It's a crisp, dry night as we walk out to Hackney's Sebright Arms, a venue with live music history dating back to at least the 19th Century which turns out to be about 10 minutes from our door. They're having a hard time with the pipes for the Camden Hells, I'm drinking a draught cider anyway*
It's a basement venue - love a basement venue. They invoke fond memories of Bath Moles and St James Wine Vaults for me. We head down the stairs trying not to spill too much drink and wondering how they manage access for people in wheelchairs (they don't). On the way down, a woman behind us is saying, "Piney Gir is playing! I just saw that Piney Gir is playing! I didn't know Piney Gir was playing". And I say, "Yes", because it's just us and her. When we get to the foot of the stairs, there is nobody behind us.
The young woman on the door stamps our hands with a 'no ice-cream' symbol. Then it's just us and Piney Gir and her band in the basement. They are wearing sky-blue jumpsuits. We wait.
Piney Gir takes the stage. It's been trailed as a duo tonight, but it's actually a four-piece - Piney herself with Garo Nahoulakian on guitar and two backing singers. If you're like me, you will have failed to pay due attention until this moment, resulting in a limited and inaccurate impression of who and what Piney Gir is, centred on her Country Roadshow incarnation. It might even have passed you by that Piney is formerly of the The Schla La Las.
Pastiche aside, and this will be no news to anyone who has been paying attention, Piney Gir's sound is some considerable distance away from country, dancing somewhere closer to indie pop with a vocal that at times could be straight out of a 60s doo-wop record (this is directly referenced on stage when they play 'Peanut Butter Malt Shop Heartthrob', a single somehow available at gigs in the form of a jar of peanut butter and apparently written in response to being thought of by one or more commentators as doo-wop anyway). Piney seems to enjoy flirting with people's attempts to pigeonhole her music - they also have a song called Puppy Love.
It's not all marshmallow kisses, though. Ghostly night terrors and vampires make appearances, too. Altogether the show is quirky and charming, although I felt slightly faltering until the closing number, 'Longest Day of Spring', which the band and Piney in particular go at with gusto, absolutely owning the room.
The basement is busy already for Piney's set, but it's packed for Ralfe Band, last seen live in the smoke more than five years ago. It's been some considerable time since they played any gigs anywhere, in fact - Oly Ralfe's solo exploits notwithstanding. It has been worth the wait. 'Open Eye', from second album 'Attic Thieves', is an early high point among high points. Oly refers back to the lyric about fatally wounding his head (clarifying - he didn't - but he might have), then shifts his long frame across the stage to a point directly under a large beam... but happily no blood is spilt tonight. The mood is celebratory from start to finish, as the band move confidently from early favourites like 'Parkbench Blues' and 'Crow' to more recent material including the new single, 'Sweating It Out', and back again. One of the best moments of all comes when Oly brings Piney Gir back onto the stage, armed with maracas for a duet of 'Come on Go Wild'. This raucous upbeat version feels like the way the song was always meant to be, really, and at least a section of the audience is suitably exhorted to Bacchanalian frenzy. The encore features the totemic instrumental March of the Pams, which has the basement denizens of the Sebright Arms chanting 'hey... hey... hey... hey' in unison. In ancient times, while promoting gigs for their first album, Oly sent an email invitation out to fans that finished 'let's get salt in our hair' - this, while I've never heard anyone repeat it (including Oly, and he doesn't remember sending it), has ever since been my favourite expression for 'let's have a good time at a gig'. We got salt in our hair tonight.
*I say 'draught cider', obscurely, because that sounds like it could be the kind of proper scrumpy a good Somerset boy might drink, but it was actually Magners Dark Fruits because the Magners Superbasic was off. My gothly heart pretended I'd ordered a cider and black.
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