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 part 3 or a little trilogy though. You might want to read part 1 and 2 first.

Fiddler’s Elbow

The first Tom Slatter Band gig was at The Fiddler’s Elbow in that London that they have, on a very proggy bill alongside the bands IT and Circu5. 

The run up to it involved rehearsing at the Amersham Music Studios, which meant I had to get myself from the City where I work to Amersham at the far end of the metropolitan line. A long, boring journey at the end of long boring days at work. I was frequently tired and half asleep for large parts of those journeys. 

Which meant that the first time I saw that green face with its multifaceted eyes, I assumed I had just fallen asleep. And imagined it, distorted and insectile through the curved window of the train somewhere near Wembley. 

But when, a week later, I saw it again, I knew I had to act. 

Gareth, being a guitar player, is not always the most organised. On one of the evenings we’d arranged to rehearse he texted us all to let us know he had in fact forgotten to leave the house and would not make it to rehearsal on time. 

We decided to give that evening a miss, which gave me a chance to pop over to The Horns in Watford for a quick visit. A few spilled pints and an insult or too and I’d successfully instigated a mini riot, which was the perfect cover for a very particular theft. 

The gig at the Fiddler’s Elbow finally came round and we all headed to sunny Camden, amidst the riches and squalor of that London. 

The Fiddler’s Elbow is a proper music pub, of the sort that has been rapidly disappearing across the country. The floors are sticky, the walls are covered with the optimistic promotional stickers of bands you’ve never heard of before or since. The soundman only understands loud, and things can only ever be turned up.

Nevertheless, the gig was great fun. There were plenty of people in for a prog gig on a weeknight, and most were properly into the show. Unfortunately some of the denizens of the Tom Slatter Immoral Supporters facebook group turned up, armed with plastic tentacle fingers and plans to throw things at me, but apart from those mewling sycophants it was genuinely a great night. Michael, Keith and Gareth played a blinder, with only myself making any notable cock-ups. We played a set mostly culled from Happy People, with a few other tracks thrown in. I’ve been waiting for years for the chance to play my songs with a proper band, and the gig at the Fiddler’s Elbow was hopefully just the first of many. 

IT rounded off the night with a great set of catchy proggish rock songs with a hint of 90s alternative rock (to my ear, anyway) and then we all headed off home, which for me meant heading to the overground station in a bit of Camden I had never been. I made sure I packed my wheeled case in a very particular manner, just in case. 

The train platform was deserted, and after waiting for several minutes I thought I’d gotten away with it, but then, with only two minutes until the train was due to arrive, he appeared.

Praying Mantis Dave.  

When I saw him through the train window, I realised he was still hunting me down. And  with the gig at the Fiddler’s Elbow advertised as widely as we were able, it was obvious he might find me. 

He emerged from the shadows and came slowly towards me. He was seven feet tall, biker leather draped over his green chitinous form.

‘I don’t know why you’re after me. I didn’t do anything to you,’ I shouted at him, playing for time as I struggled with the zip on my case. A mist was starting to form around us on the station. 

‘Didn’t do anything? You killed my son!’ Praying Mantis Dave thundered incredulously.

‘Oh yeah, that. Well, I didn’t mean to. It was an accident,’ I said, continuing to struggle with the case’s zip which had caught on something. 

‘And I won’t mean to throw you under the train when it arrives, that’ll be an accident too. Or at least, that’s what I’ll tell the police,’ Dave said. He stretched his arms wide, and clicked his mandibles.

I yanked frantically at the case’s zipper, but it wouldn’t budge. Mist was pooling around my ankles now, it had suddenly grown very cold. I tensed, ready to give it one last heave, but before I could the seven foot hell’s angel humanoid praying mantis struck. 

I was hurled backwards, striking the metal fence at the edge of the platform. My head struck the iron railings and for a moment I was dazed. When I came too again, Dave was dragging me by my ankles to the other side of the platform. I could barely see him, so thick had the mist become, but I could feel his claws on my ankles. 

‘You’ll regret what you did, Slatter. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life,’ Dave said. He grabbed me by my shirt and hauled me upright, putting my back to the edge of the platform. I could hear the rumble of the approaching train. 

‘But the rest of your life is only a few seconds,’ he said. 

I glanced behind him, and saw two glowing red eyes. 

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. 

There was a roar from behind Praying Mantis Dave. I felt his grip on my shirt loosen. I shoved him away and lunged for my case. This time the zip moved and I was able to pull something out. Something I had been to collect from the Horns in Watford on the night of our cancelled band rehearsal. 

‘What the bloody hell is that?’ Praying Mantis Dave shouted at the mist-wreathed apparition before him. 

‘It’s a demon. A demon that really likes rock ‘n’ roll memorabilia,’ I said. 

Praying Mantis Dave looked baffled. 

‘Here, catch,’ I said. I flung him the object I’d stolen. Reflexively he caught it.

‘What’s this?’ he said. 

‘It’s Brian Epstein’s letterbox, you green bastard,’ I shouted. 

With a hideous roar, the Demon from The Horns lunged down and bit the head off the seven foot tall insect. Blood spurted across the London overground platform. Tentacles and teeth writhed within the mist. Hooved feet stamped. Fur and talons flailed. 

Within seconds, leather, exoskeleton and flesh were crunched, and chewed and swallowed, leaving only the metal letterbox. A claw reached out of the mist and scooped it up. 

Then the glowing red eyes turned towards me. It started to advance. 

‘No, no. You’ve got what you wanted! You can leave now!’ I cried. But still it came towards me. 

In desperation I grabbed my guitar, which lay on the platform beside the case. I held it up to the demon as an offering.

‘Take this, take this! I know I’m not famous now, but one day I will be. 20 minute prog songs about metal spiders are bound to be popular soon! Think how much this will be worth in the future,’ I said. 

The Demon paused. Something like a snout loomed out of the mist and sniffed at the guitar. Then a sound, deep and baleful, echoed across the station. 

The Demon was laughing. It laughed for a long time, and then it left and the mist began to clear. 

It had left my guitar in my hands. 

Which was rude, but at least I was alive. Which is more than you can say about Praying Mantis Dave, but what did he expect? Such an over reaction. So I accidentally killed his kid? So what. It was only an insect.