More band stuff.

                                                              It’s Only a Dance 

When said quickly, the prospect of touring with a band sounds like fun. Shaun, our bandleader announced that the band had been booked for a short tour in Scotland. We were to perform three concerts on the mainland before making the crossing to the island of Orkney for a series of seven more performances. 

With some difficulty, I was able to arrange two weeks off work and I eagerly anticipated the prospect of swapping my airline uniform for the rather casual attire favoured by musicians. Although the band played most sorts of music, our speciality was a brand of rock and roll known as Southern Rock, as performed by such bands as Lynard Skynard and ZZ Top. We were rather dubious as to the prospects of acceptance by the rather staid residents of the Northern Isles. Shaun was unperturbed, however and we set off northwards in our convoy of two Transit vans. 

The first concert was in Dundee. Our debut CD had sold fairly well in Scotland and we were gratified to see that a full house awaited us. Happily, a similar response awaited us in the beautiful city of Aberdeen and in the equally beautiful Inverness.

 Flushed with success, we boarded the ship that was to carry us over the water to Orkney. To relate that the crossing was rough would be to seriously understate the case. The weather, always unpredictable in the northern parts of our green and pleasant land decided to turn really nasty. The small ship forced her way northwards in the teeth of a force nine. Mountainous waves crashed over the bows and although we were never in any real peril, I noticed Carl, our bass player, surreptitiously fingering his rosary between bouts of seasickness. As I have never been affected by motion sickness in any form of transport, the eventual docking in Kirkwall came as a relief to others more than it did to me. 

A small man whose few remaining strands of hair were carefully arranged to cover as much as possible of his balding head met us on the quayside. With an air of immense self-importance, he announced that he was our agent and responsible for our welfare and accommodation during our stay in Orkney. Discussion with this worthy led us to believe that instead of playing our normal programme, we were expected to provide music for dancing. Idle speculation on the type of dancing favoured by the people of the island pointed to an almost complete lack of interest in anything more upbeat than Celtic folk music. 

The atmosphere in the hotel could not be described as amenable. All conversation ceased as we trooped into the bar. We settled down at a table whilst Shaun ordered drinks and attempted without success to engage the barman in conversation. Eventually one of the locals approached us. “You’ll be the band then,” he said. “I hope you’re better than the last lot they sent us.” This did not bode well for us. The previous band to tour the island had been very highly acclaimed. If they had failed to meet with approval, then we stood no chance whatsoever. We assured him that, indeed we were a much better band and that we were eagerly anticipating playing for the islanders. He made a kind of Scottish noise at the back of his throat and returned to the bar. 

We arrived at the venue for our first gig to find the place deserted. We located the caretaker who grumblingly opened the doors. It was immediately apparent that our equipment, designed for use in a large auditorium, was inappropriate for the school hall but our road crew managed to find room for most of it on the tiny stage. By eight o’ clock, we were ready. Although the evening was billed to start at half past eight, there was not a soul to be seen except for an old lady who sat at the back of the room and produced some knitting. 

At around eleven, the doors burst open and within minutes, the tiny hall was bulging at the seams. The locals apparently stayed in the pub until closing time and then headed for the dance. Without wishing to be disrespectful, I found it amusing to note that they conversed at the top of their voices, even although the recipient of their words might be only inches away. At the end of our first number, we saw that they were paying little or no attention. By the end of the fourth song, it was obvious that the main attraction was the availability of a late bar. 

As the evening wore on, the consumption of prodigious quantities of alcohol had led to the opportunity for the settlement of old scores and several independent fights broke out, the protagonists being surrounded by their cheering supporters. The floor was now ankle deep in a mixture of blood and beer and we realised that we were playing music to fight by. Interestingly, as soon as a fight was over, the two combatants would be seen drinking together, all the while looking around for someone else to fight. There seemed to be no definite finish time and as the hour hand approached two in the morning, a large man staggered up to the stage. 

With some apparent difficulty, he focussed on Shaun, 

“Can you play a Strip the Willow?” he enquired. 

Shaun looked across at me with a question framed in his face. I shrugged my shoulders.

 “Ask the piano player,” Shaun said. 

The man shambled across to me. 

“Can you play a Strip the Willow?” he said. 

I knew, of course, that Strip the Willow was a formation dance but for the life of me, I could not remember any of the tunes associated with the dance. 

“How does it go?” I asked him. 

“Och, it’s easy. You line up in two lines facing each other and …” 

His explanation lost impetus and he tailed off into an embarrassed silence. I tried again. 

“What are the tunes?”

“The tunes?” He seemed confused. 

“Yes, the tunes. If you can tell me some of the tunes, I’m sure we can do it.” 

“Oh, the tunes.” His face lit up.

“Well, everybody lines up facing each other and then you just…dance.” 

“No,” I explained. “Not the dance. We’ll leave that to you. I just want to know what music to play for you.” 

“Oh.”

 He seemed irritated that I was apparently unable to understand. 

“I’ll get Norman.” 

He wandered off intent on finding someone capable of explaining this very simple matter to the idiot on the piano. Some minutes later, he returned accompanied by another man. The newcomer came straight to the point. 

“Geordie wants you to play a Strip the Willow,” he announced. 

“Yes, I know that but I can’t remember any of the tunes. Can you tell me any of the tunes? Hum one or two maybe?” 

He lapsed into a period of deep thought. 

“Well….Everybody forms up in two lines.” He looked at me with hope in his eyes. 

I decided that I would take a chance. If I dredged through my childhood memories I could probably manage at least a few Scottish reels. That would probably satisfy their lust. 

“Okay,” I assured him. “I think we can manage that.” 

Somehow, we managed to convince them that the awful mixture of half remembered tunes represented a Strip the Willow. They certainly formed up as described and charged up and down the floor with abandon. 

At the end of the night, represented by the closing of the bar, Geordie came up to me and thanked me for a great evening. We were thankful that we had managed to avoid involvement in any of the fights and returned gratefully to the hotel. 

The following night was almost an exact repeat. The fights, the shouting and the inevitable demands for Strip the Willow happened almost on cue. Again, we got away with it but I determined to get it right before the next gig. 

Kirkwall has only one shop that sells records. Positive that I would finally discover a correct sequence of tunes, I approached the elderly proprietor.

 “Have you got any music for a Strip the Willow?” I asked. 

He shook his head. 

“We don’t sell music,” he replied, apparently anxious to put an end to the conversation. 

“I need to find out the tunes for it,” I said. “Can you help?” 

“Och, it’s only a dance,” he said. “There are two lines of dancers and they line up facing each other…..”