Bilston ...in the West Midlands

Seconds leg out…it’s Bilston, and we’re early. There are seats and tables and such and from initial perusal it would appear that many a tribute band passeth this way on the glory trail. Well you know what I mean. We are welcomed by accents that remind me of home, Miles arrives and we do the stage door catch up meeting. In the passing time since we were last sharing a stage he’s had his guitar nicked and returned in Accrington of all places. Erica is in Frankfurt demonstrating electric fiddles so is sadly absent for tonight’s gig much to the disappointment of my daughter Leah who turns up mid sound check. She loves the violin and was dying to see Erica play. We also have some strange family type connections to Miles involving his cousin and an ex boyfriend but really it would take me half the night to explain. We pop off to our hotel, it’s a rather well worn affair, a house in the grounds of The Haven some five minutes from the venue. We are advised to view before we proceed. We are swayed but mostly cause its dirt cheap and the breakfast chef has a reputation; a good one we’re assured. The accommodation is quite basic. Some of beds don’t meet in the middle. We have two triple rooms; Ben and I are downstairs and the lunatic fringe- I mean that with the utmost affection boys you know that- are directly above. We amble over to the gig for an Indian banquet as Mike is starving, always continuously starving. We catch the last half of Miles solo set, there’s a decent crowd, this is practically hometown territory for him and it shows. He plays a few Wonderstuff songs in amongst the newer tunes and goes down a storm. I’ve already told him of my fondness of the Stuffies and my preferences for the Modern Idiot album, which is the one most people seem to like least he informs me. This doesn’t surprise me, it’s happened with other artists I admire, Luke Haines for one, How I Came to Love the Boot Boys is possibly his most ignored classic, and of course it’s my favourite. So there you go. My tastes are not in keeping with popular consent. My records likewise it must be said but I’ll end this thread now before the self deprecates into something sinister. Our gig passes. I play Sperm Donor for the encore and we finish with the remodelled Social Worker. It’s improvisationally satisfying, and [note to self here] at this point in its live evolution seems to encompass more vocal spontaneity that is absolutely necessary. Selling CDs at knockdown prices and talking to people about the Villa [they’re all good natured Wolves fans] seems a decent way to end a very decent show. Later on we stop over at the club and drink more than anticipated. I also help to lock up as Karen is afraid of the ghosts. I’m not because there’s no such thing. Three hours later Ben and I listen to the Fight Club antics upstairs with bemusement and occasional dismay. Surely they’re not…blimey, you know I think they are. Now that’s gonna hurt, and I mean really hurt in the morning. VP