Locals
The gig was to be at ‘The Wrestler’s Son’. I had no idea who The Wrestler’s Son was, but there was no trace of him or his father when we arrived that friday. The pub did look ideal for wrestling in though, and stuff was either broken or dented inside, so that was comforting. A line of men watched us as we carried the amps and guitars in. Watched us as though we were clad in spandex and about to cause mayhem.
They watched us like that because we were not local, of course (my dress-code, though a step above theirs (which mainly consisted of running clothes), was not too smart to make me look a fool). And this was a locals kind of a place. Fortunately I wasn’t the one who was going to attempt to impress these local men, the weathered type who had seen the bottom of a thousand pint-glasses between them. No, my brother and his band were playing and I didn’t envy them one bit.
Soon after we arrived more men arrived. I say men, they weren’t. But in this part of town you became a man as soon as you could open your mouth and speak. This was essential, otherwise you’d be in big trouble.
Ten minutes before the gig my brother and his friends were beginning to think they should pull out of the gig. I told them they could not, as I had heard the local men whispering such things as “e musa be da mangarer” (He must be the manager) and “ey betas pay wheel gwood or day gitin eet!” (They had better play well good or they are getting it!) So there was no way out. The doors were blocked with locals. The time was upon us. And the band took to the stage. The gig went fine. After it we were met with handshakes and one of the men offered me the bottom dregs of his pint. I think that’s a good place to leave this.
March 26 2010 04:12 am | General