I’ve decided to revisit some of my gig diaries. You may have heard or read this story before on podcast or something, but this is the first time it has been on this blog. This is the true story of what happened after this gig.

The Horns – Watford – 2017

In August 2017 the Tom Slatter duo played at The Horns in Watford. Gareth Cole, a lovely chap, had joined me on guitar. That means we could play some of the songs from what was then my newest album Happy People, that could never have worked with just me and one guitar. 

We were supporting a band called The Far Meadow, who are proper prog. They have keyboards and long, multi-part songs and solos and stuff. They asked us to come and play, which was nice of them, so up we trundled to Watford, which as a committed Londoner for all but the proceeding 4 years of my life, I still regarded as the edge of civilization. 

Yes, I realise this is a silly thing to write. There is nothing civilised about Watford. 

The pub was nice though. It’s full of rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia, and its sign was a bull’s head – hence the name the Horns. At least I thought at the time it was a bull. Certainly something with horns and red, menacing eyes. I’d played there about two years previously supporting Lifesigns and had got chatting to an old bloke at the bar. Apparently the pub was built on the conjunction of two leylines and there were rumours that the landlord had made all sorts of pacts with dark beings in order to keep the business afloat. 

I remember agreeing with the guy that, yes, music pubs were hard to keep in business these days, but privately I thought the pub’s decision to book lots of high quality tribute acts might have had more of an impact on its success as a business. 

This was a pub gig. That means there was quite a bit of chat from the audience. I don’t mean that as a criticism or complaint, it was just that kind of gig, and it meant we had to win over the audience, which to a large extent we did. The song Self Made Man seemed to be the one to do it, I assume because it’s such an accessible song. We can all identify with a song about  a man who replaces all his body parts with mechanical alternatives. Which of us hasn’t wanted to do just that?

What made it a great gig though were the people who had come along specifically to see my set. That really did make my day, a really heart-warming affirming thing to have happen. I know I’ll forget at least one name, but special thanks to Andy, Andy, Mark, Matthew, Spike, Imhotep and Andy for all turning up – sorry If I missed you out – it was great to see everyone. 

After our set we had a breather outside to cool down over a beer – it was a hot night. The Far Meadow were just getting started, but we figured we could have a quick pint and still get in to catch their set. They were playing a two hour set and they are a proper prog band after all, so they would be getting through as many as three or perhaps even four songs.

Outside, we found ourselves talking to a bloke, Peter, who promoted live music at the venue. He told us about the rock memorabilia on the walls. The Horns was stuffed with it, guitars, pictures, album covers, everything. The weirdest and most interesting was Brian Epstein’s letter box. That’s right, the huge letter box that Brian Epstein had fitted to his front door that was big enough to take records so he could receive first pressings of Beatles LPs. A proper piece of rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia. Imagine that. 

The bar had a pretty strict curfew, so at the end of The Far Meadow’s excellent set the call for everyone to clear the venue came. The punters – a sizable crowd for a hot August night in Watford – shuffled out to whatever hovels and caves pass for homes around there and the musicians were left to pack up. 

Now, it doesn’t take a lot of time to pack up an acoustic guitar, so once I was done, and while the others were getting their gear out of the building, I sidled up to the Brian Epstein letter box. Making sure no-one was looking, I prized the thing off the wall using my string winder and stashed it in my bag. I like a bit of memorabilia and I reckoned that was worth having. 

Once outside we bundled into Gareth’s car and headed off down the M25 towards the nice bit of Hertfordshire, the end as far away from Watford as you can get, where I live. 

We got in and pretty much went straight to bed, I to an actual bed and Gareth to negotiate with my two cats for whatever corner of the sofa he could find to curl up on. 

Once Gareth had closed the door to the living room, I sneaked down and took the letterbox out of my bag. I took it up to our front bedroom and had a good look at it. I’ve stolen a good few pieces of rock ‘n’ roll history over the years – David Bowie’s toothpick, Ron Wood’s vase, Steve Harris’s tutu – but this was Brian Epstein’s letterbox. What a great thing to have. 

I was just deciding where on the walls to hang it when the letterbox – which was made of metal – began to glow. I dropped the suddenly red-hot thing, shouting and sucking on my burnt fingers. 

As soon as it clonked to the floor it was black and cold again. At that moment something rattled off my window. I pulled the curtain aside and looked down to the street below. It was Peter, the promoter from the Horns, along with two of the bar staff. They waved their arms at me. 

I crept downstairs, clutching the letterbox to my chest. Taking care to be quiet so as not to wake Gareth, I opened the door.

‘What do you want? I said.

‘Give it back,’ Peter said. 

‘Give what back?’

‘You know what. Quickly, quickly, before it’s too late,’ he said. One of the bar staff was crying, the other was swaying slowly from side to side. There was a sort of fog forming behind them. 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ I said. 

‘Please, please, you don’t understand. Don’t you know how difficult it is to keep a music pub open in the modern economy?’

‘Yeah, but you book all those tribute acts,’ I said. 

‘And we book progressive rock bands too! Don’t you know what a dent that puts into our takings?’

‘Oi, steady on, I said.

‘We’ve made deals. Terrible deals. We have to keep it happy,’ The promoter said, as behind him one of the bar staff fell unconscious to the floor. In the fog behind them two red lights began to glow. 

And then they moved and I realised they were the two glowing red eyes of a creature that stood at least twelve feet tall. It was lumbering slowly towards us, bringing the fog with it. Strange appendages appeared and disappeared within the mist. Tentacles, hooves, teeth and spikes.

‘What is that? I said. In my hands Brian Epstein’s letter box began to grow hot again.

‘The beast, the creature, the one with the horns. It keeps our business alive, but there is a price,’ the promoter said.

‘What price?’

‘We need to keep the bar full of rock ’n’ roll memorabilia,’ he said, ‘it’s a big rock ‘n’ roll fan.’

‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ I said.

‘We also have to sacrifice bar staff to it,’ he said.

‘That is a bit much just to keep a pub open,’ I said.

‘You want gigs to play don’t you? Now hand over Brian Epstein’s letter box before it’s too late,’ he said.

Behind him, I could see the thing’s horns, waving through the fog. I handed over Brian Epstein’s letterbox and Peter the promoter ran towards the beast, shouting at it in some incomprehensible language. The one conscious bar maid helped her colleague to her feet and they ran away too. The fog dissipated and they were gone.

The next morning Gareth said he hadn’t heard anything and had slept okay. Which I find unlikely, but there you go.