The owner of the venue – Dave (No Relation) – greets the
band like the old friends they are and ushers us all into the building where
pints of Tarquil’s Titillator (3.9%
ABV) and Old Fruity Pale Ale (3.8%
ABV) have already been poured in anticipation of the band’s arrival. The
familiar silhouette of a bottle of High Commissioner – especially imported from
the West Midlands – sits on a table near the bar, a ribbon tied around its
distinctive slender neck on which hangs a card: “Greetings Robert Lloyd; The
Thunderbolt Welcomes You Back – Dave.” Few bands could command such deep
loyalty as the Nightingales appear to.
The evening is less a gig than a reunion of old friends, and
I begin to see for the first time that the Nightingales is so much more than
just another rock ‘n’ roll group. The people assembled here tonight, some of
whom have travelled for days to be part of this event, are hushed and
respectful in the presence of the band. The charismatic Lloyd sits at a table
in the beer-garden, surrounded by a small section of the audience. They listen
intently as Lloyd patiently explains to them exactly why it is that they, each
and every one of them, ought to buy him a pint.
Excitement ripples through the crowd as Chippington takes
the stage. He stands silently, eyes scouring the faces of the audience for
signs of weakness as the full glare of the spotlights reflect off the top of
his carefully buffed and polished ‘Baldy Bloke’ head. For a brief, uncanny
moment the dancing lights reflecting from his glossy scalp seem to form a halo
about his head. The audience see this effect, and with a gasp of fear they
cower back a little from the stage. "It's Sunshine Ted," whispers an awed voice from somewhere at the back of the room. Raising his tin of Stella Artois to his
lips, Chippington tilts his head back slightly, and the effect dissipates.
Slowly, the audience’s confidence returns, and the familiar chant of “One mile!
One mile!” begins to gain in volume.
And then the Nightingales are on stage. Immediately, the
audience is on its feet. Wild, ecstatic dancing breaks out near the stage as
viral hit “Bullet For Gove” launches the now-familiar unbroken set. As lyrics
pour from his twisted, sneering mouth, Lloyd’s eyes seem to taunt the audience,
daring them to leave the room for a toilet break before the set has
run its course.
As Lloyd toys with his audience like a giant Honeybadger
with a bewildered flock of seagulls, the trio of musicians behind him go deep
inside themselves to rip out the juddering cacophony that drives Lloyd’s lyrics
home. Andi ‘Funky’ Schmid, bent forward over his bass the better to feel the
vibrations in his own solar plexus, stares manically into the middle distance,
lost in his own private search for the true spirit of funk. His bass lines coil
and curve, shimmy and shake, wibble and wobble – sometimes all of these in the
space of one song, one line, one note – fighting to lock down ‘Sticks’ Kitson’s
clattering, unruly drumming.
Across this industrial grindhouse of rythmn and booze, Alan
‘Roots’ Apperley chops and slices his guitar like a demented chef in the
Devil’s own kitchen. I see now the point of his earlier kitchen-based pre-gig
rituals. For Apperley, the guitar is a cheese-grater, a shredder, a blender, a bain marie; he stirs notes, chords,
phrases and riffs into the Schmid-Kitson cauldron as though preparing a
casserole for the band’s evening meal, seasoning the mix with just the right
amount of rock ‘n’ roll mediterranean herbs. Onstage, the Marigold gloves are
very definitely off.
The band leave the stage to tremendous applause, but there
is no encore tonight. They have given everything, and they must leave early to
gain some ground in the direction of tomorrow’s gig. One final pint of Gunny’s Earwax (4.1% ABV) poured
lovingly and appreciatively by genial host Dave, and the band and I are on our way
to the Reading Travelodge where we will spend the night.
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