I remember the first time it happened, in the band’s earliest days. We were playing a small festival in Yorkshire, before a seated audience in an arts centre. At the end of the first song there was an unfamiliar sound, like bacon sizzling, but amplified. It took me a moment to realise it was applause.
Up until that point we had mostly played in pubs, where everything we did was met with the same level of high-spirited indifference – the persistent, lively hum of people determined not to let a bit of music spoil their night out. Applause was new.
The clapping tailed off and was replaced by a terrifying, respectful silence, broken only by the sound of the guitarist tuning his E string. I thought: “Oh my God, they’re paying attention.” From then on we knew that whenever we weren’t playing, we had to have something to say.
The depth of that between-song quiet still varies from show to show. Some nights a rowdy give-and-take with the crowd prevails. Other nights it’s like being in a touring production of The Seagull. It can be down to the acoustics of the room or the part of the country you’re in. You have to adapt to the moment.
Halfway through our spring tour I come off the stage having related an anecdote about a woman from the previous night telling me a cute story about a cat and me telling her to shut up. It’s based on a true story, except in real life I was polite and charming. The rest of the band are trying to dissuade me from ever repeating it.
“It was completely out of character,” says the piano player back in the dressing room.
“That’s the point,” I say. “It’s unexpected – that’s what makes it funny.”
“But they didn’t laugh,” he says. “There was just this sharp, collective intake of breath.”
“Yeah, well,” I say. “I’m still workshopping it.”
“People love cats,” he says.
I cannot rely solely on anecdotes that have survived the difficult workshopping process. While some members of each audience will have never seen us before, others may turn up to every show in a run of four. In October I got told off by a fan for telling a story about a woman named Angela who drove all the way from Scotland to a gig in Cambridge just to buy one of our souvenir mugs. She claimed to have heard it upwards of 30 times. The tale of Angela and the Mug was completely nailed on, and I retired it with extreme reluctance.
On the drive back from a gig in Hailsham in East Sussex, the guitar player and I rehash the evening.
“They were a good crowd,” he says. “Receptive, engaged, up for it.”
“They would have loved the cat thing,” I say.
“Why didn’t you do it?” he says.
“The rest of the band put me off,” I say. “I’ve lost my nerve.”
“Don’t lose your nerve,” he says.
“It’s supposed to be out of character!” I say.
A week later we’re in Gateshead. We have played here before and know roughly what to expect, but tonight the audience seems particularly tuned in and ready for anything. Just over halfway through the show I swap my banjo for a guitar, and an expectant hush falls. In a conspiratorial voice, I begin a long story about a cute black cat with a white bib.
“I told you it would work,” I say in the Travelodge afterwards.
“It was better,” says the piano player, reluctantly. “Or maybe they just hate cats here.”
But success doesn’t always stiffen one’s resolve, and the next night in Edinburgh I find I have no appetite for risk. In the first half I scan the audience to see if the fan who warned me off the mug story is in. As far as I can determine, she is not. I decide to wheel it out one last time. It has a Scottish connection, after all. For the last line, I lean into the microphone a little.
“And then she said: otherwise it’s a long way to come for a fucking cup.” Reliably, the crowd goes wild.
Afterwards, out by our merchandise stall, a man stops me.
“You told that story tonight about someone called Angela and a souvenir mug,” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “You may possibly have heard it once or …”
“This,” he says, stepping to one side to reveal a woman standing behind him, “is Angela.”
“Oh, hi Angela,” I say. “How are you?”
“I can’t believe you’re still telling that story,” she says.
“Actually I’ve stopped,” I say. “It was just for tonight.”
As we’re speaking it occurs to me that this is not the second time I’ve met Angela after a gig, but the third.