In an attempt to engage with my public, you the reader, the person for whom we as a band travel from gig to gig to entertain you with our musical musings, I put a poll on my Twitter feed asking whether I should continue with the tale of how the band got together or focus on a new different topic with a view to continuing the story at a later date.
The vital stats are as follows:
Total engagements: 13
Votes for: 3
Votes against: 0
Fuck you. Fuck you all.
Only three of you could be arsed to vote. When I take into account that one of those was probably Charlie and the other Jon, that’s one vote from someone not in the band, and to be honest that was probably an accident.
You’ve made a democratic decision to highlight your utter apathy towards the time that I spend, tired, drunk and if I’m honest barely dressed, trying to write vaguely amusing pieces to populate a website to promote this band. Thanks very much.
And another thing, you’ve made me swear. My mum read the last piece I did (because obviously every 38-year-old aspiring rock n roll star wants his mum to be proud of him) and she said, “that’s very nice dear but you swear too much”.
Fuck that I thought, I’ll fucking show her, in the next piece I write I won’t swear once. I’ll draft something that sounds like it’s being written by the love child of Shakespeare and Dickens, but no, that’s not good enough is it, because you can’t be fucked to press a fucking button on Twitter, and now you’ve made me go an upset my mum. Fucking brilliant.
So with that in mind, I will begin.
And so it came to pass
The band as it stood at the time was me on keys, Charlie on drums, Matt on guitar and vocal, Paul on bass and Dave on lead guitar. Matt and I had been writing quite a lot and we had talked about getting a gig in a bar somewhere.
When we started the band it had all been for a laugh and the writing of songs had in all honesty been something to do to prevent us spending the entire day in the pub. The problem I suppose was that we were both really quite smug about some of the stuff that we had come up with. We’d approached a couple of bars and they had said that they wanted to hear a demo but we didn’t have one which is how we ended up in a guy’s mansion near Reading.
Basically, a former member of the band had a brother that every time he urinated, money came out. The guy had built a recording studio at the bottom of his garden for his son and we were told that we had use of it.
It was to be blunt a chaotic affair.
I arrived with Matt on the Friday afternoon to be met by two pairs of beady eyes peeking at us from behind twitching curtains. The door opened and from a cloud of smoke appeared our hosts for the weekend, the nephew of the former member and his mate.
To go into details of the weekend would add nothing really other than for the following:
- Although I never saw our hosts participate in the consumption of drugs I have assumed that from the smell of the smoke and the constant gurning that there was a huge amount of chemical assistance being lent to our production team. That, and the, I shit you not, three, yes three fucking hours that they spent walking around a relatively small building with an ambient mic looking for the “sweet spot” to pick up an extra drum track. Fucking priceless, for everything else there’s smack.
- During our various recording sessions on numerous occasions we all played like shit. The explanation given by our opiate enhanced colleagues was that this was due to “Red Light Syndrome” the ability to play like a legend until the red recording light goes on.
So there you go, that’s how the band got its name. Red Light Syndrome.
Except obviously that’s not what we are called so clearly there is more to the story. The truth is though that I don’t want to tell you it yet.
You couldn’t be bothered to press a button to vote so fuck you, I’m off for a pint.