I’m on tour with the band I’m in, exhausted and heading for Wales. After two sell-out shows, this third date has an air of mystery about it. They don’t get many pre-sales in Cardiff, we’re told. People either turn up on the night or they don’t. There’s also the rugby – Wales v New Zealand – to reckon with. The evening plans of a nation hang in the balance.
The venue is the bar of a recreation centre. There is no stage, just an expanse of floor in front of a little alcove where the dartboard hangs. We unload the drums just as the rugby starts on the television.
The organisers, John and Brenda, turn up with the sound equipment. Two racks of lights arrive, and a hand-painted banner is hung in front of the dartboard. Improbably, a convincing stage begins to emerge.
While the drummer assembles his kit, I sit with a mug of tea. There are a few men in the corner, drinking and watching the rugby, but otherwise the place is empty. The drummer says there’s a problem: the snare is missing, along with the smaller of his two toms.
“I remember bringing them in,” I say.
We check the car and the back room. We even look under the pool table. They’ll be somewhere, we keep saying, but they aren’t. After a while, it becomes clear that the missing drums must have been nicked. There is no other explanation.
“There were some kids in here before,” the drummer says.
“I saw them leave,” I say. “They weren’t carrying our drums.”
Word of the theft spreads through the bar. Most people offer help, but one man in a rugby top is strangely quick to deny any involvement.
“Nobody’s accusing anyone,” I say, darkly.
We discover that the back room window is open, meaning our equipment was within easy reach from outside. I’m consumed by fury. And paranoia.
The guitarist and I stay behind when the band goes to eat. We have nine more dates to play; we can’t afford to lose any more stuff. I sit with clenched teeth, watching the match get away from Wales. A kid walks in and takes a photograph of the drum kit with his phone. What an odd thing to do, I think, turning to watch him leave. As he disappears through the door, I find myself locking eyes with the man in the rugby top.
“Are you looking at me?” he shouts.
“I’m not looking at you,” I say, looking at him. My heart thuds. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that I am too old for this.
After the match, the room fills up, but the mood backstage is grim.
“Let’s just play and get out of here,” the guitarist says, peering through the curtain to check on our stuff.
My wife texts to say her plane has landed. I ring her. “Our drums got stolen,” I say.
“No,” she says. “You say, ‘How was India?’”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve got to go on.”
Sometimes, we have to work to win audiences round, but on this occasion the audience wins us round. They cheer and shout and sing along with full throats. Afterwards, we sell dozens of souvenir tea towels. In spite of everything, it’s a great gig.
People are still patting me on the back as I ferry our equipment to the car. I go in to say goodbye to Brenda and John. Brenda is on a ladder unpinning her hand-painted banner. It drops to the floor, revealing the alcove where the dartboard is, and also the two missing drums, neatly stacked.
It’s one of those evenings that restores my faith in the basic goodness of everyone, except me.
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