If Hercules' 13th task had been to promote a gig with some relative unknowns, in a city that does sleep - that in fact seems to have been in cryogenic suspension since the Romans left - we would never have heard of him.
He'd have traipsed - footsore - tens of miles, to deliver thousands of handouts paid for out of his own meagre funds, through the letterboxes of houses that'd rather watch X Factor repeats or nondescript European football matches. He'd have annoyed everyone to half death on ancient Rome's equivalent of Facebook, prodding them into attending the gig - in reality prodding them to stay at home and do anything but attend the gig.
He'd have stuck posters up in chippies, record shops, libraries, vintage shops, wine bars, barbers, toilets and over a "Danny Dyer DJ" monstrosity on a local phonebox. And then, just as his usually heroic and indomitable spirit was about to flatline, he'd have phoned round the local papers and radio stations and had his faith in humanity skewered once and for all:
"We'd possibly cover it if it was someone from X Factor or Hollyoaks."
"Do you have any tribute bands playing?"
"We've got a piece going in about One Direction this week."
Well, I ask you.
I.
ASK.
YOU.
Hercules would have been praying for a sneak attack from a herd of flick-knife wielding hydra when it came to paying the artists. £150 lost, just like that. Yep, adopt the mantle of promoter and you're exponentially more likely to turn yourself into Tommy Cooper than Harvey Goldsmith.
Finally, back at a dark and cold home, having gorged himself on enough fridge-raided comfort food to mollify the disappointment, but also hide his ripped torso for good, he'd have had night terrors about all of the dilettantes, the wannabes and poseurs who feign to be music enthusiasts, troubadours and bohemians, but have no intention of attending, unless it's their own - or their mates' gig. Those people in bands who seem to have no sense of how watching an internationally-regarded artist on a local stage is an infinitely superior form of inspiration to slapping your own mates on the back at an open mic night.
Yes, Hercules' night terrors would have been this sanctimonious. Fall off a dream horse that lofty and it's a long way down with no guarantee you're going to get up again.
In this tortuous analogy, I am Hercules. Forgive me, it's as close as I'll get to pecs, abs and heroic status. And for me, despite the trials, the frustrations, the significant holes in a bank account already like a mole jamboree at a non-league football ground, this particular trial is worth it when you witness true magic and unique artistic visions on that stage. We'll get to that magic in due course. But as I've lanced the boil, there will be more frustration first...
This city, you see, is - for too large a part - wall-to-wall magnolia with clodhopping fakes, the incestuously self-serving or 23rd hand derivatives. In other words, it's much like any other city in the UK... the world, probably.
Yea, I can smell the acrid odour of burnt and irreparable bridges. I can sense readers bristling from here. I'm not writing this to stoke acrimony. My keyboard is possessed by poltergeists of frustration and disappointment.
Let's reduce this Brownian negativity to something with a little constructive focus: If there are people putting good and interesting things on in your town, don't take that for granted. Support them where you can. I'm not suggesting anyone should pay hard-earned money or sacrifice too precious free-time out of a sense of sufferance or duty. Only do it if the artists warrant your attention. But if something interesting is happening in your town, please do your best to support it. Promoting is almost always at a subsistence level. Venues, nights, entire musical ecosystems doing their utmost to support genuinely interesting talent, will disappear overnight without the water and sunlight of your pennies and attention.
I know it sounds like I'm appealing to your sense of duty, but the message I'm trying to get across is more about your sense of value. All we promoters and music-savvy venues want to do is entertain, move and inspire you. We want you to have great nights awed by unforgettable artists every time you step through our doors.
I suppose the elephant-sized paragraph on this page, that might be better off written by you, begins: "If your nights were good enough, they'd be busy and we'd come."
No doubt there's validity to that. But the nights that I put on and the nights that promoters like Rope - or Core Music - put on in the same city, aren't about the most obvious artists bringing in the most obvious audiences. Chances are taken, artists are chosen because they're interesting, not because they're - necessarily - popular. Trying to overcome the inertia a potential audience understandably feels when it's comfortable at home, fire on, winter dampening all spirits outside, TV reliably swallowing the minutes in the corner of the room, is very, very difficult. However if you make the effort to get up and brave the elements, you have a much higher chance of witnessing something elevating, enriching and memorable than if you plant your backside in front of 'Celebrity' Insect Bullying In An Exclusive Aussie Resort That Looks A Bit Like A Jungle When The Cameras Are On, or whatever it is called.
The choice is yours, obviously. I'm just making a case for we promoters and music people.
As you were, then. I feel better getting that off my chest.
I'm a holier than thou twit, I know. Please don't let that put you off.
So, on the night that prompted this litany I saw one of Alun (Y Niwl) Tan Lan's first solo gigs for eons. He was subtle, musical, hilarious, enthused and unique. He charmed each and every one of the 30-40 strong audience, stealing a permanent place in their hearts with his easy melodies and songs that are as much Jonathan Richman or Conor Oberst as they are something that has flowered from the Welsh folk tradition.
Then I saw Katell Keineg. Katell has sung with Iggy Pop, Calexico and Jeff Buckley, but these are mere PR distractions away from what she does in her own right.
At the beginning of her set, Katell seems uncertain and vulnerable up on that stage by herself. Perhaps she's a little nervous. Whatever her initial state of mind, the songs begin to draw us into her world. It's a world painted completely in her own tones, rhythms and words. I can't predict where any of the songs are going to go next. I surrender my expectations to her visions - and what visions!
I don't take notes when I'm promoting a gig. I rarely remember the precise order of things, or the titles of the songs that so illuminate the moments. Half of my brain is still doing very disappointed maths. But all thoughts of frustration and loss and disappointed maths are ushered from my mind when Katell sings St Martin - a song of such elemental melancholy its every dolorous note reminds me that I'm not alone, that bruised hearts are the rule, not the exception. Do you get that from a truanting MP eating kangaroo testicles on the tellybox?
Katell starts playing something fingerpicky and somewhat rudimentary on the guitar. The utterly beautiful song that rises up around her halting fingers, like an Aurora of consummate yearning, is one of the most wondrous things I have heard at a gig. It's one of those moments that will tantalise me forever - because I want to experience it again, just the same, and that's never going to be possible.
Katell finishes with Shaking The Disease - a Breton/Welsh Patti Smith. The dilettantes would have learnt so much about songwriting from her last five songs. Their loss. This won't be repeated. We have no Little Brother on E4, no Xtra Factor on ITV2. You can't Sky+ us or find us on The Pirate Bay.
We're live music. We are the moment. Hercules would have approved.
