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THE WORSE GIG WOT I EVER 'AD!
From: Wendy Holman of Fingerstyle

Picture a Yorkshire village in the late 60's. The lady of the manor organises a review for the benefit of the local oldies. I'm invited as the cultural spot. I'm 13 and can play 3 pieces on classical guitar. The butcher, baker, post-mistress, etc do their 'turns' and then it's my go. In me frilly frock and little white socks darlings, I clamber onto the stage, set up my music stand and chair, sit down, smile, play one note, my chair collapses and I fall bum over teakettle onto my arse. Everybody laughs. A withered old crone in the front row shouts... "We've seen some good turns on stage tonight but that beats the lot!"

Four years later. Another charity review ; this time in a large country hall complete with sit down roast dinner. The caterers haven't hired enough staff. There are 250 folk sat at long white-clothed tables, griping and groaning because the service is so slow. The meals are congealed in fat and the vegetables are not only cold, they're still raw. Front of house, the MC is stuttering bad jokes from a piece of paper. The pianist excuses herself to go to the loo - and doesn't come back! I'm back stage with the butcher, baker, post-mistress etc, trembling as the groaning and griping gets louder and louder. Five minutes later we hear a squeak from the MC. The curtains billow as he ducks backstage shouting, "Run for it, lads! They're throwing brussel sprouts!"

Another 4 years on, I arrive in Aus and score a residency in a wine bar in Canberra. I've got first night jitters. The audience is all male - bus drivers from the depot around the corner, knocked off for the night and expecting Olivia Newton John. Instead, they get me, playing old, dead, black guys stuff. First Delta blues song, there's half-hearted applause from the front table. Hoping to win the rest over with a bit of humour I shout "Don't clap, just throw money!" Some bastard does - and a 10 cent piece hits me square between the eyes.

Another 3 years on, now wised up to Aussie audiences I answer an ad' for "Lead guitarist wanted for 50/50 band." 50% good 50% ratshit? 50% male 50% female? Mystified and desperate for work (poker machines moving in) I buy a cheap electric guitar, an old valve amp and a book that promises to make me a star. 10 pages later I begin to suspect it's all Deep Purple riffs. After 4 days of using a plectrum (How do you stop this thing flying off?!!) I roll up to the audition. A three-piece band - guys in their late 40's who look like accountants - is set up in a garage in the suburbs. The drummer's kit is a kick, a snare and a cymbal. The keyboard player has the notes written in felt-tip pen on the keys. The bass player's wife scowls at me, stubs out her cigarette and announces, "She's OK, she's not too pretty."

As part of a duo, I'm invited to play 2 gigs at the National Folk Festival in Canberra. 75,000 people expected. The first gig is an evening concert in the big marquee. Peggy and I both play two instruments. We have one in each hand, waiting at the bottom of the stage steps as the MC is announcing us. The stage is the height of a semi trailer. The techo's have set up coloured lights and a dry ice machine beneath the stage gushes out mist. Very artistic. "And now, let's hear it for..." and we're on! Peggy's right behind me as we mount the steps. The mist hides the fact that the top step is higher than the rest. I trip, land on my knees holding both instruments out to save them from damage. Bit of a loss of dignity but I'm a muso - I'm used to that! Peggy and I quickly recover and play out the set. Appreciative applause. Back down the steps and there's a small group of supporters waiting. Among them a little boy who tugs on my sleeve and says, "I liked the banjo best - but I don't think you'll get to be a real star. Real stars fall off stages, not on them!"