It was a sweltering summer in 2017, and I was recording the debut album of a Japanese band called Luby Sparks. We recorded most of it in the hottest room in my parents’ house, the same room where I recorded most of the Yuck records. The band had come over from Japan for three weeks to record with me, so we had no time to waste.
We were just about to lay down a guitar take, when I received a phone call from Yuck’s guitarist, Ed Hayes. ‘Hey man, [REDACTED] is headlining [REDACTED] festival and needs a thirteen-piece acoustic guitar orchestra, would you be willing to fly to [REDACTED] tomorrow?’ For the past few months, Ed had been playing guitar for an extremely famous and talented artist who for legal reasons I can’t name. I was faced with an extremely tough decision. I had made a commitment to Luby Sparks. This was their debut album, and it was incredibly important to them, as it was to me. But this was also a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I was keen to see where it would go. A thirteen-piece acoustic guitar orchestra though? It sounded made-up.
My old bandmate from Cajun Dance Party (who is also an extremely talented sound engineer), Vicky Freund, agreed to step in for me while I was away for a few days. Luby Sparks were very understanding. They knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to play with [REDACTED]. The following afternoon, after signing an NDA stating I would never publicly speak of this situation or I would risk being sued for $250,000, I was at Heathrow airport with my acoustic guitar.
Ed had put together this group of musicians very quickly, but I had no idea who would be there. I only knew one person, my friend Will who used to play in a band called Gross Magic. We met up at the airport and had a beer, discussing how strange and unsettling this whole situation was. There was no mention of what songs we’d be playing or what to learn. I was familiar with [REDACTED]’s music, but I couldn’t really hear any acoustic guitar, certainly not thirteen acoustic guitars.
On the plane, I saw a guy across the aisle with headphones on, frantically scribbling guitar tabs in a notebook. ‘Hey, are you playing in this acoustic guitar thing too?’ I asked.
‘Uh, yeah,’ he laughed.
‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing?’
‘Nah.’
‘Good, me neither.’
We touched down at about 8pm. It became more apparent who was involved when we got to baggage claim. Anyone who looked slightly shifty who picked up an acoustic guitar from the carousel was clearly there for the same reason as I was. It turned out there were a variety of musicians from various parts of the London indie scene, including members of Milk Disco, Goat Girl, and Hotel Lux. Several white minibuses were waiting for us outside the airport to take us straight to rehearsal. On the way, we all bonded over the weirdness of the situation, and talked about music and mutual friends in London. After about thirty minutes, we pulled up outside a large sports arena. All the rehearsal spaces I had been to in the past have been damp, sweaty rooms that smelled of sewage and short circuiting, but I could tell this wasn’t going to be a normal rehearsal.
We stepped inside, and there he was. [REDACTED], sitting in the centre of the empty arena, surrounded by expensive guitars and keyboards. He had a special kind of aura, a sense of power which emanated from his presence. No one had to tell me, I already knew — we weren’t allowed to talk to him.
Immediately our presence felt confusing and unwanted. We were introduced to the musical director, who was an incredibly stressed out young man who seemed to have forgotten that we were coming. Yet here we were. Thirteen scruffily dressed young men and women from London and the South-East, at your service. We all sat cross legged on the floor with our acoustic guitars like school children.
It seemed that there was no preparation made for our arrival. There was no music, and barely any knowledge of what songs we’d be needed for. In the end, the musical director just got us to play a random chord, and lightly brush the strings with our fingertips, creating a barely audible wispy noise. ‘Hey [REDACTED], what do you think of this?’ asked the musical director.
‘I mean, I’m not… like… mad about it…’ he said.
I felt sorry for the musical director, he was clearly under a lot of pressure. Apparently he had also been brought in at extremely late notice, and on top of babysitting for us, he was also tasked with writing the entire string arrangement for a sixteen-piece orchestra. We called it a day at about 11pm and got transported to our hotel. It was impressive. We all had our own rooms, and there was also a luxury spa with footbaths, steam rooms, water beds, and sparkling water on tap. I wondered how much this experiment was costing.
The next day I woke up early to try out the spa. I spoke to more members of the acoustic guitar group whilst sipping sparkling water and soaking our feet in the footbaths. Our collective mindset was one of general confusion and mild panic. After a brief practice in my hotel room, we were off for another day of rehearsals at the arena. The string orchestra was now present. There was tape stuck to the floor where the edges of the stage would be. It was hard to imagine. The stage seemed to be a large catwalk with a hexagon shape at the far end, where the main band and [REDACTED] would be stationed. There was hardly any room for anyone to sit. My main concern was tripping over and falling off the stage in front of thousands of people, turning my life into a viral video. Unfortunately, I have a penchant for falling over in public, knocking over wine glasses and general acute social embarrassment, so this was a realistic situation I needed to be mentally prepared for.
I woke up at 7.30am the next morning for an incredibly early soundcheck. Bleary eyed, we were driven to the festival site. Thankfully there was coffee on arrival. Stepping out onto the stage, I was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the audience area. I couldn’t imagine what this would look like when it was eventually filled with people. I had played festival stages before, but this was another level. The most similar experience I could think of was opening up the mainstage at Bestival, but at that time in the morning our audience was mostly cranes and building equipment. The catwalk was set up, and we were arranged in between the string players, straight down the middle. I played an E chord on my guitar, and heard it ring out through the huge PA system.
We hung around backstage for a few hours until the show. [REDACTED] had a private area which we weren’t allowed access to. I had a look around at some of the other signs on the dressing rooms and was excited to see that one of my favourite bands of all time, The Shins, were also playing. I spotted James Mercer in the catering area and introduced myself. He asked what band I was playing with, and I said I was playing guitar with [REDACTED]. I wish I could’ve told him I was playing with Yuck, then he might have been inclined to check out our music. That’s probably optimistic though.
Show time was edging closer and closer. We were taken into a tent and fitted with our uniforms; navy blue dickies with a yellow stripe down the leg, buttoned white shirts and white converse. We looked like a misplaced school marching band. We were made to stand in a line beside the stage and were instructed to wait until we were given the signal. Nerves began to set in.
Suddenly, a huge roar erupted. [REDACTED] had come onstage. I caught a glimpse of the performance through a black curtain. His grace, his presence… he was astonishing. I still couldn’t really see the crowd though. One song to go. A crew member came with a torch and waved us onstage. We climbed up the stairs to the stage, and up a few more stairs to the catwalk. I was blinded by bright floodlights, a stark contrast to the relative dim of the backstage. The crowd was immense. Tens of thousands of people stretched out further than the eye could see. We all had in-ear monitors hanging on the back of our chairs, except mine were mysteriously missing, so I had to play to what I could hear coming out of the huge festival speakers. A few wrong notes here and there, but I didn’t really care — the adrenaline was enough to keep me focused. Before I knew it, we were done, and escorted off the stage in single file. I gave a couple of high-fives to some of the audience members as I walked by. A shower of relief washed over me.
What I needed now more than anything was a drink, and luckily the backstage catering had me covered. We all hung around backstage, laughing and reminiscing about what we had just experienced. Noticing my glass was empty, I decided to get a refill. Without really understanding what was going on, I found myself falling forward with extreme force. BANG. The force of my body on the hard-plastic pathway had sent a sound like a gunshot throughout the vicinity, causing everyone’s head to turn. Everyone audibly gasped, and the entire backstage area fell silent. There was a ridge where the grass had met the pathway, and in my slightly drunken state I hadn’t looked where I was going. I sprang up quicker than I fell down, quicker than it took for everyone’s head to turn. From their perspectives, they heard a huge bang, turned around, and just saw a shocked, bald man standing there with an empty glass of wine. Unsure how to handle this unique situation I found myself in, I just smiled awkwardly and headed into the catering area. I rushed up to another member of the acoustic guitar orchestra. ‘Um… did anyone hear that?’
‘The sound of you falling over just now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Everyone heard.’
The next day I headed back to London, bringing a bizarre few days to a close. I reflected on the positives of what I had experienced. I had played the biggest show I had ever played (granted, it wasn’t my show and I was onstage for three songs, but it still counts), I had met James Mercer, and I had met a really amazing group of people who would also end up being my good friends to this day. I look back on these memories fondly, and I can only hope that the image of me falling on my face will be something everyone else can look back on for years to come.