"Women. Can't Live With Them...

… pass the beer nuts.” (What’s that quote from?)

It’s already 6pm and I STILL haven’t received any marriage proposals today… wtf? And me having been so outgoing and amiable (and available) these past few long dark winter months. Oh well, you've got six hours left to rectify matters. (Not you Dave.) Or more if you live in America. Or Brazil, or Peru or the Galapagos Islands or…

38 Seconds...

... but if you listen to it over and over again, the sound doesn't seem so distorted. This is us playing a Carole King song called 'I Can't Make It Alone'. We're half way through the second set and starting to look at our watches wondering whether it's bedtime. Check out the girl in yellow on the left make what looks like a rude-like gesture!

NO... I Said I Wanted BROWN M&Ms!

I received a rather abrupt text message today that read... “Hey u lazy g##. Get some f###### writing done on that f###### blog cos I wanna read about your gig" ... or something like that.

To be honest, I think I’m still recovering from what was an exhausting two-hour performance on Friday night and since most of the people who read this and/or know me weren’t there, I can honestly say it was the greatest gig ever. But don’t just take my word for it…

“A triumphant homecoming…” said The Sunday Times. “An awesome display of rockin’ majesty…” added Kerrang magazine. “I was surprised they were all still alive,” commented the venue owner.

Sure, there was the odd bum note and improvised lyric but we powered through 24 songs (count ‘em Morv… 24!!) and didn’t come running off stage till half past midnight, grabbing a hot cup of cocoa from the roadies waiting in the wings and then whisking off in a limo to our beds at the retirement community.

Rumour has it that a full 38 seconds of video footage from the night is available somewhere and may appear on the interweb if the footage owner – who also plays the bass and wears a white shirt – can locate the power switch for his daughter’s computer and then work out what You Tube is all about. While you’re waiting for that – and don’t hold your breath – here’s a very grainy photo of the band in action, together with at least eight of their adoring fans.

Something For The Weekend 36

Dear Dave,

Well… as Rod Stewart used to say… do ya think I’m sexy?... eh, sorry, I mean… TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT… because in approximately eight hours or so I’ll be stepping out of a warm bubble bath and strapping myself into some “slimming” underwear before slipping on my black jeans from 1988 and then very quickly slipping out of them to try on some sensible slacks and a nice polo shirt instead, all in preparation for taking the stage for the triumphant homecoming return of The Signals.

Expectations about the gig are at fever pitch from the conversations I’ve managed to overhear between the many voices in my head and I’ve taken the day off work to catch up on napping as well as some “entertaining” with the fans that have been parked outside my house all week. Final rehearsals went very smoothly on Wednesday night – we turned up at the practice room on time and remembered each other’s names – so it only remains to be seen if we can pull off the biggest comeback since that time in the pub when you said something really stupid and I totally ripped the piss out of you with a cracking one-liner that left you shattered and humiliated, bubbling like a big cry baby with your self-esteem strewn in tatters on the saloon floor. Good times.

Actually, talking about comebacks, remember earlier in the week when I was whinging about not getting any substantial coverage in the local paper? Well, I was flicking through Volume 9 of The Definitive Signals Anthology the other day – that’s the one with all the pictures and pop-up features of various band members *snigger*– and I came across this classic cutting from 1991 when the Falkirk Herald was proclaiming the first of our many comebacks.

As you can see from the photo, young guitarist Billy Boo Bob (second from the right) was still sporting his Witness Protection Scheme Moustache™ which sort of explains why we’d been absent from the music scene for a while. But that’s not the whole story. I know you’re probably drooling over the rugged features of drummer Handsome Doug (extreme right) and thinking how cool he looks as a master of the dying art of pensive chin-clenching but the truth is he super-glued his hand to his face in 1989 and gave up gigging for a while after suffering a torrent of inappropriate “he’s no Def Leppard” abuse. From our bass player.

Anyway… 1991… Christ, that wasn’t yesterday but some things never change. I see from the photo that I appear to be wearing the classic rock ‘n roll ensemble of blue jeans and black t-shirt. If my sensible slacks and nice polo shirt turn up in the laundry basket later, I know what I’ll be wearing instead.

Have a great weekend Dave, whatever you do, and if you can make it to the gig then all the better. Perhaps Bruce will bring his little video camera and we’ll finally get some footage on t’internet. Just don’t give the camera to He Who Shall Not Be Named.

Cheers, Edge

Viva Las Signalas

Well… only five more sleeps now (plus ad-hoc naps) until The Signals play “the gig of the decade” on Friday night in Falkirk. As you can imagine, this weekend has seen a flurry of activity as I’ve struggled off the couch countless times (I know it was more than 23 because I ran out of fingers and toes) to shuffle over to the opposite wall, pick up my guitar, return to the couch, strum a while and then shuffle back to replace the guitar on its stand.

I also managed to leave the house for a bit earlier today to visit the eldest member of the band who was celebrating a birthday. Good manners and loyal friendship preclude me from revealing the exact age and identity of our stocky bass player but judging by the demolished smoke detector and charred kitchen ceiling, there were a “fair few” candles burning on the birthday cake this weekend.

To get myself acclimatised to the inevitable outpouring of adulation and gratitude that a “triumphant homecoming gig” is likely to generate, I purchased the local weekly paper – The Falkirk Herald – on Saturday for the first time in about 10 years to gauge the current temperature of the community. Surprised not to find a glossy, full-colour, 16-page, souvenir of “The Life & Times of The Signals” enclosed within, I made do instead with numerous lively snippets of local news covering all manner of subjects, clubs and societies… church meetings, classic cars, yoga, bowling, mountaineering, floral art, camera, Brownies, Rainbows, Girls Brigade, Rotary, RNLI, AA, RAC, KKK… you name it!

My very favourite though was for a group calling themselves the National Women’s Register. Their ad is as follows… (guys – I am not making this up.)

“This is a discussion group for lively minded women who meet in each other’s homes in Falkirk district on a Wednesday at 8pm. If you’re a woman with an inquiring mind, and like a chance to express yourself, then please phone Alison on 01324… for further details.”

My only question is this… how big must their homes be to accommodate EVERY WOMAN I’VE EVER MET… EVER in Falkirk district or elsewhere for that matter?

The discussion topic for the meeting this coming Wednesday is “Mexico: a land of great beauty, wealth and poverty”. And the ad concludes with the somewhat disturbing information that “the ladies will also be trying some Mexican food”. Even using my patented and very generous “Food Portions Calculator Thingy”™, that is a sh#tload of fajitas!

And finally, despite what I said earlier, Happy 44th Birthday Donald. Your pre-gig haircut was looking sharp today but I’d still recommend reconsidering the gay Elvis t-shirt and pork pie hat ensemble. Oh... and remember it's F# in 'Dream Catch Me' and B in 'Ballroom' and 'The One I Love'!!