The band’s spring tour is bisected by a gig at Scala in London. It’s different from the other dates for two reasons: the venue is bigger than anywhere else we’re playing and, because it’s in London, my wife sort of has to come. I am not insisting, but she will struggle to find a face-saving way to avoid doing so.
“How am I even supposed to get there?” she asks the day before.
“First take the overground to West Hampstead,” I say. “Then…”
“And what time are you actually on?” she says.
“About nine,” I say. “But be a bit early, because it will get busy.”
“Yeah, right,” she says.
“It will,” I say. “It’s sold out.”
“Is it?” she says.
I shrug: I am not entirely sure about this.
“I still have one unused guest list spot, if you know anyone.”
“Perhaps your son would like to come,” she says, pointing to the oldest one, who is sitting at the kitchen table staring at his phone.
“I’m good, thanks,” he says, without looking up.
The next afternoon, I set out for the venue in good time to help set up, but when I walk in, things are mostly done. The rest of the band arrives. We do a sound check. There are still hours to go before show time.
At 6pm, a man starts setting up steel security barriers around the perimeter of the stage.
“I’m going to tell him we don’t want them,” the fiddle player says. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” I say, but I secretly think: I like it. When I look out a few minutes later, the fiddle player is helping the man push the barriers into place.
At 7.45pm, the venue is still empty. I return to the dressing room. “Are you sure it’s sold out?” I ask.
“Apparently,” the lead singer says.
“There’s a huge queue outside,” his son says.
“A queue?” I say. I try to picture my wife standing in a queue.
“I got searched coming back in,” he says. “They took my gum away.”
“They’re confiscating gum?” I say. “This is amazing.”
There are no wings at Scala – when you open the dressing room door, you are basically on the stage. When we do this at nine o’clock on the dot, we are greeted with a roar from the room that causes me to rock back on my heels a little. We have never played to a crowd this size indoors. Festival audiences are bigger, but a fair percentage of them are basically picnicking. Here, every head is facing in our direction. None of them is chewing gum.
After the last encore and a brief retreat to the dressing room, the rest of the band heads off to man our merchandise stall – the tea towels will not sell themselves. I lag behind for a bit, trying to process the previous 90 minutes. A triumph, I decide.
By the time I step back out on to the stage, the room is nearly empty again. My wife is standing alone at the steel barrier, looking up at me.
“That was boring,” she says.
“You don’t really care for music, do you?” I say.
“I do,” she says. “Who were all those people?”
“Fans,” I say. “They were taking people’s gum away.”
“They tried that with me,” she says.
“Please remain behind the barrier,” I say.
Twenty minutes later, I run into my wife again near the exit, where she is talking with the wives of other band members.
“I’m looking forward to the wives’ leg of the tour,” she says.
“You can’t come on that,” I say.
“Why not?” she says. “The other wives are going.”
“The other wives come to gigs all the time,” I say. “You never come.”
“It sounds like fun,” she says.
“It’s four nights on the trot,” I say. “You’ll hate it.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Morecambe,” she says.
“You’re lying,” I say.
She pulls a pack of nicotine gum from her back pocket and pokes a piece into her mouth. “I’m definitely coming,” she says.
