Bleeding Event

OK, not bleeding. Sweating perhaps. Sweating definitely. But it’s a good title eh?

I’ve done two public reading events so far. Like anyone else, I was wary of the whole thing beforehand. But also kind of excited. Here was a field of activity that you just don’t get access to until you start getting books and stuff out there. Problem is, for most people the last time they read aloud from a book is school or college (“Smith, you can be Hamlet. Williams – Gertrude…”) And to complicate things, Deadfolk is written in a “voice”. You can see what I mean by checking out the extract at Serpent’s Tail’s site, or buying the book. (Is my plugging subtle or what?) Suffice to say. the voice of Royston Blake (narrator of Deadfolk) is not necessarily my own. It’s very much in my head, but not on my tongue. So to speak.

Anyway, I did some practice.

The first reading was great. (And I’ll skim over this one because the other one is more interesting, and neither you nor I has all day). It was the “Official Launch”, at my local branch of the book chain Ottakars (“Bookshop B”, for those of you who read my long post yesterday). My publisher and publicist came up for it, the staff were great, and the wine – although it never stayed in my mouth long enough for me to taste – seemed great. The local press had covered the book and done interviews and stuff, and while the turnout wasn’t Clintonesque, I couldn’t complain. I did the whole book signing thing afterwards too. It was all great. And not a single ghost from my former life turned up to make trouble (another story).

The next reading was at The Big Chill Festival. Now, I understand this festival is a big event for some people. 25,000 punters go there each year for a weekend of, you know, music and partying and upping and downing etc. Sort of like Glastonbury for the post-rave crowd. But I hadn’t ever heard of it. And I seemed to be in the minority. Even my brother knew about it (and got jealous cos he hadn’t managed to go yet. Har har). I’m there because Serpent’s Tail are publishing an anthology of writings on the festival (which is more a movement than a festival), and there’s room to put a couple more authors in there. So in goes David Toop (a well-known music figure in the UK) because obviously he’s going to be able to relate to this music festival. And then in goes me, because the arena of my book is kind of modelled on an area near where the festival is held (the Malvern Hills).

The day comes. It’s a Sunday, the last day of a 3-day festival. I’ve got a spare ticket so my wife tags along. I get to wear a super-cool pink “artist” wrist band, while Lisa only gets the standard yellow “punter” one. It’s a hot day. I’m wondering around, sweating, looking out for bands and people I know. Trouble is, I don’t know any of the artists here. Kevin Wignall mentioned in the comments that Alison Goldfrapp was there. I’ve heard of Goldfrapp, but I don’t know what they sound or look like. About the only act I know I’m going to recognise is Marc Almond, although he’s probably changed a bit since I last saw him on Top of the Tops 20-odd years ago. “He’s not here,” says the guy at the box office when I ask about Mr Almond. “Couldn’t make it. Sick or something.” Ah well. No Tainted Love then. But hey, I’m an artist, right? I’m no punter (like Lisa). I don’t need to worry about other acts. I am an act.

And I’ve got a pink wrist band to prove it.

So I chill for a couple of hours, drinking beer and flashing my pink band at all the punters. (OK, I know what they’re thinking – “What is that punter doing with a pink band? Which artist did he kill? You know, I haven’t spotted Marc Almond yet…”) And then with 10 minutes to go before my “set” I get up off the floor, brush the grass off my jeans, reel around for a bit, and head off for the Media Mix Tent.

Jesus fucking Christ – it’s huge. We’re talking circus material here. And it’s dark. Cool, too. Which is great, because it’s so hot out there in the open. Dark and cool, the perfect conditions for…

Sleep.

But come on, give them a break. These guys (about 50 of them) are frazzled after two hot, hot days of non-stop raving. They’re gearing up for their last big night. I totally understand. But, you know, they’re really sleeping. As in snoring loudly. In groups of four or five. A few solitary ones dotted around here and there. And their artist has just walked in (me). Shouldn’t someone wake them up and tell them I’m here? Apparently not.

The security guy at the entrance says I have to go backstage and check in. I do just that. They’re sitting around back there, looking chilled out. I tell them who I am.

“Who?”

“Charlie Williams”

“Who?”

It goes like that for a while. Realising I’m not going away, they ask:

“So, uh, do you need anything?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Some music?”

“Nah, I can do it acapella.”

“OK, come back in five minutes. By the way, have you seen Marc Almond anywhere?”

Back out on the floor the place is really filling up – two people have come in. I’m sort of pleased and disappointed that it’s Pete Ayrton (my publisher) & his partner. Pete looks around at the 50 or so prone bodies dotted around the huge floor and maybe raises an eyebrow. Pete Ayrton is one cool dude.

It’s time to go on.

I go backstage again, ready to make my entrance. I don’t care if those bastards out there are alseep. I’m an artist. An artist I tell you. I’ve got a pink wrist band and everything. I calm down and make my entrance. There’s a microphone on a stand there, so I guess that’s where I stand. “Hello?” I say. “Wakey wakey…” A huge stage light comes on and shines right in my face, and I can’t see the audience sleeping anymore. This is good and bad – they can’t put me off with their sleeping anymore, but I can’t see the one or two non-sleepers either. I start my preamble. “Bla bla bla bla…”

After a few minutes I start to get used to the light, although it’s making me sweat like a whore. I can see people out there now, but they’re just black shapes. One group of sleepers near the front gets up slowly and leaves. But that’s not going to put me off, oh no. And anyway there’s still that other big sleeping gang at the front there, so I’m OK. I plough on, sliding seamlessly from my own voice to Royston Blake’s voice (or my version of it). And when you start the actual reading, when the pre-chat is over and you’re into the meat of it, you don’t really care. I’m not me anymore, for that short while. I’m Royston Blake, head doorman of Hoppers Wine Bar & Bistro, and you shadowy bastards out there had fucking well better listen… listen… listen…

I come out of it. I’ve got to the end. Royston Blake fades out of me and I close the book. And do you know what? That big gang of sleepers at the front there is clapping and whistling. I milk it for a while, then say:

“Any questions?”

“Yeah,” says one of the ex-sleepers. “What’s the book called?”

Lisa told me afterwards that most people woke up and listened when I started shouting and swearing. So there’s the moral of this story for you: If your audience is asleep, give em hell.