If you see Sid...

The final gig of the year then - and a return to Sidmouth Football Club! Playing Sidmouth at Home is a daunting task for many but not us, having triumphed before we had previous form to build on. Unfortunately for us, we had gear trouble - Bernie's amp was still at the menders (despite having spent two weeks staring at it in a skunk fug and listening to Yes albums for inspiration, the engineer was strangely still no closer to a diagnosis - we think he should actually take that back off and look closer, but hey - he's the professional...). On top of that, a late sound check revealed a dead PA speaker. Arse!



We drew strength by harking back to triumphs from our pre-piles-'o-gear past, and cracked on regardless. A little adversity put fire in our bellies and we played a brilliant set, to a crowd who always really seem to enjoy what we do - and for the first time actually knew the Queen song!

A man of the cloth arrived to give his blessing to proceedings, and the broken PA speaker burst into life! Hurrah! Our own little Christmas Miracle! After that there was no stopping us, Bernie donned the backdrop like a Jedi cape for the closing numbers and we propelled Sidmouth into the Christmas Season on a tidal wave of testosterone and Pub Rock Art hokey mysticism(c).

Thank you Sidmouth, we'll be back to shake up the folk festival! See you in Winkleigh in 2012!

Love you byeeeee!
X

Bee Gee Boogie!

We love the Bowling Green - they've backed us from the start, and they get what we do. But we were up against it this time. We play other people's songs the way we think they always should have sounded. Unfortunately for us, there was not only a Queen Tribute act on in town, but a Fleetwood Mac one too, and the mighty Diamond Dogz were on down the road too - all of whom play other people's songs exactly like they always did sound! So our audience was torn asunder with even Advent Calendar Girl and wardrobe mistress Cathy curiously absent.



But we prevailed nonetheless. We played our little hearts out for the slightly reduced but still wonderful Bowling Green crowd. And yes, it's ok - the Best Looking Bar Staff in Exeter (c) were all present and correct. We ended up firing through a three hour set which still had a bunch of stuff left over, mainly because Bernies new pastime of 'Playing Songs Only I Know Until Everyone Joins In' left better rehearsed material on the shelf. R n f'n R! It all sounded damn good to us and felt even better. Like cashmere pants.

We love what we do!

Serendipity can be a fickle bitch though, as you may know - but having the aforementioned tribute acts playing elsewhere meant the debut of songs by Queen and Fleetwood Mac in our set might have had a less knowing reception than we might have hoped for on their first outing - but they will be hanging around in the set for a while, so hey!

By the time the second set started, the place was filling up nicely. The christmas single went down a storm, and we think there may even be some keen new recruits to the Tone Army. The outbreak of loopy dancing reassured us that all was well, and the inevitable buggering over the monitors confirmed it.

Happy Days all round then - one more this year, and then to 2012 and beyond! See you in Sidmouth!

Love You Byeee!

X


- posted from a wireless telegraph

Fame at last...

Stone the crows, we don't just appear in the Stovepipe after all! Buy the Express and Echo, come see us in the Bowling Green, then download the single. Sound advice from the finest Modwardian combo in the Exe Valley....

A nudge is as good as a wink...

There's not a lot we can say about last Saturday's gig...  It involved a highly secretive organisation who don't like to have their inner workings splattered all over the interweb.  It had nothing to do with L Ron Hubbard, and the CIA were nowhere to be seen (are they ever though? just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not after you).  We had to work hard to keep the crowd entertained, or risk having our asses bumped back to Guantanamo after a series of inexplicably linked events.  But you know us, we work hard every time.  We even managed to surprise ourselves by throwing a new one in there.

So, the booking was a big secret, we certainly can't tell you what it was and we probably shouldn't even reveal the venue.

So, instead, here's a picture of Bernie, Harry and Mark outside the Langstone Cliff Hotel on the night of last Saturday's Mason's Ladies Ball (Masonettes, anyone?).  Totally unconnected.  We just happened to be passing and liked the tree.

Next stop, the comparative normality of the Bowling Green.  Anybody fancy a bit of Queen?

Love you lot! Byeeeee!

Pub Rock's Coming Home For Christmas

We've had some rum old gigs in the village over the years. Some have been triumphant, others less so. Some have been packed, others less so. Some have been sober, others less so. Some even hinted at genuine musical prowess and others, well, you get my drift...

But we really wanted this one to count. It was pretty much four years to the day that we debuted in the very same corner of the very same pub. A lot has gone on since. The main differences were that this time around, we had a shitload more gear to set up, a real dilemma about how we were going to get the set down to under 2 hours, flashy lights and special effects, daft hats and a dress code, and, in case you hadn't heard, a Christmas Single to launch...

December 2007...

The village people didn't let us down. They turned out in droves, the Thorverton Arms was fuller than it had been in many a moon. Moods were elevated by the sense of occasion and the free, vibe inducing mince pies and quality street.

We played, by and large, a stonking couple of sets.  Inevitably, the curfew was thrown to the four winds, largely as a result of the frenzy whipped up by our sexy Christmas Cowgirls, who led the crowd through not one but two singalong-an-Oh christ it's christmas-es.

November 2011...

We finished with a big ol' go at Won't Get Fooled Again which brought, like Bernie's milkshake, all the girls to the yard, who, in their youth and loveliness were more distracting than any exploding amps and breaking strings could ever be. At least Bunting was smiling.

So, a lovely time was had by us all, the single is well and truly out there, and we're counting down to the festive season like 5 year olds. Buy the single here or here! Or both!

We love you lot.

See ya down the front!
X

Whats Black and says ROCK!?

Following some hasty arrangements in a pleasure ground in Bourneville, This was our first time at the Black Horse under the new management. As you know, what we do is high concept pop art masquerading as gonzo drinking music, and the all new Blackie was to be our canvas. Naturally, we were keen to perform to the highly shambolic standards to which you have become accustomed.

The set up was ridden with crises. Too much furniture. Too few plugs. Zero stove pipe clearance. This resulted in creative use of sofas, mercy dashes across town and the third appearance on stage of that most frightful of modern contrivances, the Bowler Hat.

But we made it onto the stage on time. What followed was a triumphant blast through some of the outer reaches of our set. Unfortunately for Bunting, it appears Lola is going to become a regular again. Fortunately for Harry, it turns out the rest of us don't need a '1-2-3-4', when a '1-ugh-ugh-nggg' will suffice. Unfortunately for Bernie, bellowing for three hours is once again on the cards now he's fag free. And fortunately for Mark, the smoke machine was positioned such that not only was he visible for whole minutes at a time, but he could even see his own hands occasionally.

A good time was certainly had by all, from the lovely dancing girls to the AC/DC boys from North Devon, through to the frankly masochistic Tone Army regulars.

Any gig that ends up with Bernie lying on his back with Bunting astride him, spraying the Big Rock Ending (c) of Purple Rain over the crowd in a frankly disturbing phallic bass orgasm can't be bad.

Dennis the landlord wants us back, we brought joy to more than a few, and our mojo is still a-rising. Not a bad nights work!

Thanks for coming - we all did too. We'll see you next week for some smashed champagne bottles at the Christmas Single Launch Party! Tally ho and all that!

X

Beware of Modwardians bearing gifts....

You know us now.  We're gents, we're generous, we genuinely love you.  At every gig, we always always try to give at least a few of you something to remember us by.  But what with modern antibiotics and morality we've resorted to handing out collectable pin badges as tokens of our love instead.  Hey ho.  Modern times.  If you ask us, things have been going steadily downhill ever since that tyke Brunel stole our look.

But for those of you who like to keep their badge collection complete, we've just added another four exclusive designs to the 17 that are already out there.  There are only 50 of each getting made up, by our amazing and accomodating compadres at http://www.badgesforbands.com/. Those guys are great.  We love them.  They go the extra half mile.  If they were a band, they'd be us. 

If you want one of these frankly sexy badges, track us down over the next few gigs.  We'll be revealing what we anticipate one of our most in demand designs to date at the Single Launch party in the village on the 19th - it's an immortalisation in tin of Titillating Tess in a frankly stimulating Stovepipe / Satin Gaga combo.  We'll leave the rest to your fertile imaginations.  

And let's not be coy.  We hand them out in exchange for loyalty, raucous dancing and lewd behaviour - even better, all three.

See you down the front!

Love you byeeeee!

X

This just isn't Cricket...

Halloween, a time for witches, ghouls and the raising of the dead.  Which would normally be bad news for four blokes dressed as undertakers.  But not us - hell no.  We love to help with a good party, and if it means we can help the good people of Bradninch release their inner Goth temptress, or get in touch with their hidden Ghoulies, then all the better.

That's right, it's our second time around at what is looking to become an annual Throvertones Event as we provide a 'musical' backdrop to some rather sexy shenanigans in Bradninch Cricket Club.

We do love a bit of a 'do, and got dressed up yet further to help get the party moving.  The fruity Bradninch Coven were out in force, but sadly not in the mood to allow us to get ceremonial with them on this occasion.  Poor Turner, he drew the short straw instead at half time (pictured).

We had a lot of fun, made some new friends, realised a musical Devon Cream Tea with an 'I Feel Free' / 'Start' combo (we'll let you work it out) and quite possibly have a very full year of Bradninching ahead of us!

Bradninch, thanks for having us, we'd like to have you all over again.  And again. Where do we sign up for the coven?

Love you all and see you soon, you beautiful freaks!

XXX

Tivvy Tivvy Tivvy! Oi Oi Oi!

If this one has been a little while coming, it's because we're starting to run out of superlatives to describe our trips to the Twyford.  We're starting to get an idea of the place now though - we turn up, it's empty.  We start playing, it's filling up.  We finish the first set, the feet of the good folk of Tiverton are starting to tap.  Then the second set and all hell breaks loose, there is dancing there is joy there are a lot of great looking people shaking their Tivvy Tushes and throwing themselves at each other and us!  

We played a great couple of sets, and for every effort we made, the amazing folk of Tiverton came right back at us with good vibes and encouragement.  Even the arrival of her majesties finest at half time couldn't unsettle us.  Like Pavlov's Dogs we went scuttling for cover when the blue lights came on, but they weren't after us for imagined misdemeanors past, or our blatant flaunting of the Twyford's 'No Hats, No Edwardians' policy, but the man with the creative approach to Broom-Jitsu during Eton Rifles.

But for now, that's us done in Tiverton for 2011 but we'll be sorting dates for 2012 soon enough!  We'll see you then!  It's been emotional!

We love you, you Tivertonian Troubadours.

Byeee!

X

Chaggers Plays Pop!

Hi Honeys - we're home!  

Our time at the Tones Bootcamp in Montego Bay is over.  We're back - leaner, fitter and less lucid than before. It's the fault of the special Daiquiri Mojitos they do at El Cabron's place.  The guy is a legend.  It also explains three resolutely pasty Devon complexions - it was only Turner who saw the light of day.  But hey - we're back now, the glasses are empty and it's time to go to work. If you can call it work...

Our first appointment was to get the newlywed Angells off to a flying start in Chagford!  And we did! We spilled a few new tunes, sloshed some classics all over the joint, struck a Jazz Chord at half time then re-wrote the second set entirely from the ground floor up.  

Having duly rocked the place during the Eighties section, we took to taking requests, and wisely, taking advice on what not to play.  In retrospect, not playing Whole Lotta Rosie at ear splitting volumes to some bemused septegenarians was probably the right course of action.  We'll save that for next time...

Our set aside, there was more food than you could shake even a sizeable stick at, and on the groom's advice Bunting came away with approximately a yard of Pasties.  Bernie is still on a cholesterol comedown after rising to the challenge of 3 kilos of Devon Blue. Yes, it turns out that even Mr Samuel has limits.

So as we reflected on a job well done to the funk of DJ Pink, our minds could only turn to next week's conquest - The Twyford!  And finally, the chance to say an emphatic YES! to a request for some AC/DC.

We love what we do. And we do what we love.  And we love you.  And Cheese.

Love you Byeeeeee!

XXX

Desperately seeking our 300th member...

300! Three hundred!!!! Much as you'd like me to be talking about a rag tag army of sweaty Spartans, it's the Tone Army we're talking about! Take a look - 300 fans!

There's no way of us finding out who the newest recruit is, (such is Facebook) but we'd love them to get in touch to claim their special commemorative Tone Army Badge. Drop us a line - we'll drop you a badge and a CD to boot!

And another thing - please send us your Tone Army Pictures to enquiries@thorvertones.co.uk, we want pictures of you and your badges, you in your T-Shirts or best of all, you in nothing but a top hat.

We love you. Every single one of you.
X

 

All hail Cath. Without her, we'd be naked...

'twas the Wardobe Mistresses Birthday Bash - what could we do except polish our stovepipes, change the odour eaters in our converse and climb once more into our gig crusted Tone Pants for a mighty hurrah?

It was always going to a boozy night, and as you may have experienced to your pleasure or misfortune, alcohol can be a fickle mistress. But, as if in honour of our hostesses efforts in the trouser department over the last five years, Bacchus smiled upon us and lent us her (his? it's all a blur) super powers.

That's right - we pulled off the unlikely double whammy of drinking to the point of insensibility and playing to the edge of our limited proficiency. You can draw your own conclusions. We were the lucky tip of a mighty cacophonous iceberg made of an infinite number of monkeys playing an infinite number of guitars after consuming an infinite number of Spitfires with Coca Leaf Liqueur chasers.  Shakespeare it wasn't.

For the first time in a while we played Lola - which was going well until Bernie's commentator's bluff collapsed the Schrodinger's cat-style quantum uncertainty that was the only thing keeping us afloat by that stage.

We played all the big numbers and fully explored their bigness. We played all the pop ones and hit the right notes, often in the right places. The smoke machine worked so well that we couldn't see each other or the edge of the precipitous stage. It couldn't have been better, and could have been a whole lot worse!

We love this band.  And if it weren't for the birthday girl, we'd be playing naked. Happy Birthday Cath.

And on that bombshell of a mental image, see you in October! We're off to the Montego Bay beach house for an intensive detox, then Bolivia for an intensive retox.

Love you Byeeeee x

We've been to Hellions and Back!

With barely 48 hours gone since the triumph at Moretonhampstead, the guitars were still warm as we headed to our next engagement. Upton Hellions! That's not a Celtic warcry, but the home of one of the finest homegrown festival we've played yet!

We set up, and discussed the set during a jazz warm up. We kicked off, and promptly abandoned the set list approach in favour of taking requests, trying to catch one another out with songs of sets gone by and embarking on some fine psych-rock re-toolings of 'the big numbers'.

Maybe it was the wonderful crowd, possibly the idyllic location. Perchance there was something in the Paella, or maybe we'd been lent an edge by the malevolent hornets lurking in the eaves of the tent.

Whatever it was, it worked. From beginning to end, via an expertly coordinated fire works crescendo to Video Killed The Radio Star, it was a blinder, and even a last minute hornet sting couldn't dampen our spirits.  Well, for three of us anyway.

We now officially love NatStock. Our capacity to share the lovin' knows no bounds. Can we come back please?

Whatever next?...

- posted from a wireless telegraph

Please sir, can I have some Moor?

O2 arena? Yawn. Brixton Academy? Bit Pokey. No, you can keep them - give us a flatbed truck in a small Dartmoor Town any day. Even a Thursday.

Yep, mid week carnival was the order of the day. The fine folk of Moretonhampstead know exactly what they are doing. The whole town pulls a mutual sickie on the Bank Holiday Friday and gets a 4 day weekend. We like the way you roll!

The gig was a Tones classic. A first half of drinking music, hide under the flatbed for a jazz interlude and strategy session, then a second half of drinking and dancing music. You know the drill. And we'll let you decide which category Whole Lotta Rosie sits in...

We loved it and want to do it again next year. The real Heroes of the night though, had to be 'The Kids'.

Their GCSE results were still warm. And the future leaders of our country were high on their A* results.

Maybe it was us, maybe it was the illicit scrumpy, or maybe something our middle aged minds haven't even heard of. But anything that gets yoof dancing like loons to our modwardian rock and pop extravaganza while dressed as ballerinas and endangered species can frankly only make the world a finer, funner and better place to be. The picture isn't blurred - they actually looked like that.

To the youth of the Moor, we salute you. The future is in safe hands.

Phrases you never hear #731: Coldplay Save The Day

Following last week's celebrations of Bernie's impending decrepitude, we all joined him heading over the hill, but this time to the Culm Valley for an altogether more youthful 21st Birthday shindig. From the moment Dan turned up at the Cricket Club to a roaring "SURPRISE!" and rendition of Happy Birthday (that's 'Happy C-C to G' Bunting, you tit) we were in a slightly wonky parallel version of a gig. Well, it was in Cullumpton. It's traditional.

Our Floor Fillers inexplicably cleared the floor. Songs intended to provide what is usually a much needed breather bizarrely filled it up again. Spectacularly under rehearsed, we were so supernaturally tight we could have been wearing ultra heat treated Spanx. Pulling old tunes out of the bag was no effort at all (in a desperate, and as it turned out inspired moment Coldplay made it's first appearance since sometime in 2008...). The usual red stage lighting turned inexplicably pink for the occasion. We were treated to our first boob flash (that's another one ticked off the list). We ended the night with a floor full of perky and really rather pert youth giving it some proper welly.

So, all's well that ends well. Dan's a man at 21, we managed to connect with an audience far younger than 95% of our material (and some even younger than the boy Turner) and to top it all, we got to play silly buggers on a cricket pitch. Happy days!

Our next stop is a flatbed in Moretonhampstead High Street. Wethinks a little AC/DC might be in order...
Love you byee!
X

- posted from a wireless telegraph

Hey baby, it's just a number, it ain't no thang...

Not a gig as such, more a celebration of all things Bernie. To celebrate the 40th anniversary of the successful launching of the worlds first patented Modwardian Steam Powered Bellower, the masses assembled in the Skittle alley for an evening of fine chilli, inappropriate karaoke, quadruple guitar idiocy and jazz abuse.

Magic moments included:
- Bernie's 'Dad at Glastonbury' garb
- Fifth Tones Bob and Owen joining together for a rendition of Wannabe by the Spice Girls
- Bunting discovering his inner Elvis while dressed as the man from the Pru
- Turner's convincing Latino Rentboy Ricky Martin turn
- Mark as a Weather Girl
- being joined by Matthew onstage for a few Tones classics

None of the above would translate into normal life well. If you tried it on, for instance, Kilburn High Road on a Wednesday morning, it would seem inappropriate and amateurish. With good reason.

But in a Skittle alley, surrounded by friends and family and beer and spices? Bloody marvellous.

Happy Birthday Bernie. May the majesty of rock and mystery of roll burn ever brightly in your knackered middle aged torso. XXX

- posted from a wireless telegraph

Living La Vida Local

And so the last of our epic run of gigs and the first of quite a jaunt of private affairs! We were the evening turn at an indeterminate wedding, and Silverton, the bastard half brother of the village we call home, the venue.

Now given the inter village rivalry (a result of a Thorverton pig being indecently assaulted by a horny Tanner in the 14th century), we decided not to hoist the Banner and instead pretended to be Sicilian. Bad move - turned out the groom was from Napoli. And like his nautical namesake he had travelled the world then run aground in South Devon.

I digress - pig fondling and maritime history is for another day. Asides from the village busybody complaining about the noise at the ungodly hour of 9.15, the gig was wonderful. The memo about non stop dancing had obviously been translated well. Having already conquered time and space, it transpires the Tones transcend language and culture too.

So, we finally got to tick 'a floor full of stylish Italians shaking their bits to the hits' off our list, and a fantastic evening was had by all. Well all except for that complaining old sourpuss. A Mr Tanner, apparently. Odd fellow. Smelt of bacon.

21st Birthday party next. With our reputations?

Love you byee!
X

- posted from a wireless telegraph

Queens of the 'Tone Age

A double headed weekend of Toneage!  It’s more than a lot of folk would be able to handle but as you know we’re made of pretty stern stuff.

First up, the Twyford – Our last trip to Tiverton was a like an uphill slog to get the not unattractive crowd moving.  No such worries this time – a belter, a barnstormer, a steam roller of a gig! It was all going well, when who should show up but the lovely Tessa and the gang? Call us shallow, but we all take it up a notch when she’s in the building, which meant young Turner was going at his drums like a bloody traction engine by the end of the first set. A huge hen party rolled in – twice.  The first time, the hen said she wanted Bernies sock, so he provided her with a sweaty left one.  She looked a little disappointed.  Bernie insists she said sock.  The guys from Ashill turned out too – it was like a smorgasbord of friends!  We gave it the trademark big finish via a stylishly executed Timewarp which took us to the dot of midnight, and more than a little dancing in the street - just what Phil the Pub Landlord ordered, and the doctor too given the kudos the wonderful folk of the Twyford bathed us in. Tiverton is now officially Tivertone. 

We say Bowling – you say Green – right? Damn right!  With the students departed and the economy on the rocks, the BeeGee wasn’t as full as we’d have liked the following night, but it’s quality not quantity that we go by.  Even better, both! We put in a mildly shambolic butlins-esque first half, but by the time the second set got underway and the dancing tunes started to roll, we’d won enough hearts and minds that there were plenty willing to take up the cause.  With some sassy moves the bar team cemented their place in our hearts, and some frankly sexual moves on the dance floor left one poor chap overwhelmed. And that’s just the bass player.  We finished big again, and won ourselves some new friends and kept some old ones, and as folk staggered off into the night we realized we’d done it – climbed two peaks in one weekend and kept our marbles to boot! 

So, that's six gigs in five weeks – one more to go before we can keel over with dignity. You never know, we might have actually learned some of the songs by then.  Bring it on!

Love you byeeee! X

In praise of the three headed guitar salute.

Not every band can pull this off you know.  As you can see.

Going down, madam?

The man, the legend...

That's right - the basement bar at the City Gate was our destination, to celebrate the wedding of our uber-producer, svengali and fifth Tone - Professor Owen 'The O' Gleeson, PhD.

We're not meant to go on about private do's on here, but we do anyway.  A fine bevvy of guests were in attendance, the resplendent wedding finery only highlighting the perkiness of the general throng.  But the novelty of our new smoke machine still hasn't worn off, and the fine looking folk were soon lost in an 18th century peas souper.  Or Ibizan love fest. Or both.

All in all, it was a corker of a gig.  We played better than we had in weeks which was a relief given how many friends were assembled.  Given the nature of these things, a couple of short sets was all we had time for, but we got the evening off to a flyer.  And it was with a spring in our steps and a kink in our fast decomposing stovepipes that we handed over to our celtic compadres who were kicking up a Sharmockin' Shitstorm up in the garden with their fiddly ways.  Awesome stuff. One of them offered to give Harry a twirl but he said he's already eaten.  

So, on to next weekends Double Header - Friday at the Twyford, Saturday at the Bowling Green.  Get in!  See you at one or the other, or even better, both!

Love you byeee x

Hi Honey...

...We're Home!

It had been a long time coming, and we were due a trip home to the Village.  And what a trip!  Ironeically, because we were already home and didn't need to go anywhere, we were pretty far gone before we even arrived.  Untangle that if you can!

The booze was flowing and we were full of bonhomie.  All we needed was a bloody good rainstorm to get everyone into the hall and out of the sunshine, but alas Plan A was not to be.  But we were going to have that ruddy crowd. If they wouldn't tear themselves away from the summers evening willingly, we would have to resort to Plan B.  Burglary.  But in a moment of inspiration, our glorious leader suggested we try the old old snake charmer trick first.  Cue the music.

And good job we did.  In they came, spiral eyed and grooving.  The crowd were lost in a summery haze.  It was a messy, sweaty, sticky business, but less so than plan B would have been.  It was a ruddy good fun too.  Arguably even more so than plan B would have been.  Harry was slightly disappointed by his performance, but the rest of us finished with a healthy glow.  As we laid back after, spent, limp and smoking a post coital jazz fag, one could only wonder at the limitless potential for innuendo and good times this band can bring. 

Next stop, Owen's wedding.  Grease up the instruments chaps, there's bridesmaids need entertaining.

Yammer

As you are all no doubt aware, the Faulous Thorvertones exist almost exclusively on a strict diet of Golden Virginia and O'Hanlon's Yellowhammer. Whilst the former is clearly a filthy habit, which has the effect of severely limiting the chances of Bernie ever hitting the high notes at the end of 'Purple Rain' correctly, the latter is a product we are happy to endorse as the very pinnacle of brewing excellence. Since the band first stumbled into the Skittle Alley behind the Exeter (our spiritual home), we have enjoyed approximately 1664 pints of 'Yammer' without ever feeling the need to substitute an alternative. It now runs in our veins, and indeed the DNA of the band. O'Hanlons, the Thorvertones salute you.

Location:Church Rd,,United Kingdom

A One, a Two, a One Two Three Fore!

After last week's very public triumph, this week's booking was a private party - at Newton St Cyres Golf Club no less! We're fish out of water on the fairway, but it happily turned out that this 19th hole was a little on the agricultural side, so we were right at home after all.


The indoor barbecue, the free bar, the fairy lights and fiftieth birthday crowd really got going once the sun went down and the lights went out. We threw a few shapes and threw surprises into the set to keep each other on our toes and thankfully got away with it this time.



The new smoke machine again did a sterling job of conjuring a Victorian London vibe, although a little restraint may be in order - apparently we were barely visible for much of the time.

So all in all, it's fun on the fairway even if you're sometimes lost in fog...

What's that coming over Ashill?

Far be it from us to undermine our own trumpet so to speak, but you know that we know that you know these blog entries can verge on the hyperbolic. Which leaves us in a tricky position. We've used, nay overused, all the superlatives that describe last nights trip to the Ashill Beer and Music Festival.

To call the crowd disarminngly charming, youthful and good looking and enthusiastic is understating the issue. And if we described our performance as one of the best we've turned in in many a moon, you simply wouldn't believe us - we've said it before and will probably say it again!

But it was truly an amazing high water mark for us. Indeed you could describe it as a modwardian pub rock tsunami. The stars aligned, we pulled out the stops for the beautiful crowd who in turn couldn't resist which made us work harder which... Call it a virtuous circle, call it a runaway nuclear reaction, call it a daisy chain of dirty love - but the allure of a set made up entirely of our greatest bits is a compelling thing for all involved it would seem. Their moves were awesome to behold. The reaction cosmic. We literally drew blood, sweat and tears of joy from the wonderful folk of Ashill.


Ashill, we salute you. We love your beer festival and we love you all. See you next year?

See you in Thorverton on the 25th!

Love ya
X

Ding, and moreover, Dong...

What a pleasure it was to be involved in Thorverton's wedding of the Year! Everyone's favourite pantomime villain gave his daughter away to the sound of everyone's favourite pantomime pub rock troubadours. It was, as they say, a perfect fit.

We had a chance to play around with the set and try a few new numbers. Although we're all 100% clear how much newlyweds enjoy extended psychedelic freakouts at their nuptials, we're contrary buggers so decided to stick to the pop.

Nonetheless, the audience danced wonderfully and got involved in all the right places in between Hog Roasts and high end pyromania. The second half was enhanced yet further by a trip back to the Frat Cave for a strategy session which, unsurprisingly, didn't involve any new jazz-funk direction.



Galway Girl, Molly's Chambers and 99 red balloons are all keepers - you can hear them next at the Ashill Beer Festival - another perfect fit!

Love ya!
X

Sterrrrrrrrrrrrrike!

Bowling Green! Yay!

It was Eurovision night, and at least one of our number had turned down the chance to wear leiderhosen and cheer on a Belgian threesome. For the second week in a row.  We were frankly worried that the BeeGee regulars would be similarly diverted by the frankly biblical Jedward vs Blue spectacle.  

We needn't have worried though, the beautiful people of Blackboy Road cheered us up cheered us on and cheered our hearts.  We brought a few oldies back (Friday on my Mind anyone?), forgot to play a newie (Galway Girl will have to wait until next time, poor dear) and inexplicably ended up playing Toxic by Britney.  

Yes, I know. Toxic by Britney.

Bernie is insistent that 'someone' requested it, the rest of us are frankly sceptical.  You can take the Boy out of the Holiday Camps it seems, but you know what they say...

Anyways, onwards and upwards - it's next stop wedding bells in Thorverton Village, and despite our better judgment will probably end up blogging about it.

Love ya!

X

Black Horse

We couldn't even get in to start setting up, it was so packed. Finally, we thought, the word has spread. But no. It was a game of kick ball that had filled the blackie. And no sooner was the whistle blown than the crowd disappeared to find some Plymouth fans to hug.

So, friends and family was the order of the day. But we have good friends and big families. And we made new friends and had at least one offer to start a new family. After a month full of gigs, we were on blistering form. The party was on!

A joyful wee gig all things told. The audience were thrilled at the geometry of our collective shapes. The staff were chuffed at the choice of songs. And we were joie de musique incarnate. At least that's how it felt!

We ended with a bang, an invite to play in Norway, and an unsettling realisation that two of us had a half marathon to run first thing in the morning...  Eek!

An Evening With...

Bradninch Guildhall

Quite a room. Even our man size stovepipes were dwarfed by the Bradninch Guildhall. But not our ambition - no no!

Getting the gear up the stairs was the first challenge and no easier than last time, when we played the delightful Molly's wedding (see previous). Once set up, all we needed was to get the punters in. Cue the music.

Joan had done the business - and once we got going, the Beautiful Bradninchians did too. A lot of badges changed hands, a lot of dancing was done, a lot of music was made. An impromptu tenth birthday celebration kicked off, adding to the party atmosphere. We worked the big stage and hopefully left a little pixie dust and pizzazz behind us.  We'll be back, Bradders! Next stop The Black Horse...

Happy Birthday, Ms Gaga

It's not gentlemanly to blog about ones private parties. Oh no. Not gentlemanly at all.

It would be against our firm, upstanding morals to mention that being greeted by a gorgeous hostess wearing almost nothing at all is exactly the sort of thing thats been missing from our adventures to date.

A less well brought up band would probably offer to eat their tumescent stovepipes if anyone could think of a more invigorating sight than that of a healthy, vigorous youthful crowd doing the Timewarp who are actually dressed for the part.

But not us. We are professional, moral, pillars of righteousness. I mean really. Skimpy red spandex and fishnets. Tiny tiny skimpy red satin knickers. And heels. I ask you. Lara Croft, too. Lovely big guns.  Young people today. We've spoken of, indeed thought of, little else.  Little else apart from those tiny tight little red spandex pants. And those big guns.

Oh goodness.

Nurse? NURSE! Bring the mop. It's happening again!

Twy and Twy again!

It was a while since we'd played in Tiverton, and we were up for a Friday night party. Spring was in the air and with our sap rising, we took to the stage.

Tiverton's legendary Friday night effervescence took a little longer to come to conjure up than on our last visit, but effervesce it did.

We partied through the first half, went mildly ballistic at the start of the second and excited ourselves to a bit of a crisis point during a raging Personal Jesus. Having come to a head like a proverbial spent cask, we realised we had maybe been a little premature as we still had a good half hour to play. Oops. Cue apologies and man size Kleenex.

We pulled a few surprises out of the bag, but found that a Springsteen ballad and  a couple of psychedelic wig outs weren't quite what the doctor ordered. Ever the professionals, we managed to rally round for the big finish and encores, and leave on a high.

The kind of high that made the more refreshed elements of our audience climb repeatedly into the 'Tonemobile chanting 'We don't want sex, you know'.

Jobs a good 'un. Cross your legs, Tivvy! We'll be back!

Love ya! X

Sidmouth AFC

Sidmouth. Home of mandolins, morris men and Victorian morality. Whatever would they make of our travelling band of top hatted troubadours?

We arrived at the Football Club with the intent of putting some HEY HEY in this lovely folk town's nonny nonny, and I think we pulled it off.

We mounted the stage at 9. We finished at 1.15. We played for 3 and a bit hours. Do the sums people. That's right, we rocked so hard our modwardian steam power ripped a ruddy hole in the space time continuum for the first time in over a year. To celebrate these time travelling shenanigans, we made like Marty McFly and gave Johnny B Goode a bloody good seeing to. Great Scott indeed!

As is inevitable in any historic campaign, there are casualties. In a spectacular move, a veteran Tone Army foot soldier managed to break her wrist sliding in her own beer slops. She danced on. Sally, your dedication to the cause will be recognised.

Sidmouth. Consider yourselves recruited. We will be back. Next stop Tiverton. See you at the Twyford!

Bradninch!

Bradninch feels like home. It fell to the Tone Army onslaught what feels like years ago, and actually might well have been. We were looking forward to this one cos we love the Castle, and to add to the fun it was our second landlord's birthday bash in 3 months (see previous tone-o-sphere).

Harry was struck by an inexplicable bout of nerves, Bernie by an attack of Delhi Belly, Mark by a passing bolt of axe based inspiration and Ben by just how good looking the bar staff are at the Castle these days.

The evening went like a dream. A quiet start, slow build, a sudden influx of girls who just wanted to have fun around half ten just as our set went into party overdrive. It really couldn't have been better.

We played a belter, and cant wait for the Guildhall bash in April. We also managed to confirm our return to headline Friday night at the Summer Festival, so look out Bradninch, you're in for a lively summer! It's 2011 - the year of the Tone...

Hop on baby - we're riding bareback!

Our last trip to the Racehorse in Taunton was a blast, and we set out to enjoy this one too. There's a certain je ne sais quoi about the folk of Somerset. They're not just wise, good looking, erudite and witty. Hang on - I just sais quoi'd it - they're effing mental and drink like fish. Thats why we love them!

The crowd were up for it from the word go, just as we'd hoped. Despite the hint of bacchanalian energies, only one person made it onto the stage unintentionally, and that was between sets. That's not to say that some startling moves weren't being made. The famous Racehorse dance floor was the stage for some fearsome yet statesmanlike jiving, with one new recruit to the Tone Army truly channelling the nuanced spirit of jazz and did so, entranced, for a good ten minutes up on stage, and entirely from inside Marks personal space.

There were new tunes, new badges, new levels of virtuosity and new depths of amateurishness - so standard Tones Territory all round.

We don't know what we did right, but it was certainly working it's magic. Maybe it's because the whole town drinks from the River Tone, but they seem to like us, and we love them right back, again and again, in hats! We'll be back, so spread the word. And remember, don't just drink from the River Tone - dive in!

See you next week at the Castle. Love ya! X