“Bedford Isn’t Shit,” screamed the logo from a t-shirt hanging behind the bar in Esquires.
For someone to go to the trouble of having that t-shirt printed, there must have been some accusations of Bedford being shit. They’d be well-founded: having spent 24 hours there, Fe and I saw two drug addicts trying to smoke what smelled like cat sick in a stairwell of the car park, witnessed a one-armed man stealing a quantity of baked goods from a Morrison’s Daily, and saw more bars on windows than in Strangeways. It’s fair to say that Bedford did not make an immediate impression on us.
However, I had been told Esquires was one of the last legendary music venues still surviving, and the opportunity to see the Bar Stool Preachers was too good to pass up. £18 a ticket, beer priced at £5 a pint, and a set list I knew almost every word to made this a more attractive proposition than James the week before. The venue might not be in the salubrious surroundings of Lincoln Castle, but it was real. Bedford might not feature highly on my ‘places to suggest my Mum visit’, but I’d go back in a heartbeat, despite the lack of available baked goods in the local shop.
Fe might not have been quite as convinced. As a repetitive beats fan, she has been to gigs with me before, but after watching Argy Bargy support Rancid, those gigs have been few and far between.
By the time doors opened on the intimate venue at 7:30, we were already half past drunk. An enjoyable couple of hours basking in the early summer sunshine had been accompanied by a few beers, and after a pretty horrible week, it was much needed. As soon as I walked through the door, I felt like I’d got a hug from a friend. The venue is tight, especially the bar area downstairs, which housed the gig, but it felt comfortable. It had the vibe I get from Wroot, and I felt comfortable chatting to strangers, such as Alan the marathoner in a Millie Manders Ted Army tee, or Steve, the firefighter who looked a lot like Red Ken.
After a bit of socialising, the time was approaching for the support. I’m always keen to support the support at smaller gigs, and local act The Barrys were on first. Just before they came on, a queue formed for the bar, so we joined and waited. The guy in front was a bit of a geezer, flat cap, laughing and joking about the queue. “I hope I get served soon,” he said. “I’m in the support act.” When asked what time he was on, he nonchalantly glanced at his watch. “Now.”
He wasn’t lying, and after starting a couple of minutes late, they got the evening underway. The Barrys are described on their Facebook page as ‘drunk-folk, acoustic-punk chaos creators’. You’re probably here for my description, so I’d go with ‘riotously shambolic four-piece with two pieces missing’. Let me be clear, the word shambolic in there is not a slur, it’s a compliment. The Barrys are fun, or the two we saw were.
Firstly, there was the fiddle, which, when combined with a guitar, ticks my boxes like a cat having its belly scratched. Secondly, there was charisma in bucketloads. Liam Burke, the geezer from the bar, mixed the set with a comedy routine of sorts, telling stories and having a laugh. Their songs are decent as well, proper folk punk with catchy, radio friendly titles such as ‘Cocaine, Whisky and a Fuck’. He did say at one point he ‘fucking hates Lincolnshire’ and I forgave it. He meant Grantham, so fair’s fair.
I particularly enjoyed their cover of one of my favourite songs of all time, Timebomb by Rancid. After saying how they did the occasional cover, he apologised to people who knew the song, and then said ‘if you don’t (know the song), here’s a one I wrote last week’. The pair dropped onto an accessible version incorporating the fiddle (or violin, same thing, I think) and a forgotten second verse. Shambolic but (and I don’t use this word often), utterly brilliant. It’s the sort of cover I imagine would get plays on Spotify, if the band had more than one song on Spotify.
Timebomb (smooth segue) is also the song that got me into ska-punk. I’m not only a sucker for a fiddle, but also for that upbat rhythm and punching bassline that a good ska track has. From Rancid, I fell into Operation Ivy, and went backwards to the Specials, lurching forwards to the Interrupters. That’s how I slipped into the Bar Stool Preachers.
I wanted to like the Bar Stool Preachers a year or two ago after I saw they supported The Interrupters. I’d seen them mentioned by some of the other bands I like, and knew that they’d appeal to me. I just didn’t find time to properly listen until this winter, when I had their stuff on in the background during cold evenings, writing. Some songs stuck: Flatline, Bar Stool Preacher and Trickledown. I came for the ska beat, but I’m staying for everything else.
A gig isn’t a band playing you their music. You think it is, but it isn’t. It’s a tango, it takes two parties. As the audience, you pay for a ticket, but you have to invest in the show. The ticket is a prerequisite; engagement is how you make it a good gig. However, for the artist, playing their songs is a prerequisite. Engagement is how it becomes a show. I’ve been to gigs where an artist trundles out, plays their songs and goes home, and those gigs flop. The Skints at Dogfest. The Fratellis at the Engine Shed. Flat.
The Bar Stool Preachers do not do that. Their gig at Esquires was a backwards and forwards interaction, a tango and a waltz, and flirtation between band and fan that transcended the word ‘gig’, with enigmatic front man TJ acting as the conduit. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a great band with likeable, accessible tunes that beg to be yelled back, but there’s something else going on here, something a little more inclusive than good music.
There is a desire. TJ wants to be on stage, the band want you to join in. There’s always a song in a setlist that can be sung back, but The Bar Stool Preachers have many. TJ will sometimes drop the mic into the front row and get the audience to sing not the chorus, but individual lines from songs. For one track, they even got a young lad from the audience to play guitar, because at a previous show, he’d told them he learned one of their songs. It feels like more than a gig, it’s an experience.
I’ll try to put my finger on specific highlights. Call Me On The Way Home is what would usually be described as a banger; there’s no doubt about that. There’s a couple from 2018’s Grazie Governo which really land as well – 8.6 Days (All The Broken Hearts) and Choose My Friends are both anthemic in structure and were delivered with an extra helping of energy. 2023’s Above The Static featured Love the Love, Don’t Die Today, and All Turned Blue, again mixed into this outstanding set with zest, bringing a new element to songs I love.
I realised quite quickly that while I liked the band’s recorded stuff, it morphs into something so much more when performed live. They sprinkle their strong songwriting with a little bit of punk magic; they take a track from a CD and turn it into something else. There are pauses for effect before pace changes, there are extra repetitions of singable bits, it’s all just so much more than their recorded stuff. It’s peppered with personality. It’s a little bit like watching a film and then reading the book it is based on – there’s so much more that you feel their songs were written for a live audience.
I’m also delighted to say they played an encore, something becoming far less popular these days. It was a strong end to a strong set; their ‘lighter in the air’ track, Lighthouse Keeper, Flatlined and finally, the signature track, Bar Stool Preacher. I was told around an hour and a half had passed, but it felt like five minutes, and as the final bars of the final track died down, reality paid me a visit. My bones ached from ‘dancing’, my neck sore from nodding my head, and my head spinning from nine pints of Estrella.
Afterwards, we hung around and chatted to a few other gig goers, and the overwhelming view was that we had seen something utterly unique. It left me with a buzz, a warm feeling over and above the beer coat and late-night humidity. I felt like a stranger among friends. It reminded me what a gig should be like, and it has set me up for six months of great stuff we already have planned.
Last weekend, I enjoyed James because of the company and a few hits, but felt assaulted by the pricing. There was also a moment where, after commenting about how they opened their set with a slow burner, some people behind began to take the piss, well within earshot, saying ‘this might not be the gig for you’. Pretentiousness is something I despise in music. Maybe, with that in mind, James wasn’t the gig for me.
No, the gig for me was last night, in the rather shabby town of Bedford, where a cracking little venue is still trying to bring people and bands together. It can be hard, I imagine, for every Bar Stool Preachers, there are the Skints giving off ‘not wanna be there’ vibes. For every small venue struggling to sell out £18 tickets for something raccuous, fun and energetic, there’s a huge corporation sticking £75 tickets out there that allow you to stand a mile from the stage drinking £10 pints out of a plastic glass watching a band play some songs that you may as well have listened to at home.
Gig season is ramping up for me now, and I’m utterly delighted that the next one, The Levellers in Scarborough, features Bar Stool Preachers as one of the support acts. I think my mates know that the only reason I pointed the gig out was because I wanted to see TJ and the band live, and having done so last night, I know that my choice is justified. Last week, I felt robbed by the organisers, and sitting here now, I feel rewarded by Bedford Esquires. I feel alive again, wearing my yellow tee bought from the merch stand, buzzing that the bands were even better than I hoped.
The Bar Stool Preachers and The Barrys – reaffirming what a gig really should be like.