taxi-dumb-me
Sneinton. It's never fun to be in Sneinton, particularly at night, alone, with hundreds of pounds worth of musical equipment, but this was the position i found myself in last week. As i was hurriedly lugging amps out of sight, my first mind was harking back to the last time i was in this position. My second mind was swimming with tales of people getting robbed at gunpoint but i normally manage to suppress these thoughts.
Band 0 had a gig a little while back, and i somehow found myself in the uneviable position of collecting our equipment in a taxi. Sneinton is only a little less scary during the day and i felt rather a lot like The Frustrated Farmer; he had a chicken and a fox, i had amps and gun-wielding toerags. But i was no less frustrated.
With taxi-time approaching, my team banging on the door, yelling "get out!", while Richard O'Brian talked nonsense, i decided to first move everything from room to staircase, then from top to bottom of stairs, and finally to the "porch". Porch makes it sound like the warm, welcoming hallway of a house, rather than the ugly, urine-soaked entrance of a dank building. With one of the double doors closed, i could attempt to veil our equipment from beady thieving eyes.
I was sweaty but pleased when the taxi turned up and in no time i was at the venue; i unloaded everything and paid my guy. Casually casting my eye over the mountain of stuff, i realised something was missing; my guitars. The taxi was just pulling away so i instinctively chased it, stopping after only a few steps when it hit me that i couldn't remember even loading them into the taxi. Quickly assessing the situation, i came to the horrifying conclusion that i had in fact left them behind, in the street, in the dodgiest part of town.
Tethered to a pile of equipment in a venue car park, i felt very helpless. Fortunately one of my bandmates was inside so i tried to convey the magnitude of my foolishness over the phone; as soon as he was outside i explained just a little more and began sprinting back towards Sneinton.
I sprint for two reasons - public transport and retreiving misplaced possessions.
I was about a quarter of the way there, decided that i could not sustain this ridiculous pace and headed to the nearest taxi. I breathlessly barked 'are you free?' and for a second he hesitated. It may have been that he had another job approaching, or that he thought in my frenzied state i might navigate us to a remote point and stab him. Either way, he could see the desperation in my eyes and coolly replied 'is it an emergency, yeah?'
As i jumped in i told him to drive to Sneinton and i would direct him. His eyes lit up when i told him my sorry predicament, 'oh man! i love guitars!' I had actually found a taxi driver who was so excited by the prospect of rescuing guitars he was prepared to mow down anyone in our path; the sight of terrified pedestrians diving for cover, combined with his childlike optimism and enthusiasm, almost managed to quell the sick feeling in my stomach.
I held my breath as we rounded the corner and pulled up to the practice room doors - it was almost too dark to see and i could scarcely believe it but my guitars, clearly visible to anyone passing, were still hiding, partially obscured, behind the door.
All the way back to the venue, my host babbled excitedly about guitars and gave me stark warnings about repeating my error, how people only get one more chance in these matters and adding that he wouldn't think twice about stealing them if he had the chance. In response i proferred advice about good beginner guitars and taking lessons; advice which went in one ear and out the other but i was happy to give it nonetheless.
Despite having paid through through the nose for my first journey (i must add that the first guy, a middle-aged Asian man with a penchant for 70's disco music, was pretty entertaining too) i was more than happy to tip my guy rather generously. After all, without his boundless energy and reckless disregard for the Highway Code, i could've lost £500 worth of stuff, not to mention the sentimental value.
I did not feel it was necessary to turn the guitar the right way up for this memento.
Band 0 had a gig a little while back, and i somehow found myself in the uneviable position of collecting our equipment in a taxi. Sneinton is only a little less scary during the day and i felt rather a lot like The Frustrated Farmer; he had a chicken and a fox, i had amps and gun-wielding toerags. But i was no less frustrated.
With taxi-time approaching, my team banging on the door, yelling "get out!", while Richard O'Brian talked nonsense, i decided to first move everything from room to staircase, then from top to bottom of stairs, and finally to the "porch". Porch makes it sound like the warm, welcoming hallway of a house, rather than the ugly, urine-soaked entrance of a dank building. With one of the double doors closed, i could attempt to veil our equipment from beady thieving eyes.
I was sweaty but pleased when the taxi turned up and in no time i was at the venue; i unloaded everything and paid my guy. Casually casting my eye over the mountain of stuff, i realised something was missing; my guitars. The taxi was just pulling away so i instinctively chased it, stopping after only a few steps when it hit me that i couldn't remember even loading them into the taxi. Quickly assessing the situation, i came to the horrifying conclusion that i had in fact left them behind, in the street, in the dodgiest part of town.
Tethered to a pile of equipment in a venue car park, i felt very helpless. Fortunately one of my bandmates was inside so i tried to convey the magnitude of my foolishness over the phone; as soon as he was outside i explained just a little more and began sprinting back towards Sneinton.
I sprint for two reasons - public transport and retreiving misplaced possessions.
I was about a quarter of the way there, decided that i could not sustain this ridiculous pace and headed to the nearest taxi. I breathlessly barked 'are you free?' and for a second he hesitated. It may have been that he had another job approaching, or that he thought in my frenzied state i might navigate us to a remote point and stab him. Either way, he could see the desperation in my eyes and coolly replied 'is it an emergency, yeah?'
As i jumped in i told him to drive to Sneinton and i would direct him. His eyes lit up when i told him my sorry predicament, 'oh man! i love guitars!' I had actually found a taxi driver who was so excited by the prospect of rescuing guitars he was prepared to mow down anyone in our path; the sight of terrified pedestrians diving for cover, combined with his childlike optimism and enthusiasm, almost managed to quell the sick feeling in my stomach.
I held my breath as we rounded the corner and pulled up to the practice room doors - it was almost too dark to see and i could scarcely believe it but my guitars, clearly visible to anyone passing, were still hiding, partially obscured, behind the door.
All the way back to the venue, my host babbled excitedly about guitars and gave me stark warnings about repeating my error, how people only get one more chance in these matters and adding that he wouldn't think twice about stealing them if he had the chance. In response i proferred advice about good beginner guitars and taking lessons; advice which went in one ear and out the other but i was happy to give it nonetheless.
Despite having paid through through the nose for my first journey (i must add that the first guy, a middle-aged Asian man with a penchant for 70's disco music, was pretty entertaining too) i was more than happy to tip my guy rather generously. After all, without his boundless energy and reckless disregard for the Highway Code, i could've lost £500 worth of stuff, not to mention the sentimental value.
I did not feel it was necessary to turn the guitar the right way up for this memento.
Labels: pointless anecdotes
posted by crabb at
12:46 pm
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