From The Bragen Blogs ...

The character at pub gigs I find most irritating and at times frightening is the fellow who comes to face you out with the stance of a pit-bull terrier and says in a tone suggesting suspicion and aggression:

"WOT DOO YOO DOO THEN?"

I usually respond with the answer: "Oh you know , a bit of everything …some rock covers, some blues, reggae etc. But I'm just SETTING UP NOW so why don't you stick around and YOU'LL FIND OUT!"

This rarely appeases the chap with the bolt through his neck however as he wants more specific answers. "Don't yoo doo any f****n' Stevie Ray or Hendrix?" comes the incredulous reply.

"Well what sort of f****n' stuff DOO YOO DOO then ?" he continues.By this time you're hoping that he will be so unhappy with your programme for the evening that he will leave the building.

A female member of a pub "audience" asked me recently "DOO YOO DOO THE ONE I LIKE?". It's no use asking what epic piece of music this might be of course because she wouldn't know anyway.

Itinerant pub musos like myself also have to put up with the folks that walk up to you and shout a string of requests to your face as you're trying to sing something.It's like they just want to press a button and change the program on the juke box but can't as even after so many years of appalling gigs you still vaguely resemble a human being rather than a machine…

A young girl came up to me last week whilst I was in mid-song and insisted that I play some Dolly Parton.


I said "Listen, does it seem likely that I would sing Jolene or (worse still) He'll Come Again?" But she didn't understand at all and later, I overheard her saying to her boyfriend that she was amazed that I didn't play any "Dolly". She seemed to be suggesting that she didn't much like my manner either. Perhaps it was me telling her that I couldn't stand Johnny Cash that tipped the scales. Yes I know this is sacrilege to a lot of people but there we are. I just don't see what the fuss is all about. If I ever again hear "Ring of Fire" (a favourite after the curry house) or "A Boy Named Sue" it will be TOO SOON... but then I suppose I really shouldn't be so bitchy.

Some years ago my old friend and voluntary roadie Stewart Browne and I were playing a really grim gig called "The Eastgate Hotel" in Pembroke SW Wales. The first thing you noticed arriving at the rendered pink building was the brown stain emanating from the soil pipe that ran down the gable end. Getting inside we were greeted within seconds with the old "Wot doo yoo doo?" routine but it seemed to have a particular menace attached to it.   

"So wot f****n' time 'r' yoo startin' then?" the unshaven slob asked me.

The girl who was sitting next to him and his mate slumped over the table. He hit her round the face.

"Wot's up wiv yoo y' f****n' cow?" he bawled.

We tried to pretend we weren't there but he continued:

"'ope yer goin' t' play some decent f****n' stuff!"

"Maybe we ought to get out of here," I said to Stew.

But just then a man-mountain turned up from somewhere and hauled them out of the place. He kicked them out like he was chucking the garbage into the dust cart. It was a relief.

Stewart is probably the most unlikely-looking roadie in the business. He has a penchant for "loud" Hawaian shirts and white shoes. Looking as he did on this particular occasion, rather like a Columbian drug baron it wasn't that surprising when another rough looking character sidled up to him whilst I was playing and said:

"Does he do cocaine?"

"No he doesn't touch drugs", Stew replied a little testily.

" I'm not askin' if he USES the stuff , I'm askin' if he f****n' plays "Cocaine" by Eric Clapton" came the response.