wedding kaylee @ pyllaucochion farm, carmarthenshire

i am not completely at ease. it isn't raining but, although we've got a contract, and amazingly enough a deposit, word is that the bride's mother has booked another band. could this be an ugly rumour? or just poor communication? who can say?

hurtling down the motorway towards the wild green yonder that is carmarthenshire this particular saturday evening there is no alternative but to press on. my heart rate slows as i exit our visually banal arterial road system. passing under the protection of the sentinel oaks which punctuate the hedgerows i drive less frantically. i find myself begining to surrender to wales' emerald embrace.

relief is short lived. our caller chooses this moment to bring me up to speed. in more ways than one. he can'’t get out of cardiff. apparently there is an international soccer match on. which he couldn'’t possibly have anticipated. nor the resultant grid-lock! we are due to play at seven and it is now ten to six. he is 80 miles away. in a traffic jam. discomfort deepens.

then the bass player rings to say he's sorry but he can't make it. he's just got in from work and can't get to the venue in time. he's got to have his tea. and anyway his wife says he can't go out tonight.

hm!

find the gig by six fifteen. happily there is no sign of another band. unhappily the punters are agricultural types chatting in the tongue of their fathers. nothing wrong with that. its the tongue of my fathers too. it just ain't mine thats all. think devon farmers speaking a language you don'’t understand (a bit like devon farmers really but with more sibilant Ls and less rolling Rs.) and you'’ll get the picture. beefy, broad shouldered, big eared and boozing since lunchtime.

forget the politics. i have a real problem with being stared at by a room full of hearty sorts afloat on the pop and chuntering away in what might as well be a foreign language. and it is this: i can't tell whether i am about to be a) offered free mead for the night accompanied by the pick of the tribal virgins, b) stuffed with mistletoe and sacrificed to whichever god happens to top the local league or c) both.

my anxiety accelerates.

only to finally get airborn when, despite our initial salvos revealing that the action music live ceilidh band actually owes a lot more to diddly diddly than to its amerian cousin bo, a few of the younger guests decide this is a good moment to get their metallica requests in.

thankyou, rain, for not falling. at least god might be on our side and after all we are playing in a sloping field under a marquee. so dry is good. and not only for us musicians. there are tents around for the more hardy punters to sleep it all off in.

camp you say? yes. but not as camp as nigel the fluttering dj. anxious to stamp his authority on the event, albeit in a willowy sort of a way, while we are setting up and trying to sound check he fills the night with his signature tune. dancing queen. honest. could he be the only dj in the village?

despite nigel's best efforts, when it comes to preening and posturing the bride is about to show the young man a thing or two. no stranger to airs and graces she vacillates sharply between regal-imperial condescending and spoilt little madam. it is well to beware the stamp of her dainty hoof when she wants her own way.

we explain that we don't go on after the disco. 'you know,' we say with due professionalism, 'its all about dynamics, the volume and the guests' alcohol quotient.' she and her new spouse, whose own a. q. is veering sharply towards red, respond by insisting that nigel starts the ball rolling. he plays a smoocher and follows it up with a meatloaf* medley. we resign ourselves to three hours prizing the punters away from the bar while they call for shania twain. and tina turner. and tom. (tom? jones, obviously.)

as soon as meaty's dulcet warbling has evaporated to the warm welsh stars, kicking into the gower reel we (who are now a trio as the caller has finally got here. with his melodeons. much relief all round.) fire up and show them what we can do. we give it our all.

and the punters? they'’re on the floor like a pack of rats.

and they don't stop. relief is now boundless. we even get asked to name our price for another hour's worth when we are breaking the kit down at the end of the night. we decline. we're knackered and nigel, who despite his early flouncing has been pretty considerate, deserves his moment of glory after all.

back down the motorway with £115 in me pocket and it still isn't raining. despite the stress what could be better than that?

a shag and a curry of course. but you can't have everything.

*as it happens i am a major meatloaf fan. not so much his music. tho he sure can sing. no its more his politix really. anyone who'’s got the bollox to get up on his back legs at a gig in ireland and explain to the assembled throng that bono is "“too far up his own fucking arse," will get my vote everytime. hopefully it didn't rain on him either.

© Patrick Ellis 2006