Just Another Night In The Pub

There’s a keyboard in the corner of the bar, a bright blue guitar leaning up against the wall and an electronic drum machine glinting in the glare of the pub spotlighting. A short stocky guy holds a pint of cider in his left hand as he adjusts the height of the mic stand with the other. Around the room there’s a scattering of couples with fish and chips or a home made pie – short cut pastry according to the menu – and an older guy sitting on what is obviously “his” bar stool, engaging the bar staff in chatter.

We can overhear part of the conversation and glean that this is one of Padstow’s fishermen, discussing the fact that, these days, the crew of one local boat is exclusively Latvian.

“These be changing times, Jason”, he rues in his West Country drawl. “Mind, you can’t fault ‘ow ‘ard those boys work. And o’ course they don’t mind this cold weather neither”. The young barman, a Brummie judging by his accent, nods politely and looks just a little relieved when called upon to pour another pint of Rattler.

“Nothing stays the same, Jack”, he calls back.

“Aaahh”, grunts Jack the fisherman, “you can say that again”.

Just as we start to think that the band, still conspicuous by their absence, will be playing to a mostly empty pub, the doors start to open every couple of minutes, cold air blasting through the room each time. Ladies remove their big coats to reveal dancing gear – lightweight tops, tight jeans and tattooed arms – and there are guys sporting hairstyles from Woodstock. Only now do we remember the A-board outside the pub door….”THURSDAY NIGHT IS PADSTOW JAM NIGHT, ALL WELCOME”.

The Harbour Inn is filling up, not just with bodies but with animated chatter too, the atmosphere has moved quickly from fish-and-chip supper to rock-and-roll fervour. The mood of our night is changing and it’s only half past eight.

Matey with the half-hearted combover across his balding head takes his place at the keyboard as his floppy haired buddy picks up the drumsticks and begins to thwack the pretend skins. Within seconds we’re straight into a sound check – none of that “one….two….one…two” nonsense, these are the unmistakable opening strains of Billie Jean. As these two dudes exchange satisfied smiles I am put in mind of the characters in the lyrics of Sultans Of Swing – a feeling further enhanced when a trumpet player saunters in and joins the scene.

Garnering attention at the end of the bar when I go to fetch my next pint of Tribute is someone new, a guy in a black leather jacket, black T-shirt and jeans, hair slicked with gel, trophy wife smiling from her bar stool. That dude is not gonna fit in here, I think to myself.

The band are soon up and running: a serious looking guy, head bowed in the style of every great bass player, has picked up the blue guitar, while the smiling jean-clad geezer with the trumpet still looks relaxed even as he blows his first notes. They do the Walk Of Life….Mustang Sally….Lovely Day…even, for goodness sake, a Nirvana number….all given a jazz/blues treatment which has every foot in the pub tapping and every set of lips mouthing the words. Sultans Of Swing indeed.

Between numbers, leather jacket man, him with the trophy wife, wanders up to the smiling keyboard player and introduces himself as Tommy, down in Cornwall for a weekend break. They go into hushed tones, Tommy takes the blue guitar and flashes a smile at the band as he pulls a plectrum from his back pocket. He looks just a little too cocksure, just a little too “I am”, surely I am right, this guy is not going to fit in.

Keyboard man counts in a blues number, within seconds Tommy and the drummer form a rhythm section which would be no more tight if they’d played together for a lifetime, and we’re away. Tommy sings the blues with a voice which, if there was any justice, would have long since made him a star, then makes what is someone else’s guitar wail and moan like every blues guitar should. Three numbers later, the band love Tommy, and Tommy turns to thank the band. Everyone in the bar is on their feet. Not fit in?? Shows how much I know about jam nights. It’s brilliant, Tommy’s brilliant, and the Harbour Inn is rocking.

Before we know it, Jack the fisherman, no longer speaking of Latvian crews, is up and dancing with each girl in turn, wheeling them around the bar like it’s a hoedown.

“Come on then, Jack, let’s have you”, cries keyboard man, and Jack, beaming, takes the microphone and, with the amp ramped up and the floorboards pumping, belts out the best, most feelgood rocking version of Daydream Believer you’ll ever hear. If the Harbour Inn was rocking to Tommy, it’s raucous for Jack. There isn’t a soul still seated, every last punter is singing along.

You can’t walk out of a pub on nights like this. You can’t put a value on stumbling on nights like this either.

Jam night is over. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep in the darkness, wishing above every other wish in the world that somewhere in my past I’d learned to play the guitar. If only, huh.

I am brought awake by the morning alarm, there are things to do today, Paul is coming to service the boiler in little more than an hour. I pull on a sweatshirt and head towards the kettle and the heating control, Michaela rolls over and pulls the quilt back over her head. 

It’s cold downstairs. Music is playing in my head and I’m tapping a teaspoon on the worktop while the kettle boils. …..Cheer up Sleepy Jean, oh what can it mean….to a….daydream believer and a…..

It’s only when I catch my reflection in the mirror that I realise how broadly I am smiling. Last night was good.