Blessed are the peacemakers….
I did a few highly enjoyable gigs with my old china Klaus Weiland – brilliant guitarist, competent driver (saving me from having to sit at the wheel all the bloody time) and an excellent, loquacious, companion with whom I have, on a large number of subjects, vastly disparate opinions: from Farcebook (which he adores, and I consider to be very much the proverbial Curate’s egg,) to reincarnation (in which he believes: you may guess my opinion) and a few dozen items in between (including imaginary chums!!!) ensuring every journey was alight with discussion and, if I may indulge in an extremely trite (nothing to do with the poshies’ way of pronouncing the fish’s name) expression “never a dull moment.”
We were playing in a small town, and went to the club for a soundcheck. As we were sitting there testing the mics, a young feller walked up, smacked some glass balls on the stage, said: “You can buy anything you want with them.” and went to the bar. Klaus and I glanced at each other, raised our eyebrows, and finished the soundcheck.
You now have to visualise the following events, somewhat spread out, but taking place within the space of about an hour. Apres soundcheck, we were talking to the owner, when I happened to glance stagewards – the glass balls bloke was sitting on it and had Klaus’s Deerbridge guitar in his hands. When I told him, Klaus stopped nattering (a minor miracle in itself) spun round, and gave the geezer a right old mouthful about picking up somebody’s axe without asking, and so on. The bloke got off the stage, apologised, said if he’d asked first would Klaus have agreed and, to my astonishment, received a nodded answer, got back again, sat down, and I waited for a Hendrixian cadenza: we got a coupler badly strummed almost chords, and that’s all she wrote. He put down the guitar, turned, and his hand hovered over me old Bailey –”Don’t even think about it!” I called, waggling a warning finger. Next thing, he’s off the stage, hastening to the kitchen, shoves the swing doors open, vanishes inside, an altercation arises. and the cook –a big-built geezer comes out looking bemused and nursing a thumped jaw. Shortly after the proprietor, who went to investigate, also cops a smack in the mouth. There is then a series of rapid comings and goings involving the cook, the owner, and the glass balls bloke (who I’ve by now dug as being two slices short of a loaf): into, and out of, the kitchen, through the hall, into the garden, back to the bar, into the kitchen, out of…….a musical-chairs without the sit-upons.
Prudently, I had previously ordered an evening meal, which was now delivered to me by a waitress who informed me that the glass balls bloke, who was well known in the area, was not only a wee bit strange (something which I’d sussed for meself) he’d told her that yesterday he’d been rabbiting with god, he was also prone to violence. I found this latter news disturbing as he was gonner be part of our audience (not that it was putting me off me large plate of delicious cauliflower cheese with broccoli and mashed spuds). Klaus, perhaps noticing my trepidacious look said: “Don’t worry, I know how to handle drunks, troublemakers, and weirdos. I’ve had lots of experience.”
Time passed, flurries of activity, involving the previously mentioned protagonists, ranged from kitchen to bar to hall to front door to garden (hidden from my view by a dividing wall) occurred at short intervals. Then, whilst I continued to enjoy me scoff, Klaus walked behind the divider. I heard a brief raising of voices, and next moment he’s staggering back uttering garbled noises and clutching his nose: gouts of blood gushing like a scarlet fountain, pouring over his hands, streaming between his fingers, his precious claret staining the floor…….well, actually, not quite…….not absolutely ……. that’s not totally, completely precise..….a mite exaggerated mayhap…….but he was holding his hooter, and there was a trickle of red stuff descending from one nostril.
“They were having a row,” he spluttered, dabbing his bozo with a hanky,” I went to make peace, started to speak, and – I didn’t even see it coming it was so fast– he hit me on the nose; then turned round and kept on shouting at the cook, just as if nothing had happened.” He sat down, nursing his pummeled proboscis, and wiping a little blood from his top lip. The waitress came to offer sympathy, followed by the boss, while the cook leapt on the dog and called the cops. Meanwhile the glass balls bloke had done the vanishers, but – we later heard – was apprehended and removed speedily to a psychiatric clinic.
We did the gig, and afterwards, sitting in my hotel room indulging in a late night drop of splash (our dear friend Sheila gave me, many years ago, the blessed implements for teamaking when one is on the road: German hotels don’t provide the civilised kettle, teapot, selection of teas, coffees and biccies in every room, as do British hotels, so if you wake up thirsting for a drop of Rosie in the middle of the night, or early morning, you’ve bleeding had it, cock!) Klaus, still delicately attending to his tender Tudor, gave me a worried look, said:” You’ll write about this in your blog, right?”
Right!
