Yes, I’m sorry to say that this post does start with yet another reminder of last year, so feel free to skim down until you reach the part that says ‘picture this.’
Cast your mind back approximately 87 years to the start of the first lockdown. Those blissfully naïve weeks when nobody had a clue what was coming, and the novelty of a few weeks (ha ha) at home when the weather was warm. If you were lucky, you were furloughed and you got to laze around and sunbathe while getting paid for it. Everybody started baking banana bread and sourdough out of nowhere. The yeast consumption of this country shot through the roof at the same time we ran out of toilet roll. Amid the lamenting of the gluten intolerant, we were only allowed to leave the house for one hour a day for essential shopping or exercise. We weren’t allowed to see friends. The pub was out of the question, as was the stress and rush of the daily commute. No more packed tube trains, armpits in faces, fighting for Pole Position on the platform or exasperated sighing as you joined the back of a queue stretching the length of your chosen morning café.
Once we’d all absorbed the fact that we were suddenly living in some sort of dystopian nightmare, we just sort of…got on with it. Our circle of daily activities suddenly and unexpectedly shrank, and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. Everybody was forced to stop. We became more introspective, we valued that one hour when we could go for a walk during those balmy summer evenings, and we made use of technology to keep in touch with those we cared about. Lots of people I spoke to who were usually too busy to stop and look around finally had the (enforced) opportunity to do so, and most, if not all, enjoyed it much more than they expected to.
We all know how things developed as time progressed. You don’t need me to lead you down a sanitised rabbit hole of misery to recap the rest of last year, when all you have to do is turn on the TV or look at Twitter (don’t). Everyone was affected by the events of 2020, whether in terms physical, mental, emotional, romantic, financial, professional or a combination of all of these. Without disregarding the awfulness, I would like to go on for a bit about what we can take from the last year, using the example of the humble pub gig to highlight the importance of finding the joy in the generic. Bet you can’t wait for this.
Picture this: a pub, probably in north west London. Not an awful amount of space, but the sofas and tables have been cleared to make way for a dance floor. Kitschy taxidermy animals mounted on the walls, each with the name of a middle-aged man. Underneath Dave the Badger, the drumkit, keyboard, guitars, bass and microphones glint under the precariously balanced, multicoloured lights. These bad boys make the room ten times hotter but add to the vibes. Pint glasses of water, some full, some half-drunk, sit nestled among a snaking maze of cables. The lead singer gleans some small respite from the one electric fan offering blissful cool air, of which there will always be an attempted hijack by those dancing, slowly melting under those precariously balanced lights.
Gradually, those who were out for a post-work drink rotate and are replaced by those who deliberately got dressed up, ready for a good dance to a set list of entirely generic Dad rock. If you’re lucky, it’s summertime. The big windows will be open, spilling the sound of clinking glasses and easy, relaxed conversation onto the high street as it gradually turns gold in the sinking sun. This is the setting in which I’ve spent countless nights since the age of 13 and it is the setting in which I have found the most joy. Since then, the circle of attendees who come along with my brother and I has steadily grown, and we all trot off to west London every now and then and prepare ourselves for a night of shouting, dancing, general euphoria and a hell of a lot of sweating (those lights are murder).
I wasn’t joking when I said that the set is generic. Lonely Boy. More Killers than you can shake a stick at. Muse. Superstition, Summer of 69, Rock and Roll Star . That’s not even all of it. It’s a function musician’s nightmare.
The dancing begins in staggered shifts. In a pre-socially distanced world, my friends and I would sit like sardines in a tin, all bobbing and shoulder dancing to Rock the Casbah. There’s always one random punter who’s had a bit too much to drink by 8:30 and proudly occupies the whole dance floor with an incredibly expressive interpretation of Take Me Out. They tend to disappear by the fourth song, finally freeing up the space for the rest of us. By then, a few brave women have started dancing on the fringes of the floor, and then once Two Princes kicks in, I’m up and off. The second set is always the best – the old favourites come out, the alcohol is taking effect, the dancefloor grows more crowded and the temperature starts to climb. My brother usually does a stint on Play That Funky Music and takes about 20 minutes to get through the solo. Finally, once a hand contorts into an abysmal shape on the frets, we all know what’s coming. There are a few eye rolls but it’s too late. The roof is shaken by a collective “coming out of my cage and I’ve been doing JUST FINE…”
By the time the climactic screaming of Chelsea Dagger has subsided, you’re utterly exhausted. Gasping for water, your feet are killing you, your back is begging for mercy and your face is shiny with sweat, a few stray hairs stuck to your forehead. All you want is to sit down.
And then Sweet Caroline starts.
Momentarily replenished by this musical shot of adrenaline, you find it from somewhere deep within your soul (and diaphragm) to hack out one more. Then that really is it. Your vocal cords are shredded. Staggering to the bar, you all order a pint of water (ice is essential here) and make your way to the cold, sweet relief of the street outside. You then spend half an hour standing around with your friends, catching your breath, making a fuss about how hot it is inside, and shouting at each other because your ears are ringing. You always end up staying outside for fifteen minutes too long so that by the time you’ve finished moaning about how hot you are, it’s time to moan about how cold you are and you all traipse back inside to warm up.
A gig in a pub isn’t a monumental event. Five blokes in a band getting the words wrong to Get Lucky or missing the introduction to Town Called Malice isn’t exactly Queen-at-Wembley-Stadium calibre. It’s not meant to be. That doesn’t mean it isn’t special.
Everyone has their own stress. But for one evening every once in a while, a load of people gather under one roof, and then nobody is thinking about the next day, when you’ll be speaking at least two octaves lower because you’ll have lost your voice somewhere around Dakota. All that matters is being with friends in that moment and having a laugh.
I’m not oblivious to the state of things, I am in no way glossing over the atrocious events that have happened over the months. What I’m saying is that these circumstances have forced a lifestyle shift, and a mindset shift along with it. Namely, an appreciation for the smaller things and the acknowledgement that nobody has their lives completely together. What matters is having friends to laugh with and muddle through it together, focusing on the present and hopefully having a bit of fun along the way.
Hopefully we will soon return to the nights when the only things you have to worry about are whether or not you reckon you can squeeze in a trip to the bathroom before Common People starts, and having a dance without getting a pint spilled on you.