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Pub Playing

Writer's picture: Feef MooneyFeef Mooney

(Photo: Frankie, Tommy, Rich, Feef: Oyster House, Studio City, CA.)

Anyone who's played music and made money at it, particularly in Scotland, will relate to the idea of doing pub gigs.

For eight years, I played the pubs, around Edinburgh, and eventually in Glasgow, then further afield. The deal was 40 quid for the night and a couple of pints, maybe a couple of whiskies, too.

The people in the pub (the "punters") smoked (cuz you could, then) and drank, in rounds, with friends. We sat in the front of the establishment, sometimes, though we'd have occasion to be placed next to the loos, or even beside a pool table. The pub smelled like spilt lager on carpet, stale cigarettes and damp. We'd play a set, around 45 minutes. Take a 10 minute break, then back. Three sets.

We were there to create some atmosphere, I think. We were supposed to play covers, but I was young and arrogant and refused. I played my own songs, and used the pubs to test drive the material. If a song was good, you'd get a reaction. No, not applause. Maybe a nod. And in the break, someone might come up to you and ask, "What was that song?" Or say, "That set was a belter!" You could just feel when things were going well. There were no cell phones. And most pubs had no TV.

If the music was having an effect, you'd have eyes on you, and responses.

If the pub was full of uni students there to get a big buzz on, forget it. You were ignored and talked over.

Pub playing was a true test of will. Sometimes, you played for no one, because the pub needed the entertainment licence to stay open. We called these "paid rehearsals."

Sometimes the crowd was rowdy and crazy, and punters would approach, drunkenly asking for an Elvis Presley song, or something you would never consider singing.

But the high of having one soul recognise one of your songs, or even ask where else you played, was humbling and gratifying. In Edinburgh, we developed a following. And soon the only friends we had were the people who regularly came to the pub to see us play, and knew the songs, liked us, liked the sound.

Of course, pub playing left you at one or two in the morning hungry for fish and chips , up until 4am and then waking at 11 the next day. It was a nocturnal life style.

We lived, after a while, for the day when we'd get a deal and would have money, and wouldn't have to play pubs.. Pub players were seen as second tier to those who played the good venues with sound systems and promotions.

That day would come, and we would have a band. We didn't know it at the time, but we would be playing in London. We would perform inside THE WHITE ROOM at Abbey Road, We would fly to Japan. we would perform in an international music festival. A lot would happen. It would be exciting. And then it wouldn't be. And back we would go. To the pubs.

When my deal with Rondor here in LA finished, all I could think of doing was playing. We found The Oyster House, and it felt like home. It was divey and small and personal and not corporate.

We met the house band THE DRINKS and we fell in love with them. They'd get us up to play in their break. They were a three -piece then, and sang CSN and Y songs, in perfect harmony. This was our Saturday afternoon hang.

But you don't need me to tell you the end of this particular blog. The Oyster House ended. Its owners retired. Many pubs around the Valley where live music happened just shuttered. Corky's.

Buchanan Arms.

And now Pandemic. We don't hang at a smelly dive bar singing our arses off and jamming as though Hendrix could hear us. We sit at our computers, and stream people like us, playing , filming themselves, broadcasting, hoping to connect with someone. I'll do it. We'll all do it.

But inside aren't we aching for pub grub, liquored townies raving about a song, over-reacting perhaps, but all of it feeling gloriously human, real, communal and in that way cosmic?

I won't lie. I miss that feeling more than I'd ever have imagined I would.

And I hope when all of this is over, the pubs will welcome us back.

I just want to sing my heart out for slightly buzzed people who love music.

That's my church. That's my true home.



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