Tim Dowling: I’m in Greece with my band and the weather is really bad… but I can’t complain family
MSeveral months ago, the band I belong to was invited to perform at a literary festival in Greece. The date was slotted nicely into the schedule for our international tour, between Brighton and Plymouth. But it conflicted with my vacation that I had already booked. I had to fly home, spend 36 hours returning my luggage and then fly straight to Greece. Mind you, I’m not complaining.
“You sound like you’re complaining,” my wife says as we negotiate duty free at Gatwick Airport. It’s 4:30 a.m., and the airport is packed.
“I’m not like that,” I say. “I’m just worried about my banjo.” The night before, I had parted with it — in my new specially acquired flight case — in something called a Twilight Bag Drop, a completely automated process that gave me no confidence that I would ever see my banjo again.
My wife says, “There’s nothing you can do about it now, so don’t worry.”
“I don’t see how the second part of that follows the first,” I say.
I’m also preoccupied with my roof: During the 36 hours I’ve been in the house, I’ve had several depressing conversations with Michael the roofer about the flat roof above the kitchen, which is in worse shape than the one at the top of the house, and when the skip in the driveway will finally be removed.
“Thursday,” Michael said.
“I will be in Greece by then,” I told him.
“You’re going too far, aren’t you?” he said.
“no!” I said. “This is just a scheduling mishap. Mind you, I’m not complaining.”
Apparently a lot of people on our flight were headed to the same festival. I’ve spoken at literary events in the past, and they tend to make me anxious, because I’m not comfortable among those people who don’t suffer fools gladly. I used to have recurring nightmares about being on the same pub quiz team as Margaret Atwood. But I can’t imagine what it would be like to attend one as part of a band. We are the only musical entertainment on offer, except for the Greek band at the dinner party.
In Greece, I reunited with my banjo, which was one piece. But the weather, usually predictable at this time of year, turned nasty: we arrived at our accommodation, above a pub, in torrential rain and the festival’s opening drinks party had been canceled due to a storm. We go to eat at the pub we’re staying at, but it’s closed.
“Because of the weather?” I say.
“It closed in protest at the noise levels at the pub next door,” the guitarist told me.
“That seems… I don’t know,” I say. “Strategically ambiguous.”
“I might ask the owner if we can practice there,” he says.
“It would be ridiculous if he said yes,” I say.
Ironically, he says yes. The days are divided into a pattern: we attend literary talks by famous authors in the morning, go to lunch, and train all afternoon in a closed bar by the sea. My rotten roof was starting to seem so far away. I think: I can get used to this.
On the second day, it was announced that due to unexpected weather, our party would be moved the day before, and the venue was changed.
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“Where do we play now?” I say.
“At a dinner party on the dock, instead of a Greek band,” says the guitarist.
“Is there even a stage there?” I say.
“They’re building one,” he says.
On the afternoon before the concert, we watch from the restaurant balcony as the stage is set up, while the bass player monitors the festival-goers’ WhatsApp group.
“Someone has petitioned to reinstate the Greek band,” he says.
“How many votes?” says the pianist.
“Three so far,” he says. “All in favor.”
That night, with the dinner party over, the tables were rearranged and we took the stage in front of 450 people, an unknown percentage of whom wished we were the Greek band. But festival-goers and popular authors know how to party: long after midnight they’re still dancing and clamoring for more. We are exhausting our ammunition. And then a woman approaches the stage.
“That was amazing!” She says. “And I feel guilty because I was the one who started the Greek Band petition.”
The next morning, the weather that would pay for the party began: heavy rain punctuating the final talk in the main tent. But the sun appears briefly during lunch, and as I sit on another balcony among the rosemary bushes and olive trees, I think: I’m not complaining.
Somewhere, a few tables away, I heard my wife laughing with Simone Schama.