How well do you 'function'? by Trisha McNair

From the second the email plinks into the Inbox, it's clearly going to be a complete mistake. But who can resist an invitation to play at a ritzy event, even when you know that your band is definitely NOT a function band, that the audience will back off in seconds to the relative peace of the bar, and that the only people left to enjoy the loud and raucous riffs will be a couple of crazy teens who were expecting yet another polite but dreary evening with their parents friends. Yes – that dilemma – should you compromise your art for any opportunity to gig, especially when the champagne will be flowing free ? And no matter what you think you will answer here. I’m betting that at least once or twice you have gone against your better judgement, and lapped up the flattery to say yes please. Hell, we’ll worry about the setlist later.

The invitation usually goes something like “We saw you play at the Dog and Doormouse and just loved your music and thought you would be great for our thankyou party to all our fundraisers for our Save the last British Speckled Porcupine campaign. If questioned closely about this gig later, those who sent the invitation will seem a little vague about what music they actually heard – was it something by that band from Glasgow, you known, that one you all yell along to.. or maybe it was your version of that catchy tune that was number one for most of last year. Completely unaware that the band plays solid blues with a few long winded classic rock numbers thrown in so that the lead guitarist can show you what he has been practising in his bedroom all these years, it later turns out that the Charity’s PR happened to be in the Dog and Doormouse and thought your lead singer was kinda cute.

So you swallow your principles and ignoring yells from the drummer, who is the only one to see sense (unusual for drummers I know – but even he gives in to the idea of a real stage to play on and special lights just for his kit) you put the date in the diary. Then the arguments begin about what to play. Some of the more esoteric jazz-rock fusion numbers are easily abandoned but surely someone at the event would be thrilled to hear a little Foo Fighters or keen to writhe a bit to Guns N’ Roses best. Hours are spent debating and shaping a set list mostly from numbers that have been half practised and half abandoned long ago by the band (mostly when we were about 17). Family and friends are grilled for their favourite party songs and then with a lot of clenched teeth Status Quo, Slade and even Mud start to appear on the list. Rehearsals are a strange mixture of grim determination, outright hatred (fortunately directed towards the songs) and rumbling angst that no-one really wants to play this stuff.

Another email from the event organiser subtly wipes the doubts away by promising the coolest party furniture and lighting rig imaginable (thankyou ChillSpace, you rock !) while at the same time making a few “requests” for songs. At least Mustang Sally takes only seconds to pick up …

By the night of the gig, you’re all convinced that this really is the business. Trying not to think about the tepid list of numbers that await, you wow at the stage back-drop, the glittery lights and the couple of celebs on the guest list, and snaffle some delicious canapés while asserting your rights to free drinks at the bar. But in truth, a growing sense of unease is sinking in, the singer has lost his usual chirpy swagger and the drummer is looking increasingly grim.

As you take to the (lovely huge) stage the guitarist is heard to mutter “well we are doing this for free”. And then you launch into your worst nightmare. You play your heart out. Almost note perfect. But there is one truth. This event and your band were not made for each other. The audience are polite, some even clap a little, or sway on the spot. But they don’t want your songs and you don’t want theirs. There is no love, no heart, no emotion – no mojo. Every song feels more leaden than the last, until eventually you slope off and leave the DJ to refill the dancefloor.

Commiserating over a cold beer you all agree that next week back in the grimy old pub, the band will be in its element and that is where you all really belong. Until plink… you have mail ………..

© 2009 Dr Trisha McNair