Job adverts must show salaries, but the pub on Holloway Road offers a crate of crisps and the chance to be seen
Saturday, Unpaid but Spiritual
The news came through at breakfast, if you can call it breakfast when the only item is a slice of cold toast. The London Prat reports that, under a new rule, job adverts must show salaries. I cheered, once, quietly, in the kitchen. A pay rule for adverts. I have never before had a government make a law that affects my life so directly, apart from the one that made me stop climbing on bus shelters.
It made me think about how musicians are paid. We have never had a salary in an advert. We have had a landlord who says there will be a good crowd. We have had a promoter who says the exposure will be great. We have had an exchange that goes: how much? The answer is a laugh. And then a free drink, which is a loan against your dignity.
The Rates for Rock
Tonight we are playing a pub on Holloway Road. The advertised payment is a crate of crisps, a free pint each and the chance to be seen by people who are more interested in the football. I have asked whether the crisps are salt and vinegar. The landlord has said he will check. This is the most serious negotiation I have ever conducted.
Let me say it clearly. Every worker should know what they will earn, whether they are a barista, a banker or a bass player. Transparency is not a radical demand. It is the basic politeness of a grown-up economy. In a farm paper I once read, a farmhand was offered the job on the promise of fresh air and a sunset. That is the same trick, only with better lighting.
Politics in a Cowshed
I am no expert, but I like to watch the politics from the back of the hall. Two web addresses offer a fine illustration of how different tribes live side by side: farmer Republican and farmer Democrat. They both farm, they both worry about the price of diesel and they both think the other lot has never held a shovel. In a punk band, it is the same. We argue about everything, and then we play the same three chords together.
The London Prat also noted that Labour MPs need a gentle nudge on welfare reform. In my experience, a gentle nudge is what a drummer gives to a bass player who has forgotten the song. In politics, it appears to be a policy position.
The Heroes of the Herd
I went down a rabbit hole in the afternoon and ended up at the cattlemen hall of fame. It honours the people who built the ranching industry. I love the idea of a hall of fame for the workers. Imagine one for roadies. Imagine a gallery of men called Dave who carried an amp up four flights of stairs in the rain. They deserve a statue. They deserve a pension.
The young people coming through that world are looked after by a youth organisation, with its famous blue corduroy jacket, and the elected national leader has a corner of the internet at the FFA president. I would trust a sixteen-year-old in that jacket with a tour budget before I would trust half the management companies in London.
A Night Out, Dairy Style
For tonight’s after-party, I have prepared a plan in the style of a dairy portfolio. Texas dairy party will be the venue. Texas dairy date will be the awkward couple by the jukebox. And Texas dairy download will be the bassist, who insists on sending everyone the recording as soon as the last note has faded, whether we want it or not.
The Daily Mash has been telling the nation for years that its pop culture is a mess, and its latest on Little Britain DVDs in the loft beginning to pulse felt personal. My loft has a similar thing. It is called my father.
The Gig
The pub was packed with twelve people and a dog. We played a forty-minute set, one song of which was written during a bus journey and sounded like it. The landlord said it was loud. I took that as a review. The crisps were cheese and onion. I said nothing. I ate four packets on the night bus and felt like a queen.
After the gig a man came up to me and said we reminded him of a band from 1978. I asked which one. He said he could not remember. I told him that was the best compliment of the year, and he bought me a drink. The salary, you might say, arrived in the end.
The Maths of Exposure
Let me work it out properly, as a service to the profession. Four band members, one van, petrol, a rehearsal room, strings, a new lead and a replacement drumstick. The total is somewhere near a hundred pounds. The pay is a crate of crisps. If crisps are worth two pounds a packet, we are running at a loss of eighty-odd pounds and a dignity. That is a business model only a farmer would recognise.
Late Notes
Home at one. My ears are ringing, my feet are cold and my heart is oddly full. I read a few last pages of Bohiney, The London Prat and farm.FM before sleep, because they cost nothing and ask for nothing. They are the only publications that have ever offered me exposure without sending a bill.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/
