Stevie B

The lowest notes

There is a unique dread to the realisation that you are on stage and you’re not making any noise. At first, it’s the slow-dawning of “where’s the bass gone?” and then quickly remembering that this is meant to be your own contribution to the band. This is followed by the hand on jack moment - “yes, I am plugged in” - the hand on volume-knob moment - “no, I didn’t turn it down for no reason half-way through this song” - the fumble of tone knobs - “these don’t affect volume but I will twiddle them anyway” and of course the “I still seem to have fingers” double-take which is essential, if only to rule out the possibility of a sudden but unlikely explosion of leprosy in the right hand.

Things quickly escalate and it isn’t so long before the semi-logical checking of inputs and amp-fronted knobs descends into an ill-fated peer around the back of the amp for nothing in particular and hitting the bass a little as if to coax it from its apparent narcolepsy. Any pedals on the deck are now at the sharp end of the fury, particularly any that glow or have digital displays. Indiscriminate stamping may then give way to some shrugging of the shoulders to the worried keyboard player. Before you know it, your whole body has been given over to the cause.

Finally, you are led from the stage by a tall, good-looking man who hails a black cab outside the venue in seconds and carefully but rapdily shepherds you inside. He squints a little as the vehicle takes off into the night, heading towards a Travelodge on the other side of town where you have a room booked under the name Pignoramous and a 20 hour window to consider what you have done.