3 hours ago
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Many months ago the band I’m in was invited to play a gig at a literary festival in Greece. The date slotted nicely into our international tour schedule, between Brighton and Plymouth. But it butted up against my already booked holiday; I would have to fly home, spend 36 hours repacking and then fly straight to Greece. Mind you, I’m not complaining.
“It sounds like you’re complaining,” my wife says as we negotiate the duty free chicane at Gatwick. It is 4.30am, and the airport is rammed.
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m just worried about my banjo.” The previous evening I’d parted with it – in its new, specially acquired flight case – at something called Twilight Bag Drop, a fully automated process that gave me no confidence I would ever see my banjo again.
“Nothing you can do about it now,” my wife says, “so there’s no point in worrying.”
“I don’t get how the second part of that follows from the first,” I say.
I’m also preoccupied by my roof: in the 36 hours I’d spent at home, I’d conducted several gloomy conversations with Michael the roofer about the flat roof over the kitchen, which is in even worse shape than the one at the top of the house, and when the skip in the driveway would finally be removed.
“Thursday,” said Michael.
“I’ll be in Greece by then,” I told him.
“You go away a lot, don’t you?,” he said.
“No!” I said. “This is an accident of scheduling. Mind you, I’m not complaining.”
A lot of the people on our flight are clearly heading for the same festival. I’ve spoken at literary events in the past, and they tend to make me anxious, because I’m not at ease among the sort of people who don’t suffer fools gladly. I used to have recurring nightmares about being on the same pub quiz team as Margaret Atwood. But I can’t imagine what it will be like to attend one as part of a band. We’re the only musical entertainment on offer, apart from the Greek band at the gala dinner.
In Greece I am reunited with my banjo, which is in one piece. But the weather, normally predictable at this time of year, has gone rogue: we arrive at our accommodation, above a taverna, in driving rain and the festival’s opening drinks party is cancelled due to a storm. We go down to eat at the taverna where we’re staying, but it’s shut.
“Because of the weather?” I say.
“It’s shut in protest,” the guitar player tells me, “against the noise levels at the taverna next door.”
“That seems … I don’t know,” I say. “Strategically opaque.”
“I might ask the owner if we can rehearse down there,” he says.
“It would be ironic if he said yes,” I say.
Ironically, he does say yes. The days fall into a pattern: we attend literary talks by illustrious authors in the morning, go to lunch, and rehearse all afternoon in a closed taverna by the sea. My rotten roof begins to seem very far away. I think: I could get used to this.
On the second day, it is announced that due to unpredictable weather our gig is being moved a day earlier, and the venue changed.
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“So where are we playing now?” I say.
“At the gala dinner on the quayside, instead of the Greek band,” the guitar player says.
“Is there even a stage down there?” I say.
“They’re building one,” he says.
On the afternoon before the gig we watch from a restaurant terrace as the stage is put together, while the bass player monitors the festivalgoers’ WhatsApp group.
“Someone’s got up a petition to reinstate the Greek band,” he says.
“How many votes?” says the piano player.
“Three so far,” he says. “All in favour.”
That night, as the gala dinner ends, tables are rearranged and we take the stage in front of 450 people, an unknown proportion of whom wish we were the Greek band. But the festivalgoers and illustrious authors know how to party: long past midnight they are still dancing and demanding more. We exhaust our repertoire. Afterwards, a woman approaches the stage.
“That was amazing!” she says. “And I feel guilty because I’m the one who started the Greek band petition.”
The next morning the weather that would have put paid to our gig rolls in: heavy rain punctuates the final talk in the main tent. But the sun appears briefly at lunch, and as I sit on yet another terrace among rosemary bushes and olive trees, I think: I’m not complaining.
Somewhere a few tables over, I hear my wife laughing with Simon Schama.
