Plugging Away
HARRY HAWKINS
The sky’s grey pallor and shallow pockets don’t do anything to deter me or the many others descending on Hastings Fat Tuesday’s ‘Saturday Unplugged’. Walking down High Street there are flecks of song from all sides. Touring some streets, the first sign that today is a bit different, are troupes of masked dancers, characters determined to reoccur if you choose to stay about. There are nomadic musicians determined to make their way to each ‘next’ set – a whole band can be carried in a suitcase, or slung over shoulders. Some players have come from far and wide, for others the next venue is a stone’s throw from home, but there’s a constant motion.
Inside, you might be at the front, drawing nearer, to catch every word. Or you’re just outside leaning from the pavement to see the band play because it’s packed already.
Everyone has their highlights, and no one will see the exact same sets. The dedicated can choose to follow their favourite singers or wander and happen upon a new sound.
The whole Saturday seemed like a chance for things to happen. The first time in a while that new parents get to see live music. The first gigs for a new group, or a return long promised.
Thank you to the first man to dance in the pub at 2pm. And all of the weird and wonderful hats that wouldn’t be worn otherwise. And for the rhythms – samba, polka, skiffle, shuffle.
Thanks for Fat Tuesday
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