The previous weeks had been filled with doom and gloom about the future of the freier tus  after the last tenant did a midnight flit and rode off into the sunset. We hadn’t got a clue whether we would play or not, first it was in summer and then finally it got moved to December into an already packed calendar of Christmas markets and general jolliness, tinsel and trinkets.  But this place has been our home for so many years now that I can’t remember how many, it’s where we have our practice room and bring new ideas to fruition before taking them out on the road, and a place that we hold dear in our hearts. Once a year we do a concert, either in Summer or, like in this case, in Winter for the Summerfest or, you’ve guessed, the Winterfest.

The preceding weeks didn’t auger well for the big night. After practice we had a meeting with the new landlord, where it was explained that he would need catering staff and, if people wanted to eat, something that looked like a menu. He nodded, and it was plainly obvious that little of what was said was understood or comprehended. OK, so off we went and waited.

Wolfgang had built up the stage with podium and banner on the previous evening and so we set about finishing it off, pa. amps, keyboard, drums and fairy lights. It should be a magical Santa experience. No, just joking. But we did have fairy lights, just go and look at the photos!

At opening time every table was full, we needed have worried about anyone turning up, and, surprise, surprise there was a menu. Praise be! Something to eat. All players at the tus helped out as catering staff and so everything was set, all we had to do now was entertain.

Oh, man – it was then that it occurred to me that the gig was on at the same time as the football – England vs. France for the semi-final place. But God bless Peter, he kept me informed of the state of the game with regular bulletins in my ear. We obviously played better than England, we won!

One more thank you has to go to Guiseppe, who not only photographed us in a good light, but also repaired the heating in the ‘backstage area’.

The famous five drove through the steadily darkening streets of the old town, ever watchful of the lengthening shadows and what might be hiding within. After a certain amount of confusion with regards to the date and time of the gig, it was all going smoothly. It had started months before when Mike was approached by a grizzled figure sporting a duelling scar down his left cheek: would the jolly little combo Midlife Crisis Ltd like to play at their motorcycle soiree that they held every year. There was promise of lashings of ginger beer and scrumpious munchies. How could Mike refuse, he seemed like a decent sort of chap, the type that one would like to engage in a few overs of cricket after a vigorous swim.

Mike arrived at the venue a few minutes before the others and had a swift look around. Could it really be here? The hall had obviously seen better days, the facade being slightly rundown and the paint peeling from the railings, it didn’t reassure Mike. Where was the ginger beer? The others rolled into the carpark after taking the scenic route, damn those new fangled sat nav things. Fuzz was an old fashioned guy who felt more at home in the analogue world. There was nothing that he liked better than to have an invigorating bike ride with only an ordinance survey map for company.

‘By jimminy jingo, is this the right place? ’, enquired big Martin, who got his nickname because he was, well, big.

‘I think it must be’ said Wolfie, Hawaian shirt, strangely absent from his attire. Were those leather trousers?

They went sheepishly into the building, the smell of fear and sweat was overwhealming, and as they came around the corner the sight that greeted them sent a shiver down their spines. It was horrible.

Who was that ugly and vile group of apparitions staring at them with malevelence?

‘Wait a moment’, said Andi. ‘that’s a mirror’. wow, what a mirror! They could admire themselves whilst they played. Wouldn’t that be spiffing, what a jolly jape.

‘I think we should cover it up with this handy banner that I just happen to have with me’, said Fuzz. ’My mom has ironed it specially’.

A darkened figure emerged from out of the gloom clutching what looked like a gun. The band tried to take cover and hide under the nearest objects they could find.

‘Would you like to use my rechargeable screwdriver to hang up your freshly ironed banner’, said the figure.

Phew! That was close.

After setting up all of the equipment, they were all getting extremely hungry.

‘I’m looking forward to all of these scrumpious munchies’, said Fuzz.’ I haven’t eaten anything for half an hour’.

‘We should be careful’, muttered Mike. ‘I’ve just seen something that looks like, well, a willy covered in tomato sauce. I’m not too sure I want to touch that!’.

‘Don’t be such a scaredy cat, I’m going to have that schnitzelly thing’, chirupped Andi.

There was still the matter of the ginger beer. Mike crept cautiously up to the bar, avoiding the penetraing gazes of the growing crowd.

‘ I say, my good man. My I have one of your delicious ginger beers, very refreshing and nutritious. The drink that pleases, but doesn’t inebriate’.

‘Was woillst?’.

Damn, Mike had forgotten. He lived in Germany.

‘We should start’, said Wolfgang.

‘Noone will dance, anyway. I’ve been assured of that.’ said Mike gloomily.

But, Mike was proved wrong. The evening turned into a riproaring success, with all of the mean biker gang hopping and bopping to sounds of the beat combo. Another close call for the famous five.

It hadn’t been bad at all,

They packed up all of their stuff with a lightness and spring in their step. They would definately come back. There was only one thing missing………..no ginger beer!

 

The band’s 2019 tour is started by a gig at the Mälze in Regensburg. We play there every year and have done for the last twenty something. It’s different from all other dates for two reasons: the venue  has well known bands  and, because it’s Fasching, Now Fasching is a strange phenomenon in Germany, it starts on 11.11 at 11.11am and finishes promptly at midnight on Shrove Tuesday, everyone has a sort of forced happiness and wanders around wearing Thunderbirds hats.

My wife hates Fasching. She really doesn’t like it. But a lot of people do, people who we know so she sort of has to come. I am not insisting, but she will struggle to find a face-saving way to avoid doing so.

“How am I even supposed to get there?” she asks the day before.

“Well Andrea is going, you could go with her,” I say. “Then…”

“And what time are you actually on?” she says.

“About nine,” I say. “But be a bit early, because it will get busy.”

“Yeah, right,” she says.

“It will,” I say. “It’s sold out.”

“Is it?” she says.

I shrug: I am not entirely sure about this.

“I still have one unused guest list spot, if you know anyone.”

“Perhaps your son would like to come,” she says, pointing to the oldest one, who is sitting at the kitchen table staring at his phone.

“I’m good, thanks,” he says, without looking up.

The next afternoon, I set out for the venue in good time to help set up, but when I walk in, things are mostly done. The band is already there. We do a sound check. There are still hours to go before show time.

Alarm bells suddenly ring out with an earsplitting intensity that puts the sound check volume very decisively in the shade.

Wolfgang had opened one of the emergency exit doors by mistake. He looked decidedly pale, thinking of the 4000€ fine for falsely setting off a fire alarm. He ran for the telephone and tried to cancel the already on the way fire brigade and police. Too late.

2 minutes later they were at the front door. Luckily the boys were in a good mood and let him off.

Sigh of relief.

At 6pm, Stefan starts setting up the cameras for tonight (we’re filming a video) around the perimeter of the stage.

“I’m going to tell him not to show my double chin,” Martin says. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” I say, but I secretly think: I like it. When I look out a few minutes later, Martin is helping the man put the cameras into place.

At 7.30pm, the venue is still empty. I return to the dressing room. “Are you sure there are people coming?” I ask.

“Apparently,” Everyone says.

“There’s a huge queue outside,” someone says.

“A queue?” I say. I try to picture my wife standing in a queue.

There are no wings at Mälze – the dressing room is set back through a corridor, so when you open the dressing room door, you have to go past the toilets through the hall and onto the stage. When we do this at nine o’clock on the dot, we are greeted with a roar from the room that causes me to rock back on my heels a little. I don’t think there was this many people last year. Here, every head is facing in our direction. None of them dressed normally, which is always a bit unsettling.

3 hours go by in a flash.

After the last encore and a brief retreat to the dressing room, the rest of the band heads off talk to the audience. I lag behind for a bit, trying to process the previous 180 minutes. A triumph, I decide.

By the time I step back out on to the stage, the room is nearly empty again. My wife is standing alone at the bar, looking up at me.

“That was boring,” she says.

“You don’t really care for music, do you?” I say.

“I do,” she says. “Who were all those people?”

“Fans,” I say.

Twenty minutes later, I run into my wife again near the exit, where she is talking with the wives of other band members.

“I’m looking forward to the wives’ leg of the tour,” she says.

“You can’t come on that,” I say.

“Why not?” she says. “The other wives are going.”

“The other wives come to gigs all the time,” I say. “You never come.”

“It sounds like fun,” she says.

“It’s four nights on the trot,” I say. “You’ll hate it.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Mitterbickl,” she says.

“You’re lying,” I say.

“I’m definitely coming,” she says.