Where the Wild Things are.

The Bristol Pub Rock Circuit.

When it comes to the Bristol music scene you have a couple of options. You can choose the ketamine fuelled holes to watch dubstep and drum ‘n’ bass. If you fancy metal or punk rock you can usually find what you’re looking for within the ‘suburbs’ of the centre. And there’s always the pseudo-professional circuit where the venues are bigger, and has-beens and wannabes share a functional symbiotic relationship. There is however, one potential night on the musical tiles that I have not yet mentioned: the Bristol Pub Rock Scene. For some, it’s a chance to hear ‘Sex on Fire’ before getting a taxi to town with the girls. For others it is the reassuring end to a hard week. To not a few local musicians, it is a way of life. What is the essence of it though? Is it special, or not even worthy of the pixels I’m spending on it? Let’s find out.

Let’s start with the motives for putting yourself in a position of vulnerability, surrounded by expensive equipment:

1. Money

2. Passion

3.  Attention

4. Obligation

The first one should be simple to explain; money being the ‘root of all happiness’ as the saying should go. Learn a few songs and get a few quid is easy money right? Picking up a guitar at 12, learning ‘The Best of Oasis’ and being offered £50 to stand up and play them does sound like a good deal when you’re 12. But try delivering a much wider repertoire every Saturday night, for five years, never dropping the song you hate the most, never playing that song you wrote and all at the age of thirty. Will £50 cover it? By the way, some of that is petrol money, and that beer wasn’t free.

            Occasionally you will see an eighteen year old drummer in a band of fifty-somethings. He is looking forward to spending his share of the fee on computer games. The singer on the other hand has just filled up his petrol tank just to get to the bloody gig. Aside from the well paid party or wedding, I think money can be ruled out as to why these bands still attempt to ‘rock the house’.

“Well true musicians will still play even if it doesn’t pay well” is possibly your next thought. If you can’t be bothered to get out of bed and play ‘Hotel California’ to a borderline indifferent crowd for the fifth time that month, then you don’t deserve to even own a tambourine. Well it is true that passion is a huge influence on why people still plug away at something on the way to, but more likely away from, superstardom. Where would Slash be today if he couldn’t swallow his ego and give the public a quick taste of ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ every now and again? Well I’ll jump in there: Slash wrote some of ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’.  Devoting your passion to someone else’s records is a big ask. You can enjoy doing the scream in the middle of ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’, but you know deep down that 90% of the inspiration comes from Roger Daltrey being particularly angry, at a particular time, in a particularly successful career. Passion is reserved for the important stuff; a little enthusiasm can easily be the substitute.

The third motive I mentioned was attention. Celebrity culture has proven to be the Christianity of the modern era (I suppose its Bible would be compendium of OK and Heat: which isn’t too far off a description of the real Bible actually). The idea that that impulse would filter through to my Bristolian colleagues is not a crazy one; surely a little fame is better than none? I play in a band myself and I got a little rush when someone asked if I was, indeed, me. Imagine the Bristol equivalent to David Brent hearing that (that’s not me by the way), and the results would be astronomical. True fame though, is so far off for a pub band. Minor recognition may provide a small rush the very first time, but so does a cigarette. Would you continue smoking if every puff required a half hour sound check in front of abusive football fans who (hopefully) won’t even be there when you start playing? There is something else driving these performers, and it is not simply the yearning to be onstage I’m afraid.  

Finally, the list of theories ends with perhaps my most cynical one: obligation. Think of all the negatives I have raised so far. Can you think of five normal humans who would sign up for a year contract if I was to personally write the job description? The fact remains though that pub bands tend to last just as long as their millionaire counterparts. Camaraderie cannot be deemed insignificant in any group who survives a couple of years or more. If you have gained friends within your gang then you do begin to feel responsibility for others. If you cancel a gig, you let down four men, one pub and a hen weekend. Can you live with that? Can you live with that if the venue also happens to be your local? The thing is; many can. I’ve witnessed a band play three consecutive shows with a different singer every time. If people don’t want to play anymore, the lure of the local rock scene becomes less and less seductive. What really keeps the surviving bands together then? They can’t all be old school friends. I’m running out of ideas.

Luckily, I do know what it feels like to be in a Bristol Pub Rock band. I will do my best to capture the glory of it all. My apparent distaste for the life is far stronger on paper than it is in my soul. Let me attempt to paint a picture of a typical gig.

Any pub looks uninviting as you carry in your bass and bag of leads. Even if it is familiar, the stage looks smaller than before and the barmaid smiles less than you remember. There is a small crowd who sum up the term ‘unlikely audience’. Your saviour is the fact you are two and a half hour’s early, and once the football is over these people will hopefully make room for some proper music fans. You cart across monitors, keyboards, microphone stands, lights, amps, guitars and speakers. Sometimes the stage is a risen platform, but usually it’s just a small space in the pub that a sane person would never have put a stage. The six blokes watching the football inevitably snigger that one of your comrades has longer than average hair. You silently wish they would focus on the match a bit more.

The landlord is never there that early in the evening, and nor are the bouncers. It is you against the world as you navigate your way around electric sockets that are carefully placed one inch further than your cables will stretch. The assistant manager hears some guitar feedback and informs you that you’ll need to lower the volume. You explain that the drums cannot be turned down so she’ll need to wait until the sound check to assess things. The drums are set up, you play half of ‘You Really Got Me’; the manager comes back and says it’s still too loud. You think quickly and go up to your amp, pretend to turn it down, and wait ‘til show time. Those rowdy lads have thankfully disappeared. The only problem is the place is now empty.

Your official gig time is 9pm. I’m sorry, but AC/DC could turn up and they’d have to wait until quarter past. These places get about twelve people in at 9pm, it doesn’t look respectable until 9.20pm. You may need to wait ‘til half past. Hell, I know bands that wait until ten o’clock, blast through their set and go home. As long as you know what your venue will accept, you can pretty much do your own thing. 

Anyway, the place is filling out; you grab a pint at the bar, tune your bass once more and face your audience. It isn’t really scary; as long as that wasn’t your only pint. You know your set is good, you’ve practiced. You notice a group of people in the crowd who you don’t recognise. They look cool and are already dancing to Thin Lizzy on the Jukebox. This is gonna be good, you think to yourself. The drummer clocks eye contact with each of you, then taps his sticks miming, “one, two, one-two-three-four”.

You feel your plectrum hit the strings and immediately notice a blonde girl dragging her boyfriend onto the dance floor. Your version of Alright Now has passed the opening test. By the time the solo kicks in, a group of musos lined against the bar are nodding their heads: they will be your barometer tonight. Your singer isn’t the greatest, but an initial burst of energy has turned him into a temporary Elvis. You know he will hit every important high note tonight. You thank God you chose to follow with The Killers, and the audience is your congregation for the immediate future. There is a hiccup as an extremely drunk student grabs your singer’s hand and requests a birthday wish for her cousin. You all stifle a groan but really you are flattered she considers you worthy messengers. That manager from earlier continues to hover like a vulture, waiting to tell you to quieten down. You begin to harbour murderous emotions, but you do not feel guilty. She has the potential to ruin everything. For now though, she is dormant.

The set hits a high point. ‘American Idiot’, Don’t Stop me Know’, ‘Supersonic’, and ‘Dakota’, all pass within twenty minutes. It’s time to give the crowd a break now. Have a beer. The real test will be the second set.

Back on stage, a few winks are exchanged when Pink Floyd’s ‘Money’ finds favour with two couples on the dance floor. The musos at the bar withhold their nodding until your lead guitarist pulls off the solo. You remain quietly reserved. Wait ‘til we play the last few songs, you think to yourself. You know that very soon you will be ending with a power-trio of ‘Satisfaction’, ‘My Generation’, and ‘All the Young Dudes’. Can you stay calm? Should you stay calm? What does the concept of calm even mean within this parallel universe?!  

Your lead guitarist then proceeds to chop out Keef’s most famous riff, and your front man has managed to rekindle some of that energy he felt earlier. You want to jump up and down but you have a job to do (plus your beer is dangerously close to the monitor). That song ends and you now have the daunting prospect of tackling the greatest moment in rock bass history: John Entwistle’s solo in ‘My Generation’. The chords ascend and your fingers begin to thunder. Turns out...you f**k it up, but it doesn’t matter; the crowd are wired. It has become impossible to tell whether the drummer is actually pulling off a perfect Keith Moon impression or just being sloppy, but who cares? You finish with a middle-aged version of trashing the stage; making sure at least one cymbal is out of place. All you need to do now is remove your axe and await the crowd’s demands. You usually get an encore, and this evening doesn’t look set to buck the trend. It is so predictable that you simply mingle around on stage until the drunken cries of “More!!!” warrant further rock ‘n’ roll.

You have been perfecting the art of the closing song for some time now. ‘We Are the Champions’ is good but a little hard for your vocalist. ‘Let it Be’ is okay, but very cheesy. Likewise, ‘Hey Jude’ has even been overdone by Macca himself. A bit of Mott the Hoople may be the stroke of genius you require tonight and, as luck would happen, it goes down a storm. You nail the bass part that you mistakenly think everyone’s listening to. Your guitarist accidentally learnt the Bowie version, but the situation is salvaged by some improvised simplification. You have twenty people climbing on tables, loveless couples kissing in front of you, metal-heads slowly swaying. The biggest triumph of all though, is the musos at the bar playing air-guitar. Your alternative choice of The Darkness would have prompted them to shrug, but ‘All the Young Dudes’? They’re having a religious experience.

The landlord pays up and you have twenty minutes before you really have to leave. Have one more drink lads; apart from the singer who has to drive and therefore had to stop at four ales. You spare yourself a moment of reflection. Sometimes you think that although you could entertain fifty people, you could never entertain fifty thousand. If someone offered you Wembley on the strength of that performance though, well, bring it on. That’s your motive.