string, miss a string, hit a string, miss a string, hit a string, miss a string, all at the same time) I knew there was a problem. All of my finger seemed to be touching and the chord sounded more like someone hitting the strings with a leg of lamb, than dextrous fingers. I realised why the Gretsch (again, a beautiful and beautifully made guitar) was reserved to being held on my lap, as opposed to slung around my shoulders, the neck is thinner than the other guitars and I couldn’t even remember why I’d decided to take the Gretsch along in the first place. Was it to show it off (people say “Wow. That’s one lovely guitar” when they see it) and I am rightly proud of it. Was it a mistake, my being so tired? I had no idea. What I did know was that people were watching me die on stage. The neck was so much thinner, the capo (look it up) overshot the fretboard and  I spun it a little on the neck when I caught it with my thumb, sending the strings suddenly out. I stopped and went to re-seat the capo, but instead dropped it. It was retrieved by Tina, the mother of Rankin Steady’s very talented Trumpeter, Zosha. I had no idea her and her husband were even there, but they were standing just 3 feet to my left. I felt the pressure mounting now, as I abandoned yet another track (Crowded House “Better Be Home Soon”) on account of my only ever having played it once. The door to the street was beginning to look very appealing and it was almost as if I was looking at myself from a distance as I sat on that high stool with my head cradled in my hands. I looked up to see Lou clicking away furiously getting pictures of me. This would normally be the right thing to do as it’s always nice to have a memento of my gigs, but on this occasion I just wanted to shove his camera where a flash would be essential.

I took a deep breath and spoke briefly about Cliff, my former guitar partner who died in 2011, who I could feel shaking me by the lapels in spirit form. Cliff’s daughter, Cristal, was there and Cliff’s favourite song by me is called “Beautiful Day”, so I said I’d play that just for her. Fortunately, that’s one of the songs I wrote myself and had invested a lot into, emotionally, so it’s never difficult to play and I made a very good job of that one. But one good track out of half a dozen wasn’t going to rescue me. I began playing Bruce Springsteen’s “The River” (I’d printed out the music to his “Down bound Train”, but by now my confidence was so low, I didn’t dare risk it) and as the I played the beautiful harmonica intro to the track I began to have an internal debate with myself, was it Em, GMaj, Dmaj, or Gmaj to Am? This was a stupid thing to get into and I should have just gone for it and let the track emerge from me, just flow out like the songs usually do. No such luck. I began to get into a quagmire of insecurity, up to my axles and I could feel my wheels turning but not actually getting anywhere. So they got an instrumental version of The River and the scant applause at the end was much more than I actually deserved. I began to look for excuses and did a little mumbling about wishing I’d had more than a days notice of the gig (I’ve played on an hours notice, many times before now, so shut up Gad!) but as I’m known to include more than a smattering of comedy (especially at my DJ gigs) this only got a few giggles, rather than any support or sympathy.

I looked around desperately, like a rabbit caught in headlights, the girls were chattering and laughing from somewhere to my left and in front and to the right was little comfort to be had by the blank expressions that met my desperate gaze. I can’t remember a  time when I felt so low before. I threw a few more new songs from stand to floor, visibly irritated by now and prompting another flurry of camera flashes - damn, this will be all over Facebook tomorrow, I thought! Even Lou was beginning to realise this wasn’t a comedy routine and I remember saying that should I be missing after my set, I’ll be on the back yard, climbing up my own arse. I was only half joking too.
I limped through “How you see the world”, skipped “Needle and the damage done”, scowled at my including “Nothing on you” before the sheet joined the others littering the floor all around me (it looked like it had been snowing around the stool, there were so many sheets of paper) and launched into “Where is my mind” with such fury I thought the guitar would break in half, followed by a long version of “Cactus” which I morphed into T Rex “Get it on” by pure accident (but more like I’d normally do with tracks, when having a good gig) and back to Cactus, before calling it a night. I made a lame excuse about why I had been crap and the crowd clapped out of sympathy.

“Shall I throw the stuff in the car?” Said Lou, appearing at my side right on cue. “Nice guy Eddie took to the microphone with “Let’s hear it again for Steve Gad” and again sympathetic applause. “Yes please Lou, let’s get the hell out of here” I said. I was so angry at myself and my bloody over confidence I would have beaten myself up had i had the energy to do so, but i felt drained and emotional. Eddie asked if he could play my guitar for a few songs, which meant my hanging around looking very sheepish while he did so, but I said yes, of course he could. Normally I’d get people coming up asking “What was that track you played that went blah, blah blah” or my friend has a guitar like yours” or any number of things, including offers of work, back slapping and general praise. Tonight there was none of that, and to honest I wouldn’t have appreciated it it any case. I normally love to hang around after and talk to people, have a drink with the audience, thank them for coming, give them cards, my number (if wanting to hire me) but tonight I was glad that none of this happened. Maybe people could tell I wasn’t happy (could have been the foam around my mouth) but I was never happier to be standing on my own than I was right then. Lou put the rest of the kit into the car and Eddie ripped into a short, but energetic and well-executed set, including a track of his called “Blame it on the beer” which I convinced myself was aimed at me, yet probably wasn’t. Eddie’s set was great, and I was happy for him.

It had been me he’d come to some years ago and said “I’m thinking of getting a guitar and writing my own songs” I’d heard this a dozen or so times before, and normally I take them to buy a guitar from my friend Terry - the owner of the Music Scene shop in town - they’d have a couple of lessons then begin down the “I don’t get a lot of time to play now” and “I’ve got so much going on right now, I haven’t picked the guitar up in ages”. Some people have had as few as two lessons then quit, but not Eddie. He got a guitar and true to his word he wrote his own songs, just as I had when I first began. His songs are good too, being tales of real life situations everyone can identify with, so I’m always pleased to see Eddie doing well and he’s such a great guy too, as is Pete Shields, the other musician on the organising team. I felt like I’d let down my friends “Some legend eh?” I called out to him later, but thankfully he either didn’t hear, or knew I was flogging myself. Eddie told me not to worry about it (my second stinker in over 4,000 gigs I kept repeating, like some lame mantra) after all one bad gig does not a lifetime career ruin, but it felt different to me.

I was really shaken by tonight and yes I had brought a guitar along that I don’t normally use for live work, yes I’d stupidly included songs i had never played before and worst off all I hadn’t spent a single minute rehearsing for the evening. To be honest I was just over-confident and I know that once I’d finished feeling sorry for myself, this would serve a good purpose and be a useful lesson. Confidence is a good thing, as is a little nervousness to keep yourself sharp, but to saunter on as I did onto an unfamiliar stage setup, with an unfamiliar guitar and playing unfamiliar material, what the hell did I really expect? Only a fool would expect differently and I came to the conclusion it had taken me all these years to realise what everyone else already knew - that I’m an idiot.

Eddie finished his set to enthusiastic applause and graciously said “One more time for Steve Gad!” someone else flashed a phone camera and I felt my legs begin to buckle. Oh my God, let me get out of here. I spoke briefly to Sam, thanking her for coming, and as my guitar was now in its case, I got ready to split, but Eddie asked me to go outside for a cigarette with him. Once outside he gave me some words of wisdom. I should have stuck to familiar ground, shouldn’t have tried to do stuff that doesn’t work coming from one guy and shouldn’t have made it so obvious I was struggling (head in hands on several pictures I was told about next day, music sheets in mid-flight in others, that people were enjoying sharing the next day. All of this advice I already knew, but I suppose I needed to hear it. I apologised to Tina and company, as well as Eddie himself, but he was having none of it.

In the car on the drive back, Lou and me exchanged very few words. Like a real friend would, he consoled me, but I was beyond salvation at this point. I knew I was over tired, but I seriously thought about just jacking the whole thing in and maybe even try and get that Holy Grail of Holy Grails, that my own mother has mentioned to me many times over the years, a ‘Real Job’. I wondered what kin dof firm would have an opening for someone like me and quickly concluded that as the circus wasn’t in town, I would probably have to wait a while longer.
Once in the house I began the serious business of feeling sorry for myself, going into the kitchen and getting a bottle of wine before realising that another drink was probably the last thing I needed. I took my guitar upstairs to my studio and could feel the other five guitars going “Should have taken me!” I slumped into my seat next to the mixing console and stared up at the press cuttings Alison so kindly had put into frames for my ‘big birthday’ last year. Was that really me in those articles? That “Perfect Players” and “Immensely Talented” stuff?  Second place in the national “Battle of the bands” contest. Not the local one, the entire country, second place. Not bad at all for a little lad from a broken home, who’d never had a music lesson in his life, but that wasn’t tonight was it, that wasn’t this gig I’d just failed at in stupendous fashion.

My after gig routine normally sees me looking at video footage or audio recording of it - something most of us folk do - to see what was good, what worked best, what wasn’t so good, that kind of thing. Tonight, there was no need for any of that, it had been 90% rubbish, to put it kindly. Those people had been kind enough to turn up and all I’d done was disappoint them.
Alison is always the voice of reason and while some of the things she says aren’t what I want to hear, she’s always on the money and flat out refuses to just tell me what I want to hear, or make excuses on my behalf, she just tells it like it is. “You should learn to say no to everyone else” she said when I told her later. In a way she’s right too as my house is like a waiting room of a doctors surgery on any given day, with people literally in a queue to either have something fixed, something installed on a laptop, to be taught to do something or any number of things in between. On Saturday morning I had the young lady from M.I.N.D about her CD’s, DJ Tony next in line waiting for me to put some music software on his computer and show him how to use it. I also had Lou there too, delivering some speakers to me.

That’s a typical scenario and its not unusual for me to still be doing stuff for people at 3 or 4am, with the whole thing beginning again at 10am (I never do anything before, on account of the hours I keep!) and I’m forever being told I ought to either learn to say no, or at least begin charging people for my services. I realise the guy who works for nothing is always going to be busy, but I can’t help it, I just enjoy helping other people. Thing is, this time it had been my downfall. Had I been sensible as soon as I found out about Friday’s gig (on Thursday morning) I should have spent all of Thursday getting a set together, making sure I was using the best guitar for the job and making sure everything was set. Then I could have gone to my first Friday gig, safe in the knowledge that the later gig is already in the bag.

I was so dejected I seriously thought about just selling everything I owned to do with music. I also thought about telling people there would be no more laptop repairs, no more coming in to find 9 different PC’s on the living room floor, with post it notes all over them telling me what’s wrong who it belongs to and “Thanks, I’ll get you a pint when I see you out next” by way of payment for an average of five hours per machine in reinstall and upgrade time. I thought about no more £2 per hour guitar lessons (£13 per half hour at Terry’s shop) I also thought I’d never be able to face Pete and Eddie again, and as I write this (Tuesday morning October 30th) I still haven't switched my mobile (cell phone) on, nor been on any of the social networking sites. I know I took it too hard on the night, maybe a result of feeling so tired, but in the clear light of day I don’t feel much better to be honest. I do realise that one bad gig is just one bad gig, but I still feel awful about it and its knocked my confidence in what I do. I’ve ignored the (land line) phone all day and have had a day on my own, just writing this and listening to Coast to Coast am, which I love to listen to, so I’ve had a nice lazy day to reflect on things.

I’ve let my own projects fall so far behind by helping others stay ahead of their game, so now I’ve made up my mind to spend the week in my studio, locked away, going through the mountain of stuff I’ve written over these past months (I always find time to write songs as its something that takes just a few minutes to do and when I have an idea for a song, it literally pours out of me fully formed) as I have heaps of papers all over my studio and I’ve lost track of what I’ve got ready and where it is etc. So I’m going to do something for me this week, without feeling guilty about anyone else, and besides they’ll get by I’m sure, without my help. Also, doing this may affirm to myself that I really should go on doing this, as I always said that when it doesn’t feel right I’d just quit there and then. I came pretty close last Friday, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to buy a greenhouse yet, although if I’m completely honest I do fancy the idea these days for some reason. Maybe its my age?

I’ve been one of the luckiest boys on the planet, I know that. Say what you like about being talented and being able to deliver (“Gift of the gab” is a phrase always ascribed to me, and I’m still not sure what it means) but I have also had an incredible run of good luck too, being in the right place at exactly the right time on so many occasions. This is why I always tell young guys to get out there, get among what's happening. If there’s a local gig, get along to it, you may get some work too, if not a musician go along anyway, you’ll enjoy it and meet new people, which leads to different adventures. What I can tell you is that no one is ever going to knock on your door and offer gigs, you have to be out there. I’m very much a product of my time, pre-Internet, the music papers were the bible, people played real instruments and either could or couldn’t play and sing and you had to work from the smallest venue’s up to the festival slots and university gigs, there were no shortcuts.
Today they have karaoke on the TV, where the winner is famous for a few months, before being dropped by the record label and replaced by this years winner. I wouldn’t want a big payday for a short while then nothing, as I imagine the people that happens to have a long time afterwards to wallow in the feeling i had the other night. At least I’ve managed to pay the bills (often only just) for all these years. It’s been hard at times but I’ve had a very long career in music and while I’ve never had a number one records, I have been to many, many amazing places and met lots of lovely folk (some are still friends to this day) on the way. I’ve been in lots of newspapers and on radio shows, as well as being lucky enough to play with some of the people that were my own heroes as a boy, and life doesn’t get much better than being able to say that, especially when you’re still in your teens.

So really, all said and done, I was right to be angry at myself for turning up unprepared for my gig, and I was right to have some time out to evaluate my position, but I’ve been a little to hard on myself over this, so now I’m going to just try and be more prepared (if I ever go out alone again. Still not decided, but that gig would be a lousy goodbye if I don’t!) or if no time to prepare new stuff, at least stick to things I can do in my sleep. Doing new material with no preparation isn’t wise, getting me new songs on tape is my next move and I have already resolved to take any future failures for what they are, rather than as a sign that the world is ending. I’ve slept several times since then and have a better view of things now. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as all that? Then again, maybe it was worse?
Right, I’m off to learn to play my guitars in unusual positions. Think I’ll begin right away! :-)