I had a long wait for my show in Cambridge in the not unpleasantly cold dressing room at the Junction. Luckily I had a good supply of sandwiches to keep me company (almost as if someone there had read my comments about Leeds and decided to make sure that Cambridge would not gain a similar reputation for sandwich stinginess - well it worked. There was a good variety,including a wrap and all sorts of weird and wonderful fillings. If you are a sandwich fan I advise you to forge a career in the music or comedy business, get a gig at the junction and then sit back and watch the sandwiches pour in). There were also lots of drinks, including four bottles of completely frozen water. All tastes were catered for.
I had forgotten to bring a book or my gameboy and so I was forced to make my own amusement as I waited for the two hours to gig time to elapse.
The dressing room was nicely echoey so I did some singing exercises to warm up. I used to have singing lessons when I was at upper school (and evenso I wasn't bullied) and got Grade 6 singing. That's right, look impressed.
Unfortunately, as with the euphonium which I also played at school, I have let my talents slip over the intervening 18 years. It's a shame as if I was more practised in my singing techniques I would be able to do a run of shows without damaging my voice.
I tried to remember some of the songs I used to sing from Schumann's (I think) Dichterliebe. I had a good bash at a couple of them, though wasn't sure of all the words or the pronunciation.
After the gig, my friend who works at the venue (and who reads warming up, which explains the almost sarcastically good buffet.At least this diary has some uses) told me that the dressing room has been the scene of much debauchery, especially involving some of the bands that have played the venue (not a first hand account, I hasten to add). She didn't go into details, but I can guess the kind of things that might have gone on there between musicians and their devoted fans.
I kind of doubt that on any other occasion has that dressing room witness a lone man singing misremembered, mournful, German love songs to himself and a plate of sandwiches.
I don't think that was the kind of debauched behaviour that my friend hade been alluding to about other performers.
Maybe I should have been a rock star and not a comedian.
This is what it's like on tour.
