My phone beeped.
‘Dude?’ It was my friend Louise, a postgraduate student who was studying Speech and Language Therapy at one of London’s most prestigious universities.
‘Want to go chill by the Thames in the nice weather?’
‘Where?’ I was sitting on a bus that was heading towards Canada Water.
‘By the London Eye’
‘It’ll be rammed with annoying tourists from Liverpool’, I replied (Louise was from Liverpool). ‘Come to Shoreditch. A place called the RichMix, Bethnal Green Road, up the road from the station.’
‘Who you going with?’
‘I’ll be there with Billy Nomates’
After a few more messages I persuaded Louise to come along to random event number seventy three.
Things could have been very different had I eaten my a bit more quickly; I would have had to go to a ‘technology and wine’ event which was something about an internet start-up company. Had I been fifteen minutes slower, I would have to go to the ‘twenty to thirty book club’, where I would have to sit through a couple of hours of tedious talk about a book I hadn’t read. As it happened, I had to go and see the Trans-Siberian March Band. The Meetup advertised ‘awesome Balkan gypsy music; blasting brass, kick ass clarinets and a rhythm section to die for’.
I remembered Shoreditch High Street Overground station from the street art Meetup. As soon as I crossed a road, I suddenly realised I knew something about the venue that I was heading towards: there had been a news item about RichMix earlier that very day.
RichMix is described as a hub for artists, containing spaces for ‘creative businesses’, three cinemas and a range of different performance spaces. It was founded in 2003 from a former leather factory using some money that was offered by the local council. The arts venue was featured in London news because of a particularly thorny dispute; the council stated that the money was a loan, whereas the venue said that the money was a grant. A representative from the venue said that they didn’t have eight hundred thousand pounds and couldn’t pay it back, implying that if they wanted the money, it would have to close. Lawyers were now involved. It sounded messy.
I walked into reception and was directed to a cavernous performance area, walking past a man who was trying to carry an impossibly large brass instrument. After buying a cheap can of beer for an impossibly expensive price, I sat down on a stool and started to fiddle with my phone, checking for messages from the organiser and from Louise, who I feared might get lost.
‘Hello!’
I turned around. It was Mia, who I had met at the James Brown tribute night! Mia had been travelling for the last couple of months, and had only just returned to London. After chatting for a couple of minutes, I saw a group of people colonise a table at the back of the room. I wandered over, holding my can of beer, and asked if anyone knew anything about the ‘group’. My question was followed by a hug, handshakes and introductions.
Our host was Emma. I was struck by an over-abundance of curly hair, a fetching chequered red dress and serious looking steel-rimmed glasses. Mia and I were introduced to Jimmy, a tall British man in his mid-forties, a chap called Seth, and a young Croatian woman called Alica.
‘So, do you know much about Balkan music?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Balkan music? No, nothing at all. I do like this band called Beirut, who are American. Do you know them?’ I was acutely aware that my musical knowledge was astonishingly limited and that my question sounded weird. All I knew was the leader of Beirut had been inspired by Balkan gypsy music when he went travelling around Eastern Europe.
Twenty minutes later, our table had filled up with more people. There was a Japanese woman called Mai, and a woman from Yorkshire who was called Annette. A crowd had also started to gather in the performance space; it was starting to get busy.
I received a message from Louise: ‘Got held up chatting to neighbour. I’m trying to find my way out of Liverpool Street station’
‘Good luck with that one! See you soon!’ I replied, wondering whether she would make it.
A stream of musicians started to file in through the entrance door and walked onto the stage. Hall lights were turned off and spot lights were turned on. A background was projected, which read, ‘The Hackney Colliery Band’. People started to move towards the stage as the musicians started to get themselves organised.
‘I’ve always wanted to see them!’ said Jimmy, who was clearly excited. ‘I’ve wanted to go and see them for years. I can’t believe it!’
The booming sound of percussion rhythmically resonated throughout the room, quickly and aggressively. A trumpet, trombone and saxophone cried out in unison. At the back of the band, I saw a man wearing a huge brass tuba. The sounds, the noise, and then the music enveloped and encompassed us. I then noticed the extent of the band: two trumpeters, two trombonists, two saxophonists, and two drummers (but only one tuba player). The audience cheered; people stood and watched, others, infected by the tenor of the blues, soul and jazz tinged tones started to dance.
‘We didn’t know we were going to be on tonight!’ shouted the band leader, who was also the lead trumpeter. ‘It’s great to be here tonight at this venue, supporting the Trans-Siberian March Band!’
We were taken through their funk infused repertoire. Different performers wove together musical textures, each player given free reign to add their own embellishments upon a performance that was, to my naïve non-musical ear, fun, energy filled, and delightful.
My phone rang. It had been in my back pocket, on vibrate. It was Louise. I quickly found my way to the street. She was lost.
‘It’s on Bethnal Green Road’, I explained. ‘Can you see the train station? How about the Sainsbury’s?’
Ten minute later, Louise had found her way to the gig, and looked mildly bewildered at having navigated the badlands of Liverpool Street and Shoreditch. The moment she saw the band, Louise’s eyes widened. The band started to play a new tune. My jaw dropped. It was a cover of a Nirvana number. Guitar riffs were played by trumpet and trombone; a bass guitar rhythm by a tuba. It worked. Beautifully. Grunge gave way to a high energy Prodigy techno cover, and then to rapturous applause. The audience loved them, and I did too.
Earlier that evening, I found out a bit more about the group and the organiser. Emma had joined the group a couple of years ago and was one of a small group of organisers. ‘I really like going to gigs’ she explained. ‘Over the last couple of years, I’ve been to over two hundred in London; I love it. Music is my ‘thing’, I guess; I really want to work in that area but, well, you know, it’s tough... There’s so much free stuff going on in London, so I decided to start to host events’.
The group was eight years old and was going strong. It had hosted over four hundred events, and had well over two thousand members. Seth was also an organiser, but he also had another group. ‘It’s not like this one’ he laughed. ‘It’s about chocolate; chocolate tasting’ he explained. His group was about eating, learning and baking.
After a short interval, where Louise and I caught up with each other, it was time for the second band. ‘Look! There they are!’ I nudged Louise who turned around. The musicians were wearing garish comical costumes. There were two clarinettists, a trombonist, a tuba player, a saxophonist, percussionist, something that resembled a guitar, and a trumpet. Two of the musicians appeared to be close to pensionable age.
The moment they played the first note, the crowd cheered. I had never been to a gig quite like it. There is one word that can be used to describe their whole performance, and that word is: joyous. The charismatic band leader, who I later discovered was called Isabella, commanded both the band and the crowd, whilst belting out phenomenally fast jazzy riffs with her clarinet. The energy of each song provoked the audience into dance; there were high kicks, horse impersonations and punk pogoing. T-shirts were grabbed, and circles of dancing were formed. I turned around to see the Meetup people, and Louise. Louise was wearing a huge smile and was trying to film the spectacle on her mobile phone.
By the time Louise and I left, the London air had cooled. The streets were quiet, but we still had Balkan music ringing in our ears; we were dazed. Walking out of the RichMix and onto the street was like leaving a fantastical parallel world of musical connectedness to the practical world of the street, where we needed to figure out how to find our way home.
We gave each other a hug before going our separate ways; I went to Shoreditch Overground, whereas Louise went in the direction of Liverpool Street. As I travelled on the train home, which was filled with the late night voices of revellers, I realised that an indelible mark had been made. I realised that I needed to get out more; I definitely needed to have more fun.
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