The band I’m in is on its first tour in three years, and we’re now rolling to its conclusion – Stamford, Liverpool, Oxford and on, 13 dates in all.
When you’re on the road for a stretch, the question of how and when you eat becomes a matter of profound interest, and eventually concern. Some venues feed you – vegetarian curry at a boardroom table on the top floor of an arts centre. Others send you to an adjacent pub. Mostly, the venue gives you a tenner each and leaves you to it – but the brief period between sound check and performance doesn’t leave much time to source and eat supper, especially if you’re unfamiliar with the area.
The venue in Cambridge is part of a complex that includes half a dozen fast-food outlets. The abundance of options is a little overwhelming. Eventually one contingent peels off toward a noodle bar. The accordion player and I opt for overpriced burgers.
“I think I’m gonna get a pizza,” the bass player says, pointing to a place across the way. When we meet him in the square a few minutes later, he has no food.
“They said it takes 20 minutes,” he says.
“That’s cutting it fine,” I say, unhelpfully.
“They’ve already had my money,” he says.
The accordion player and I head back to the dressing room. By the time the bass player arrives, looking harried, we have finished eating. I’m copying out our set list in huge block letters, so I’ll able to read it without my glasses. The bass player puts his pizza box on the table and goes out to hang up his coat.
“I’m exhausted and confused,” I say. No one answers.
The bass player sits down in front of his pizza. I glance up as he lifts the lid and there, in the middle of it, sits a medium-sized orange.
“There’s an orange in the middle of your pizza,” I say.
“I know,” the bass player says.
“Why is there an orange on your pizza?” the accordion player says.
“The guy put it there,” says the bass player, scowling.
“Did you order it that way?” I say.
“No,” he says. “It’s just to stop the box crushing the pizza.”
This seems fanciful to me, until I remember there is such a thing as a pizza box support – a little plastic doll’s house table. Still, I’m outraged.
“Does he use a new orange every time?” I say. “What a waste!”
“Or do some people get, like, a hard-boiled egg?” says the accordion player.
“It’s just an orange,” the bass player says, removing it carefully.
“Why not use an onion?” I say. “Or a tennis ball?”
“Or an iPhone charger?” says the accordion player.
“I don’t work there,” the bass player says.
“You should take that orange back,” I say, “and complain.” The drummer leans into the doorway.
“Ten minutes,” he says.
On stage, even while playing, I can’t stop thinking about the orange. I am perplexed by the incongruity, excess and sheer lack of sense behind it. I don’t know how much a big box of those little plastic pizza box tables costs, but it can’t be more than 500 oranges.
In the interval, I am standing behind our merchandise stall when a woman approaches. She tells me that she came with her friend Angela, a huge fan of the band. They drove down from Scotland, she tells me, just so Angela could get her hands on one of our souvenir mugs.
“Wow,” I say. She asks if I might consider dedicating a song to Angela in the second set.
“Of course,” I say.
“Otherwise,” she says, “it’s a long way to come for a fucking cup.”
Afterwards, we pack and load our equipment quickly, then return to the dressing room, discussing the evening as we change out of sweaty shirts.
“All the way from Scotland!” says the accordion player.
“I know,” I say. “Think of the petrol.” The bass player walks in, looking for his coat.
“Just for a mug,” the accordion player says.
“It’s the weirdest thing,” I say. The bass player walks out again.
“No, the weirdest thing,” the accordion player says, indicating the exiting bass player, “is that he still has no idea I put that orange on his pizza.”
This column is dedicated to Angela.
