Monday:
One of those limbo days. I’m not sure how I feel. There’s so much to be be grumpy about. Weathermen, noisy neighbours, Tories, the War on Terror, bankers, bureaucrats, Richard Branson, Bono, the royal family, my meagre pension and of course my diminishing libido.
However, I have a neutral kind of day where none of these things over-excite me. Perhaps I’m beginning to mellow in my old age, or I’m finally losing my anarchist marbles.
Tuesday:
I get in some much needed saxophone practice, because this weekend I have a gig in Boskoop in Holland with my old friend, singer/songwriter Phillip Goodhand-Tait. Aside from playing, I’m also going to be doing some readings from my writings. It’s this that is causing me the most anxiety, because I’m not sure whether my brand of humour travels, or indeed if I’ll be understood, since the only word of Dutch that I know is Edam.
Wednesday:
I’ve done this so many times before, but I run through the check list of what I have to take with me to Holland. Aside from the obvious, things, like saxophone, spare reed, clothes and the script, there are my various medications. Blood pressure pills, statins, paracetamol and the mysterious pink tablets that my GP prescribed when I told him that I had an irresistible urge to assassinate Bruce Forsyth. I have an early night, foregoing my usual excessive intake of Merlot.
Thursday:
An early start for Holland in Phillip’s car. Despite having crossed the Channel countless times, going under it in the tunnel is a first for me. I’m impressed by all the technology of the check-in which is conducted robotically. We make our way to the loading area and I get my first sight of the trains that will whistle us to France. I was expecting to see something flashy and liveried, but the carriages look like cattle trucks. I could almost imagine snarling Nazis whipping us aboard and checking for gold fillings. Once under way, there’s nothing to see as we sit in the car. I think those who run the Channel Tunnel could at least lay on a film or a cabaret perhaps, to justify the exorbitant prices they charge.
After half an hour, we arrive in France and begin our journey north to Boskoop, which lies between Rotterdam and Amsterdam. As we pass along the French coast toward Belgium, I’m reminded that many millions lost their lives fighting over this flat and unremarkable landscape in two world wars. Inland to our right, there are small farms and allotments, men fishing from the banks of rivers and scarcely any trees. Nearer the coast to our left, are steaming power stations, petro-chemical works and a long march of depressing pylons.
We cross into Belgium. For me, its only claim to fame is that it doesn’t have one – unless one counts Adolphe Sax, who invented the saxophone. I have nothing personally against it, but it’s always a country that I’m pleased to be leaving. For reasons that I’m not entirely able to fathom, Phillip refuses to buy petrol in Belgium.
‘I’m not giving those buggers any of my money,’ he mutters mysteriously.
We cross into Holland and head toward Rotterdam. Half a lifetime ago, I played there at the Ahoy Stadium. It was a live TV show that was being beamed across Europe. It featured among others, Marvin Gaye, Dire Straits, John Denver and Johnny Ray. Most of the acts were miming and when it came to the turn of the band that I was playing with the track was played at half speed. Very embarrassing, but this was compounded by the girl singer.
‘Wrong fucking speed, ‘she told Europe.
The keyboard player in the band was one, Tim Smit, now Sir Tim Smit and weighed down with various other spurious other honours. He went on to make the television programme, The Lost Gardens of Heligan and founded the Eden Project in Cornwall. The rest of us rocketed to obscurity.
We arrive in Boskoop late in the afternoon and find our way to The Stables, which is the name of the venue. We are warmly greeted by Karin, who with her partner Hans, runs the club. As its name suggests, it’s an old converted stables at the side of their lovely house on the outskirts of the town. My first impression is that I’ve stumbled on a menagerie, because we are also greeted by a noisy gaggle of geese and various types of ducks and chickens. I later discover that they also own horses and goats. Phillip and I are accommodated in a nice flat above the stables. It’s always an advantage to be within staggering distance of one’s bed.
After a good dinner with the delightful Karin and Hans, Phillip and I get down to some serious drinking. Like all true musicians, we’ve come equipped with enough alcohol to stun an elephant. We drink far too much and spend a few merry hours reliving past glories, before collapsing into our beds.
Friday:
I awake feeling somewhat jaded. I go to the shower room and undress. Just as the healing waters begin cascading on my stupid head, I notice that there’s a window in the room and I’m being observed by a Shetland pony. Under normal circumstances this would be unusual, but given the amount of alcohol I consumed last night, I wonder whether I might be hallucinating. The pony seems unimpressed by my wrecked physique.
After breakfast, Karin takes us for a tour of the town and the local countryside. We have lunch in a charming old brewery which has a large windmill above it. I’m still fretting about the language problem and over lunch I try out some bits from my readings on Karin. She speaks excellent English and assures me that our audience will not have a problem either. I’m still shitting myself about it though.
We have a lovely dinner in a local restaurant, after which Phillip and I attempt to kill off a few more brain cells.
Saturday:
There’s nothing like a hangover to heighten anxiety and this morning I feel a little like a condemned man. I take a shower and this time the Shetland has got her back to me as if she’s seen enough of me already. I take this as a bad omen.
After breakfast, Phillip and I rehearse a few numbers and then the sound guy arrives to begin the usual checks and fussing with mikes. Like all seasoned players, Phillip and I have a particular microphone and fold back set up that we favour. Normally, this involves lots of arguments with sound engineers who are young enough to be our grandsons and who seem to think that they know better. On this occasion, however, our man, Kees, is on the button and gets a great sound.
After an early dinner, we’re ready to go. People begin arriving, some of them on bicycles. Phillip and I are upstairs, checking on the running order and sipping water. As we descend the stairs to the club, I feel as if I’m about to face a firing squad. Hans gives us an introduction in Dutch and then we’re into the opening two numbers before my first reading. These pass in a blur for me, because the moment of truth approaches. The numbers we play are well received and I can feel some warmth from the audience. Maybe they won’t pelt me with duck eggs.
Taking a deep breath, I open my script and begin. There is total silence as I go through my introduction in a wavering voice. I get to my first, hopefully funny lines and they laugh. They actually laugh. In all the right places. The rest of the evening goes very well. Phillip is in fine form and I have the unusual pleasure of having some of my sax solos applauded. Hans and Karin, both good singers, join in on a couple of numbers and a nice man called Ted playing upright bass joins Phillip on his version of Cut Across Shorty. I do some more readings and then it’s all over.
We mingle with the crowd and have a few drinks. Without exception, the people are warm and friendly and they all speak good English. As the drink is flowing, Hans takes to the stage with his band. His stage name is Johnny Verger, although why he should choose the title of a church dog’s body and gravedigger is a mystery to me. I must ask him. At around two in the morning, Phillip and I finally go upstairs and instead of doing the sensible thing and going to bed, we continue to assault what’s left of our brains with Scotch.
Sunday:
The return trip is uneventful and muted by our hangovers. I get home in the early evening. I trudge up the stairs with my sax and suitcase and wonder why we still continue to do gigs when we might be comfortably retired, tending our roses, or playing draughts in an old person’s home. We love it, that’s why. A gig like Boskoop makes it all worthwhile. I hope that they ask us back. She might be playing hard to get, but I think I might stand a chance with the Shetland pony.
© David Sherrington 2013
