SESSION shenanigans
The studio guitarist’s guide to happiness and personal fulfilment, as related by session ace Mitch Dalton. This month: Die And Let Live.
The strap line of the Musicians’ Union logo proudly proclaims ‘Keep Music Live’? However, I might suggest that you have not experienced the oxymoronically rich phrase, ‘Light Entertainment’. On a good day, it’s a painless way to earn a living, after you’ve filtered out the 12-hour shift, the endless rehearsal and the tension of the performance itself. But that’s why you’re paid the medium bucks. No, my friends. It’s what occurs when it’s very far from alright on the night that evokes less than favourable comparison with the horror of war, or the fear of never again obtaining a Waitrose online shopping slot. The account that follows is but a mere bagatelle drawn from Mitch’s World Of Live, if you will.
The first example is etched forever in my memory, not least due to its relative brevity. Indeed it represents a personal best of maximum embarrassment achieved in the minimum of time. The venue was The London Palladium, the artist an international singing star of the late 50s and early 60s. The rehearsal with full orchestra on stage passed glitch free. However, all was clearly not tickety-boo with the lady come the first of the two shows scheduled for the day. The band opened with a stirring rendition of an overture of her greatest hits. And from that point the plot thinned. After a delay, our chanteuse appeared, clearly not herself. Her first song was unrecognisable. Telltale beads of perspiration began to form around the wing collar of my dress shirt as I looked in vain to our Musical Director. To be fair, he did have the presence of mind to abort the mission and count in the second tune. He needn’t have bothered. After approximately six minutes on stage, persons rather higher up the Showbiz food chain had clearly made an executive decision. The iconic curtain came down, painfully slowly and in mid-performance. An announcement was made. Money refunded. And in a contradiction of the old adage, the second show most emphatically did not go on. It transpired that the artiste was not suffering from the self medication beloved of many in the whacky world of music. Instead she had inadvertently overdosed on medicine prescribed for depression. Having subsequently read her biography and the tragic events described within, the odd cancelled show must rank as a mere footnote in her personal history.
Of course I am eminently capable of acting as the author of my own misfortune. Well do I remember a ditty by the name of Malagueña, the flamenco item beloved of Benidorm and beyond. I performed this nightly on The Strictly Come Dancing tour for four weeks but in its genetically mutated form, as recorded by Brian Setzer.
In essence, his interpretation consists in taking the tune metaphorically round the back of the pub and giving it a good seeing to. The first half is completely solo, played at Marshall bending levels on a Gretsch. Four clicks in and you’re away, to be joined by bass and drums at the halfway mark to see you home at an accelerating tempo until warp speed is attained.
I did my pre-flight checks, waited for our two star turns to assume their mark for the Paso Doble and waited for MD Allan Rogers to fire the click track in my direction. Sadly, click five found me playing an open chord of E at the acoustic level more appropriate to Spanish restaurant music. Ten thousand fans, plus two hoofing Hispanics, stared at me. Time froze. The act of checking every lead, plug, effects pedal, DI box and amplifier connection seemed to occur in cinematic slo-mo. After something approximating to the duration of the Jurassic Period had elapsed, I discovered that I appeared not to have plugged in my guitar. Oops.
For my concluding tale, even I find it difficult to believe that the events described are not fictitious. And I was there. Picture this. A talent show. New Faces. Broadcast live on Saturday evenings. The band was featured on stage under the supervision of Harry Rabinowitz, last of the old-school ringmasters. (“Ladies and Gentlemen, if you can bother to look up, you will see an old man with a white stick. Please follow him.”) It came to the last night of the last series and it had been decreed that we would go out on a high. A lavishly costumed and choreographed dance routine had been devised. Extra dancers had been hired. Every expense had been spent. A continuous procession of cast and contestants was supposed descend from the giant staircase, dressed in national costumes and accompanied by music appropriate to each country. We rehearsed for hours until all were satisfied. As it happens, to no avail. There must have been a mix-up backstage, early in the routine. The result was that orchestra and company came adrift. Putting it simply, we became one country too late for each segment of the routine. Thus the French segment was accompanied by The Star Spangled Banner, The German parade by O Sole Mio and ever onwards as the band attempted to alert Harry. But Harry was not for turning. The man had the score in front of him. And that is what we played. And thus, after an epic car crash of a closing we drove into the blackness of a winter night, our heads filled with the jaunty refrain of Hava Nagila accompanying Cleopatra for the Egyptian segment. How we laughed. Eventually.
AFTER SOMETHING APPROXIMATING THE JURASSIC PERIOD, I DISCOVERED I HAD NOT PLUGGED IN MY GUITAR