getting paid not to play...
yesterday was certainly a nite and 3/4 but also a possible nadir for RLD's career(but maybe not Ramblin Simpleton's). so we schlepped it on thre train to cold and wet (swansea - in the welsh) on a friday nite for a gig that R.S. had organised for us on the back of his extremely casual visits to Swansea for a part time arts degree he weas doing there. it shld be noted at this point that R>S> seemed to be on the downward curve of one of his manic phases so was behaving erratically and, like me, started drinking on the train to cope with his condition and the reliably rotten Welsh weather, only marginally shitter than the English climate. so a train wreck looked on the cards.
arriving early and depositing our equipment (1 guitar, mine, minus a G-string) we went on the hunt through town (your standard provincial, slightly down at heel British town, lit up only by the usual Wetherspoons, McDonalds and river island, for some replacement strings.
on retrning to the flea pit that is the Office, a name so incongruous with the surroundings (no clean surfaces - the office brings to mind a chilly soho bar where bottles of Russian lager set u back $5.50 and you're served by half a haircut - it should have been called the 'Shit Pit', 'Devil's Crack' or 'Arse of Wales', we waited with our cokes (topped up with smuggled tesco vodka, naturally) and tried to not stand in one place too long lest our feet got stuck permanently to the carpet. as u may already have cottoned on RLD is an acoustic act, and judging byu the ACDC, metallica and Guns n fucking roses blaring out of the speaker system it dawned on me that the ...this inkling was all but confirmed ion me when mr-sound-guy (black top, greean combat trousers and greasy long hair - your standard roadie) asked me and paul, ''what no drams?? easy for me then bud"... i think he was expecting a band not the second coming of hall and Oates.
at 9pm we approached the stage to a less than rapturous welcome from three grizzled old rockers propping up the bar (our designated fan/friend charlotte was running late) and burst into our hard folk version of chris isaac's wicked game. paul and i, three sheets to the wind at this point, were ramshackle as ever, but the melody could still be distingushed beneath the busker's guitar and you certainly couldn't accuse us of not 'reinterpreting' the original. applause from one of the old barflies only served to emphasise the emptiness and indifference of this office party.
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