Timing Is Everything

A couple of years ago, my friend was organising a fundraiser in a field in Essex, in aid of a cancer charity. She had a couple of live acts booked and I bagsied myself a slot. I assembled a band of musicians, through various friends and colleagues and preparations began in earnest. 

None of us had any of our own material and we didn’t really have time to write any – the gig being less than a month away – so we argued and argued about which covers to perform. I did learn the art of compromise (I think), but the one tune I absolutely insisted was on the set list, was Dead Flowers. After all, we needed another upbeat song - the gig was shaping up to be a wee bit too melancholy without it. 

The rehearsals were a fun time. It was stressful as hell, gathering a group of relative strangers and cobbling together forty-five minutes of material, but I revelled in the madness. And the final product was pretty good, although we had a lot of trouble finishing songs together.

For some reason I still don’t quite understand, it was suggested that I sing Dead Flowers. Part of me was opposed to the idea, as I have a distinctly average voice, but part of me really wanted to do it. Besides, the proper singers in the band, would be singing back up, so hopefully all the cracks would be covered. So I agreed. 

I do recall one or two band members questioning the wisdom of playing a song called Dead Flowers at a cancer memorial, but I felt it was safe to do because we were on about two hours before the vigil was taking place and besides, nobody really listens to lyrics anyway. It wasn’t as though we were re-enacting the cancer skit from Derek & Clive.  

The day of the show: it was a beautiful sunny day and the staging and PA was impressive. If we played well, we would sound good. The afternoon went by at such a slow pace. We had to endure some bloke rambling along to a click track with his very young son also playing. They went on forever. But it was a charity do, and all about us mucking in together, so no need to be unkind. And the fact they overran, meant we would be playing as the sun started to set, which was the rock ‘n’ roll experience I’d always dreamed of. 

We started off a bit ropey, but after a couple of songs, we were doing well. Then it was my turn. Nerves didn’t fail me, even though the ability to sing in tune may have done once or twice.  Somewhere in the middle of the second chorus, the guitarist played the wrong chord. It made me smile. I noticed the bassist was smiling too. But others in the band were looking a little unsettled. It was only one chord. Who hasn’t played a bum note in their life? Surely it wasn’t that bad. I looked back at the bassist, he was still smiling, but it was now a bemused smile and he seemed to have developed a tic.  

It was only later that I realised the bass player had been trying to draw my attention to what was happening on the left hand side of the stage - relatives of cancer victims had been laying symbolic graves for the vigil at the end of the evening. I am not proud of the fact this started happening right at the moment I sang the line:  

“And I won’t forget to put roses on your grave.”