23. band of hope
I've mentioned The Plain.
The small roundabout just over the bridge from the High Street. With your back to the city centre, look across the island in the middle of the junction, and there's a pub straight ahead, on the corner of two roads leading out of Oxford. Maybe it was called the Cape of Good Hope because you rounded that corner towards the wilds of Cowley or Iffley.
When we went back there in 2016, it was the first time in nearly forty years. Three of us on a band reunion: me, Pat, and Harry. The pub had changed beyond recognition. Calm decor and lighting, something of a gastropub. We asked the barman to show us a room on the next floor up.
When we first had a look at the Cape, in early '77, it was spit and sawdust, with a reputation. Surely a meeting made in rock heaven.
Not sure why we tried it first. Maybe because we knew most of the city centre pubs didn't have space for bands, and this was the first one on my way home. Far as I knew, it had no tradition as a live music venue. We wouldn't have dreamed of approaching the Corn Dolly, but the Cape looked a place that wouldn't be too choosy. Just right for a band that felt the same.
The landlord seemed to fit a pub like that. Middle aged, shaved head, stocky and strong for chucking people out! He hadn't thought of having a band there, but they must've had live acts in the past, because one of the upstairs rooms had a small stage. If we could fill that room, he'd divide the profits with us. All the fifties: a fifty-fifty split and he'd charge 50p.
The chutzpah of our tone-deaf vocalist. Approaching a pub landlord as if I was a proper singer in a good band. I'd done my day job again.
*
We put up a poster around town.
In the end, we didn't use any of the photos we took on the shoot in the snow. So there was no-one from the band on the poster. Instead Patrick found a shot of his brother-in-law, in a back garden, making a face at the camera like Eric Idle doing a Gumby.
It was meant to be a mock reaction to how bad the band was. We were still styling ourselves the Atrocious Milkins Banned Band, which we didn't drop soon enough. At the bottom, the word 'Oxford' appears three times. This means I didn't write it. Whoever did called us 'UNDOUBTEDLY OXFORD'S MOST EXCITING ROCK 'N ROLL DANCE BAND'. Undoubtedly the only one we knew about.
The poster left space between this blurb and the photo above, so we could fill in the date of our next gig. To my knowledge, we used it only this once. In red felt tip, I wrote Cape of Good Hope, disco, and the 50p entrance fee. Then we put it up in college lodges, where it was probably torn down by the porters, and the Cape itself.
Never occurred to us how many people might turn up. Again, it didn't matter. If we played to an empty room, it would be a story to tell. Whatever happened, we could call ourselves a house band now, something we'd never imagined. Sometimes just ask and they'll receive.
This was gig number seven. The last five we'd been on tour. Hello, Oxford! It's good to be back.
*
We've finished setting up our gear in the upstairs room. Now we're jamming and generally fooling about, not long before the start of the gig. It's about eight o'clock on Wednesday 2 March 1977, and I decide if the others are going to prat about on instruments, so can I.
I hadn't played a mouth organ in public since I was told not to! The hospital busk in Reading with Mad Mart. But I still bought a new one after that, though it made no sense to do that. I didn't intend anyone to hear me use one ever again, and I hardly practiced at all. All I ever managed was the start of When the saints go marching in, by covering three holes with the side of my tongue. No wonder it filled up with spit.
I think I just liked the look, the idea of it, how portable they are. A proper blues harp, small and cool, not the big shiny thing with a slide. When I wrote a musician into a novel, I gave him a mouth organ.
I had no reason to bring it to the Cape that night. But there I was, blowing into the microphone on stage. I couldn't really tell what was coming out, but a mouth organ through a mike always sounds good to me. I messed about for a minute or so, then put it away.
But Paul Woodruff was there. Bernie's mate who took our photos in the cold and became our roadie. Paul turned round and asked what that sound was.
Alright alright, I'm only mucking about.
No, it's good. Do it again.
Christ. Someone with an ear worse than mine.
But the others didn't object, so I ended up playing it in the run-through - and beyond...
*
I've kept details from every gig. Dates, locations, set lists, and any money we made. The Cape of Good Hope swelled our coffers by exactly eleven pounds. At 50% of 50p a ticket, that proves without doubt we had 44 paying customers. Not bad for the middle of the week in term time, and enough to fill a small room above a pub.
Has to be said: most of them were Patrick's mates again, or people the rest of us knew. But that was fine. People had a drink and a dance and we enjoyed ourselves too.
For some unknown reason, we inserted another instrumental. Maybe to give people a rest from my voice, hur hur. Not Without Moses, which we'd inflicted on Borocourt and the ICA. This one's down as Instrumental 2. It really wasn't worth a title. It came immediately after Can't you hear me knocking, so people had a break from dancing for two numbers, both of them fucking 'orrible.
The first set was short, the second one hit them with everything we had. Right at the end, I played the mouth organ on Johnny B Goode. Just chugging along in rhythm, no attempt at a solo, heaven forbid. Nobody asked for their money back.
My notes say we used backing vocals for the first time. Patrick on Honky Tonk Women, his favourite track, though I needed them more on Little Queenie.
All in all, we tried a few things and generally did alright, knowing people were on our side. They insisted on a genuine encore (Carol, which also started the show) - and the landlord wanted us back the following week.
Great, another gig. A few more of those and we'd be a proper house band...
*
So, then.
Borocourt student buskers.
You wouldn't let me play mouth harp or sing. Relegated me to shaking a can. Well, look at me now. On stage in public, bending notes like a veteran bluesman from the Mississippi Delta. Eat yer hearts out, ha ha, ha ha.
Joking, of course. I never learned to play it properly - though I brought it out for one or two more gigs. One day we entered a recording studio, of all things, something else I'd never dreamed of doing - and when we played things back, the mouth organ sounded pretty Atrocious, even to me. Patrick looked across.
It's in the wrong key.
So what? So am I.
They smiled and shook their heads.
Playing an instrument in a different key from everyone else - that's pretty punk. But even I didn't like the sound, so I stopped. No wonder I ditched those cassettes.
Why hadn't they noticed before? Because our sound system wasn't good enough to hear me properly, and anyway they were concentrating on their own parts.
Oh well, quite fun while it lasted. And someone who can't play an instrument or sing a note did both on stage. No-one can take that away.