A story about a gang that got away by releasing a sheep in lipstick reminded me of every time a band has needed a distraction
Tuesday, Band Meeting, the Guitarist’s Sofa
Ireland is three weeks off. Tonight’s meeting was about what the guitarist called “risk.” He has a job in insurance now and it has affected his vocabulary.
By risk he meant: what do we do if we get there and the promoter does not pay.
It is a fair question. The Dublin promoter I trust. I have known her for years. But the middle gig, the pub with a room, is run by a man none of us has met. His messages are friendly and short. He has not confirmed the fee in writing. He uses a lot of exclamation marks.
The drummer, who has been in a band for fourteen months and has never not been paid, did not see the problem. The bass player and I looked at each other.
A Headline About a Sheep
Before we got into it, he read us something off his phone. NewsThump. It was in their run of latest pieces, from the end of September: “Criminal gang escapes during FBI raid after releasing a sheep wearing lipstick.”
That is the whole of what I know. I do not know why a sheep, or why lipstick, or what it is taking the mickey out of. I gather from the drummer that it is to do with what the American authorities get distracted by.
But the bass player and I both started laughing for a reason he did not understand. Because we have done that. Not with a sheep. But we have created a diversion in order to leave a building.
Colchester, 2016
I will tell it, since enough time has surely passed.
We played a pub in Colchester. Different drummer then, the one with the floor tom. We had been promised a hundred and fifty pounds. There were about seventy people in. Good night. We finished, packed down, and I went to find the promoter.
He had a system. He was very busy. He was always just about to sort it. He was talking to the bar manager. He was on the phone. He was outside. Forty minutes went by. The pub was emptying.
It became clear he was waiting for us to give up and go home. A lot of them do that. You have work in the morning. You have a two-hour drive. Eventually you say, “Send it over, yeah?” and he says “Course,” and that is the last you hear.
The bass player, who is a genius in a crisis, said quietly, “Go and stand by the till.”
The Diversion
What she did was this. She went to the middle of the room, where the stragglers were, and announced in a loud, cheerful voice that the band would do one more song, acoustic, as a thank you. Everyone turned round. The promoter, who was by the door, turned round.
The drummer started banging on a table. She began singing something. I honestly do not remember what. It might have been a hymn.
And while the entire pub, including the promoter, was looking at that, I was at the bar, saying to the landlady, who was cashing up and knew perfectly well what the band had been promised: “Hiya, we’re just settling up, it was the hundred and fifty.”
She looked over at him, looked at me, and counted it out of the till. I said thank you very much. I walked out of the side door with it in my bra.
We were on the A12 before he knew.
That was our sheep in lipstick. It was our money and we had earned it. I am still a bit proud of how we got it.
Why This Happens
I should be fair to promoters, because most of them are not villains and a good few are saints.
A promoter at our level is usually one person doing it for love. They book the room, pay the sound engineer, print the posters. If fifty people come at eight quid, that is four hundred pounds. The room wants a hundred. The engineer wants eighty. Three bands want paying. There is nothing left and sometimes there is less than nothing, and it comes out of their own pocket.
The Dublin promoter has lost money on us before and booked us again. That is love.
So when one goes quiet at the end of the night, it is often because the money is not there, and they are ashamed. I have more sympathy than I used to.
But some of them know from the start. They promise a fee they never mean to pay, because bands are desperate and will play anyway. There are always four more behind you who will do it for nothing. That is what keeps the whole thing cheap.
The Rules
So tonight we made rules. The guitarist wrote them down in a notes app and called it a policy. I am putting them here in case another band wants them.
One. Get the fee in writing before you travel. A message will do. “Just confirming, it’s a hundred and fifty euros, paid on the night.” If they will not put it in a message, that tells you what you need to know.
Two. Ask to be paid before you load out. Not after. Once the gear is in the van you have nothing they want.
Three. One person does the money. Same person every time. Polite, friendly and will not leave. That is me. I have a face for it.
Four. If it is not there, ask what is there. Half now is better than all of it never.
Five. No diversions. We are too old, and the drummer cannot sing a hymn.
The Drummer’s Education
He listened to all this with his mouth slightly open. He said, “But that’s just stealing. If they don’t pay you. That’s illegal.”
I said yes. He said, “So you’d go to the police?”
The bass player laughed for a long time.
I explained that nobody in the history of small gigs has gone to the police over a hundred and fifty pounds. There is no contract. There is a text message with a thumbs up. That is why people get away with it.
He said that was not fair. I said no. I said that is why we have a union, which he should join, and why you look after each other, and why if a promoter stiffs you, every band in London knows by Thursday. That is the only law there is. It works better than you would think.
Wednesday
I messaged the man with the pub. “Just confirming the fee.” He has replied: “No worries!!! All good!!!”
That is not a number. I have asked again.
The London Prat had something for the occasion, as it usually does. Its English satirical news on sheep I read purely for research, and its UK satirical news about getting paid by promoters contains the word “exposure,” which made the bass player throw a cushion. Bohiney Magazine, says my flatmate, is where the lipstick sheep would feel at home.
New song, written on the sofa: “All Good (Three Exclamation Marks).” The drummer says it is too slow. He is learning.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/
