It was a weekend in which I entrusted my life to Karma. It was a weekend where I was supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else. And more importantly, it was a weekend in which I finally came to understand that, no matter how good our intentions, we are all the universes playthings.
To cut a long story short and omit a lot of unnecessary scene –setting, it was a hot bank holiday weekend in early summer, and on the Friday morning, my long – fixed plans for it were suddenly cut askew. I’d been looking forward to going away for a long while, and now I couldn’t, I had the luxury of wallowing in self – pity, or making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
Can you guess which I did?
I rose at around 10am, felt the sunlight on my face as I opened up the back door to greet the day, scratched the backside of my jockey shorts and fought back the thirst for a cold beer. I’m not sure exactly when the thought struck me, but I’m reasonably certain, in hindsight, that it was somewhere between firing up the first cigar and starting work on the second jug of coffee.
If I wasn’t where I’d planned to be in the universe, then it was surely trying to tell me something. All of a sudden I was at a loose end, and a man at a loose end can be the most useful or dangerous thing in history. Clearly, karma wanted me to do something, but what?
The list lay on the worktop, partially hidden under an avalanche of freshly – cut plectrums (made from Health Lottery credit cards – mega useful). There were quite a few ticks on there now, and there’d be more by the time I was done. I raised an eyebrow. Fuck it, if I couldn’t be where I wanted to be, I’d go wherever the list sent me.
A couple of emails later, and I was on my way to cross off Item 8 – volunteer for something. My buddy Sam Buist was opening the Korova Arts café bar that night, and I figured they’d need an extra pair of hands to get the place shipshape in time. Plus, I’d just cajoled him in the same email into giving me a gig there the night after as part of their opening festivities, so I figured karma would smile upon me.
By seven o’clock that night I’d swept up my own body weight in sawdust and other detritous, applied licks of paint to every wall I could find, hoovered more than a Taiwanese hooker, and moved couches, chairs, and occasionally, my bowels. And when all the work was done and the sign on the door turned around so that it said “CLOSED” from where I perched on the broom handle, I was aware that I’d stayed just long enough to become an obstacle and hit the trail home.
And here’s where Karma began to kick in.
Being a musician, I’ve always got my guitar on me. The night was still fresh and I was full of sugar, so I hit up a singers night on my way home. I perched by the bar, had a drink or two, and enjoyed whoever was lined up before me. Then I hopped up there myself, set my loop station, reverb, and overdrive up, and plugged in.
…to find nothing worked. I plugged and unplugged leads frantically, tapped and shook pedals, and loudly created some new words, but nothing worked.
So I grabbed the nearest acoustic guitar, downed my beer, and strummed my way through a couple of anthemic singalongs, the kind of thing you play at weddings. Bollocks to art, let’s drink.
I sold all the copies of my album that I had on me.
Of course, when I arrived home and checked, all my gear worked perfectly.
I scratched my head and laid it on my pillow, there to stay until morning.
The next day rose, fresh, sunny, and surprisingly without hangover. So I worked on that last part by heading for the park with the Boy Wonder, Mr Jamie Brewer, former pupil and fellow poisoner of rock n roll. We breezily coasted our way through a few beers, released melodies into the air with our guitars, worked our way through the afternoon. It was an easy, relaxed kind of day, and rolled into an enjoyable evening at the café, where Jamie played his wonderful instrumentals as the doyens of the Preston Arts Scene rolled in to see what all the fuss was about.
I was due to play upstairs, at the inaugural Korovaklectic, a showcase for local talent. And as I scoped out the playing area, I realized my Telecaster, amp and gear would be way too loud for the venue.
One screech of brakes later, and I was back in my lounge courtesy of a timely taxi ride in the company of Preston councilor James Hull, swapping the Tele for Little Mo, my dobro. A further squeal of tyres, and I was back at the café, taking my front row seat as the host began the evening.
The first act was a comedian. A bloody good one. She opened up the night, and all was good.
The next was a comedian. He was ok, too.
And then it was me.
I stood, strummed the dobro a couple of times, and then introduced myself.
“I know I look like an accountant, but….”
Fifteen minutes later, and I left the room to crazy applause. I’d played three songs, told the one about Warren and the Taxi Driver, and pointed out the fun inherent in country slide music. More importantly, I’d inadvertently crossed off Item #33 – “Perform a Stand Up comedy routine in front of a whole passel o’ folk I don’t personally know”.
And I sold all of the albums I had on me.
I was beginning to get the idea now. Whatever karma wanted me to do, I was obviously doing it, and it had something to do with this café. I signed a couple of autographs, talked about country music, enjoyed complimentary drinks. And when Sam summoned all the people back upstairs that were taking part in the next day’s “6 plays in 24 hours” event, I threw back my seventh beer of the evening and volunteered my services.
We were herded upstairs and given a number. I was in the “actors” section, so I waited while the directors attached themselves to writers and waited for my number to be called. The idea was that the writers would compose a play overnight, present it to the director by 9am, and the actors would work with him all the following day to perform the play the following evening.
Around midnight, my number was called, and I sat with my group, surprised to see that my writer was the comedian who’d been on before me earlier that evening. He’d helped himself to the free lager on the rider with more dedication than even I had, and seemed pretty hacked off at my story about Warren and the Taxi driver, thinking I’d inferred that he was gay during it.
Now I thought back to my earlier performance, pretty certain that I’d thanked him just prior to telling the story, but much more certain that I’d made clear it was about an old college buddy. Still, it was late at night, spirits were flowing and dropping simultaneously, and it was time to call it quits.
I slept back home that night with clear conscience and a smile etched on my lips.
Two hours after everyone else arrived, I breezed back into the café next day to find it full of actors rehearsing, quoting and emoting left right and centre. Now this was more like it. There’s a buzz that comes from being around unbridled creativity that few other things can match. I find it like a drug, and wish more people would latch onto it. The world would be a hell of a brighter place.
Anyway, my group were upstairs, two other actors and the director, a great and dedicated fella named Karl Barnsley who as it turns out, it is the chief light behind Lion Tamer theatre group. And they were all less than pleased – not at my late arrival, but at the fact that the writer had delivered a three minute play that had the sole purpose of getting my character to kiss a bloke. It should have been 10 pages long, a page for every minute of the play. Instead he’d turned in three, and gone home.
So no one was happy, or feeling particularly inspired. I glanced around at all the other groups, running about and full of the joys. Bollocks.
Still, I was in the presence of professionals, and I’d signed up as an actor. The only way forward was to grab the bones of the material and flesh ‘em out a bit. So we set to work improvising.
And over the course, of the day, we had a (slightly exhausting) blast. We took out what was there and put in what worked, following the plot, coming up with a story in which my character was growing increasingly concerned with the amount of time my wife was spending with our gay lodger. The twist being, of course, that my character was wracked with jealousy – he was seeing the lodger himself, and planned to leave his wife for him. And the audience would only find out in the final scene, when my character would enter, and kiss him.
Come showtime, a very tired trio of actors took to the stage at our allotted time, and it all went well. I got to wallop some scenery doing my best Jack Nicholson, riff with my fellow actors throughout, and in the final scene, produce a giant exclamation mark above the audience’s head at that kiss, leaving the stage after our bows to great applause. I was expecting much piss-taking to occur in the bar afterwards, but none did. It was just a role, and we’d all worked hard to make it a success.
But at the pub, much later, I scratched my head in tandem with The Gaffer, as we tried to ascertain exactly what karma had wanted of me all weekend. I’d started by volunteering, and wound up kissing a bloke. Still, I’d ticked off “Item 22 – volunteer for something”, “Item 33 – perform stand up comedy”, “Item 39 – act the lead role in something”, and “Item 12 – write and perform a short play”, which, if people were gonna donate to Cancer Care by the number of items I ticked off the list, meant that I’d done a lot of good.
As I lay in bed that night, I ticked off the items on The List, folded it up, and put it on the bedside table. I clicked off the light, and lay awake in bed, my hand behind my head, eyes like Gollum.
What the hell else was this list going to make me do, before I reached the end?
Hey, I’m doing all this to raise funds for Cancer Care. Click here and donate a couple of quid, eh?
https://www.justgiving.com/Sean-Keefe
