Day 3: Go West, Nightingales!

It is morning at the Oaklands Road headquarters of the Nightingales, and the band is preparing to depart for their third gig of the tour – in Bristol, at the Thunderbolt. The mood is sober, though I suspect this won’t last long. Lyricist and frontman Robert Lloyd sits at the kitchen table, cigarette in hand, a glass of cold tea in front of him. Empty bottles of High Commissioner are strewn about the table, tokens of the band’s celebratory toast to the success of last night’s gig at the Slade Roomz. Lloyd is pensive, staring into the middle distance as he weaves words and images together on the loom of his mind, in preparation for the next album which the band hope to record in the Autumn.

Today, Lloyd’s inspiration is that noble sport of kings – horse racing. A newspaper lies open at his elbow at the sports pages, and Lloyd occasionally breaks off from his musings to peruse the dense text, searching for inspiration. Now and then, the creative muse descends and Lloyd will quietly mutter a phrase to himself, feeling the shape of the words on his tongue, for they must not only work on paper – they must also live and breathe as the lyric to a song. “Chandler’s Knackers,” he murmurs. “4.14 at Chepstowe. A cert.” Satisfied that the phrase works, it is jotted down in his notebook, and the creative mill grinds on.

Also in the kitchen is Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley, whose own ritualistic preparations for this evening’s gig involve losing himself in the minutae of domestic life. He moves about the kitchen unobtrusively in his domestic apron, his hands clad in Marigold rubber gloves, no doubt to protect the delicate, vulnerable guitar-playing fingers which are so vital to the Nightingales’ soundscape. Cupboards quietly open and shut as Apperley brings order to last night’s post-gig chaos.

Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson enters the kitchen. “Toast,” she snaps. “Now!” Within seconds, Apperley has two slices under the grill. I’m fascinated by the closeness of the band, the instinctive intimacy they share. The way in which Kitson selflessly supports Apperley in his pre-gig preparation ritual is heart-warming to witness. Lloyd joins in. “Light,” he says as Kitson hands him a cigarette, and before it has touched his lips Apperley is holding a flame to the tip. “And the tea?” Kitson continues without looking up from her celebrity gossip magazine. Immediately, the kettle rumbles into life.

Slowly, purposefully, the Nightingales juggernaut lurches into focus. As the time to depart for the long drive to Bristol approaches, so the atmosphere in the house becomes suffused with excitement. Chippington has appeared, a little bleary from last night’s celebrations, but invigorated nonetheless. On a magic carpet of energy, he is wafted from the living room to the kitchen in search of tea. Squires emerges from his cupboard under the stairs. His hair glistens with the gel he has spent the past hour applying, layer upon layer, to achieve the characteristic ‘Squires Slick’. He has yet to start work on his beard but he has an hour before the band must leave for Bristol. The doorbell rings – Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell has arrived with the band’s equipment, and he enters in a whirlwind of words. I catch a phrase - “the thing about sausages...” – and he disappears into the kitchen to entertain whoever happens to be in there.