Short Story: Remembering The Upper Hutt Soccer Clubrooms

A short story about the time/s I played The Upper Hutt Soccer Clubrooms...and places like that.

They had these fucked up tables, that were shaped like this:  /___\ The technical term is a trapezium, but I think Americans call it A snapperzoid? Well, maybe I’m remembering Sesame Street all wrong. Anyway, they sorta slotted together to make a long rectangle so they should’ve just been this shape: [            ] to begin with. But the point is, that was the best and most interesting thing about a dull, thin hall. In this dead room, at least it was interesting that the shape of the tables was odd.

I was there to a play a gig that I couldn’t really give two shits about, for a bunch of drunk, or bored arseholes that probably couldn’t have cared less about me, or the gig…

Setting up, I had the feeling, instantly that they just wanted to drink, and chat, and the band weas going to be in the way. They might want a dance, sure, for a bit, but basically, they’d be bored before long and we’d be expected to keep playing – even to an empty room.

I had this ponytail, and that is probably one of life’s more regrettable decisions or moments, or both, but it’s gone now. But back then, people loved telling me I looked like That Guy From The Commitments; they didn’t even know his fucking name. I’d go, “Andrew Strong?” And they’d be all like “nah, not him – that cunt from The Commitments bro!” They were essentially say I was fat with long hair. I didn’t really look like him at all. But there was no fat-shaming. Not back then. Anyway, I could go into certainly places and just know I was going to get that kinda thing. And this, well, this was definitely one of those places.

Here’s where I add that it wasn’t great fun being an alleged Commitments Cunt lookalike and playing in an Irish band.

“If you’re in an Irish band, you should be singing, not playing the drums…you should be up front looking like that”. But this was no compliment whatsoever. And you’d wait, and you’d wait, and then they’d say, as if they had some expert comic timing, but you could have ordered a taxi and waited and packed your bag for the airport ahead of the punchline finally arriving, “You should be out front looking like that, singing a little Mustang Sally eh, what do you say?”

I usually chose to say nothing, merely smiled politely. Made out like I had never heard that roughly one thousand times before.

One time, this guy was really pushy. All “Whaddya say mate, whaddya say, with looks like that you should be out front singing a little Mustang Sally mate, eh? Eh?”

And so, I said, “Do you ever tell black men that they look like Buddy Guy in order to get them to sing you Mustang Sally?” But he just stared at me like I was some sort of racist or something.

In the end, this gig was fine. It went fine. They always go ‘fine’. Sometimes they’re great. Even the really shit ones basically ‘go fine’ because there’s a paycheck at the end. And that’s enough to get you home, and to keep you loading and unloading your gear in and out of the car. This ‘bonus’ money. This easy money. This money for jam, or for jamming, or whatever.

And so, yeah, we play, and we do get paid. And back behind the drums you get to laugh at the club sandwiches that are somehow served with conviction, those chalky sausage rolls too..

You’ve got other musician friends that play in art galleries to absolutely no one, some guy dragging a violin bow across the strings on his bass guitar, while hitting a pedal that is hooked up to a cowbell – and the ‘joke’ tying it all together is that there’s meat hanging from the walls like paintings. And you’re too proud to tell those musician friends about the gigs you’re doing? What the fuck is up with that!

But what’s the alternative? You say you just took a drive out to Upper Hutt? You were bored with the city temporarily, and thought it might be nice to just get out and about…to Upper Hutt? What the fuck!

I had well-flunked the Hutt fashion test when I stepped out of my car. Audacity! That’s not the name of the car by the way, that was me in a sleeveless vest. I carried my bass drum up the stairs, and people ran to the sides to get out of my way. It was like they thought a spaceman had arrived, like fucking Mork from Ork, down for the night to play the drums. To give them Tell Me Ma and Dirty Old Town. Dirty old town’s fucking right..

All around me, black jerseys, leather vests, elastic-sided boots, homespun heroes, tie-dyes out on that part of the highway…

You can’t enjoy a drink with these drunks because you need to drive home safely at the end of the night. You don’t want to hang out with them at all, by the way, but the chance to unwind wouldn’t go a miss. So, instead, you’re the outsider between sets, wandering about to find a small solo space on that brown, patterned carpet. You’re dragged in politely to hear about Jason’s game and Billy’s second-hand boots, and Jen’s got a new tattoo, but old Shazza won’t be going down on anyone tonight, you see she’s got the flu. And they laugh, and they wait for you to laugh too, but you don’t know anything about anyone in this town.

The woman that runs the place is really nice, introduces her family – but as you meet Lisa, who’s about to turn 10, all you can think is that you wish you’d got really pissed the night before so that you could be super hungover, and all this might seem like some sick, sad dream. You just can’t care that this woman, and her husband – who helps on the bar – and little Lisa have all lived directly next door to this building for almost their entire lives. You’re thinking, for a moment, that you’d like to take wee Lisa to the left for a second, throw her ten bucks and say, “here, little girl, here. Until your mum pays me here’s my last $10 – I was saving it for some smokes, but maybe you should get a bus or hitch out of town. Only go if they don’t offer lollies, remember what your teacher probably told you, but there’s no real danger stranger than the lives on parade in this place right now. It’s a Saturday night, and I don’t mind admitting, we’re a mediocre band, so why is anyone bothering, and anyway, Lisa, I hardly know you, but I want so much more for you. You could grow up to be someone, don’t stay here, you might end up dancing on the tables – and they’re not the correct shape, they only work when screwed together, what if you get thrown off and end up stuck in plaster…as well as stuck here in Upper Hutt?”

But you don’t say any of that at all. You merely eye the mother sharply as she smiles her Guy Smiley-smile. It’s like she cleans her teeth with piss. And as she’s standing there, a little brown envelope with cash in it clutched to her chest, she starts talking about how nice it must be to get a whole $150 just to play the drums.

Now this sits, along with the spit on your lips, formerly from hers, like salt in a wound. It goes down like a shit in a milkshake brother. It stinks like cat wiz eh. It is not okay.  Because you’re like, “Listen here right, never mind the trauma of being called that cunt from The Commitments,  I had to put $20 of gas in my car, I started packing at 4pm, drove out around five, arrived near to six – cos I got lost (and wished it had stayed that way). I carried all my gear up the stairs, I set up and waited, and waited, and then played four sets with three ten-minute breaks. It’s now well after midnight, it’ll be 2- or 3am before I’m in bed. I’ll have to unpack. Tomorrow I’ll be buying new drumsticks, to replace the ones I busted tonight. Yeah-yeah, it’s easy entertainment and we got paid to play and it was easy. But when your hands are sore and people are still saying, ‘hey, play some more’, you feel like barking back, ‘should I play for five hours instead of four’, but you know they’ll just ask you to make sure you include Mustang Sally if you do.”

But again, I don’t say any of that. I just take the money. And run. To the car. To drive back home. To unpack, and not tell my friends where I’ve been. I will buy some smokes, and put more gas in the car, and I’ll have enough to buy a pizza and some beer, which is how I’ll spend my Sunday after sleeping in all day. It’s not bad at all, but it’s not a whole lot. It’s not easy, it’s not even that much fun. It’s a job, that doesn’t pay much at all. It’s not a good deal, it was not a good gig. It was just something to do. And if you’re lucky, truly lucky, you’ll have enough of those gigs, so that you can recognise the truly great ones if, and when they (occasionally) arrive.