Gig #7: East Village Arts Club, Liverpool 18 April 2014

Support band Norweb take the stage and deliver a jagged burlesque of a set, which mixes sharp-elbowed riffing from bass and guitar, underpinned by subterranean volcanic drumbeats across which skips and stumbles the shower of words, like a handful of gravel thrown in the face of eternity. Their electric eclecticism appeals to a knowing and receptive Nightingales audience. Norweb will head home after this gig with a brace of new fans and bagfulls of Budweiser Supreme Quality Artisan Brew generously donated by new admirers, the Nightingales.

As Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington stalks purposefully onto the stage, his trademark can of Stella Artois in hand, the already charged atmosphere ratchets up a notch in anticipation. As Chippington fixes the audience with his steely glare, I retreat into the bar to stand with Mark ‘Ace’ Jones at the merchandise desk. We listen as Chippington’s interplay with the audience challenges them to reach deep inside themselves, and to scrutinise whatever dark things they might find there. “Anyone here from Birmingham?” Responding to this provocation like Pavlov’s dogs, the largely Liverpuddlian audience search their souls for any trace of ‘Brummie’ they can find. A lone voice responds in that instantly recognisable Liverpool accent: “Me gchreat-gchradma on me dad’s side, like. She was from Cchradely Heath, like. Dat’s close to dat dere Bermingum, ain’t it, Ted, me old mucker, like. Yeah?” Jones and I glance at each other; tonight will be yet another personal triumph for Chippington; another vindication of his strange, unsettling acapella rap performance.

With only the Velvet Underground’s “Here Comes The Sun” dividing their sets, the Nightingales take the stage after Chippington and deliver yet another blistering, seamless set of shifting tectonic songs. Lloyd’s throat is clearly a little sore after last night’s rousing performance, and so he sips continuously from his trademark litre bottle of cold tea. He is on masterful form as he pretends to forget the lyrics, challenging the audience – or even his own band – to feed him the next line, or to remind him where he is. “More Fliss in the monitors, Paul,” he shouts, daring even Squires the sound engineer to remind him that this isn’t the soundcheck. In this way, Lloyd proves himself a master manipulator of the crowd. Set over, the band leave the stage exhausted. There will be no encore again tonight. The band have given 100% already; 110% is not an option. Or even possible.

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After the gig, I mingle with the crowds milling about the merchandise desk. Of course, I cannot help but scan the faces looking for the familiar boyish grin of Lennon’s great songwriting partner, and solo artist in his own right, Paul McCartney. But there is no sign of him, as expected. I find myself leaning against the bar next to a short, wizened figure sporting a shaggy beard and wearing what looks like a plastic Beatle wig but must surely be expertly gelled hair. “Did you enjoy the gig?” I ask. He takes a long sip from his tumbler full of some heady cocktail or other, and ponders my question before offering his response. He takes the glass away from his lips leaving the novelty cocktail umbrella clinging to his matted, spittle-soaked beard, and his eyes focus for a moment on an answer: “I used to be in dat dere Beatles group, yeah?. Feckin’ McCartney. Always taught he was a better drummer dan me.. Feckin’ cunt.” I leave this strange character to his dark memories and head backstage.