Fridays are the new Saturdays

A couple of Friday nights in a row for us at a couple of new venues has been the order of the day - Taunton and Tiverton have had their Tone Army recruitment drive officially intensified.

Although not technically a new venue (having been roped in for a rather marvellous party there last year), playing for the great unwashed at The Grove was right up our street. After a typically slow start for a Friday Night, the clientele baptised themselves in beer, dived into our stream of consciousness and shirts were torn off, Northern Soul moves dusted down, rugs cut and shirts abandoned. We gave a new tune an airing, and for a fourth encore our glorious leader led us into a rendition of 'Behind Blue Eyes', a song we have not only never performed in public, but have never pulled off in rehearsal either. It worked like a charm. It's how we roll.

The following Friday we headed to Tivvy's own Seven Stars, officially the last pub in Tiverton. Considering we seem to be directly implicated in the demise of both the Twyford and the Hare & Hounds, it was a bold move.




Taking our cues from the decor and constrained by Montenegro at one end of the evening and Mardy neighbours at the other, it seemed the only sensible move was an hour and three quarters of balls-out no-nonsense ROCK. All subtlety went out of the window, and nuance abandoned in favour of sheer volume.

It was a refreshing and revelatory time all round, and we would like to apologise once again for following the Anniversary congratulations with a song about an overweight lady of the night.

So, a week off to practice a little more ska for the set, then off to Silverton for their masked ball.

Ding dong!

Love you lot!
Byeeeeeee
X
- posted from a wireless telegraph

Summer Special!

Crikey. Time for the old Autumn Almanac already?

It may have seemed a little quiet on the Tone front of late, but only because, like all mighty bastions of Industry, we went private. But unlike our publicly listed cousins, ours was a strictly time limited arrangement. That's right - we can only dance for The Man in our little blue pants for so long before the longing to reach out and touch you, our loyal Tone Army, becomes overwhelming and we stumble, sometimes only partially dressed, into the pubs of the South West....

But what have we actually been up to? Well.





We've played at a Black Tie stately home do. Turned out to be more Moulin Rouge than Downton Abbey. Great work Somerset - you do decadent so well.

We were joined onstage at the Coaver Club by the Birthday Boy, for a rousing rendition of Mr Brightside - the reaction to which and the slightly Gym-like surroundings put us in mind of being the house band in the Teen Spirit video. Which was a good feeling.




We played on the verandah of one of the finest views in the Exe Valley. And that was just the audience. It was like Devon Life had merged with What Tattoo? magazine. Krys, we salute you.




We played to one of the best looking wedding crowds ever. Lovely lovely people, and we suspect a bit naughty in a very very good way too. Check the video evidence - Braunton 90210. Beautiful Bride crowd surfing to Pretty Vacant? Check. Flashing Uncle? Oh yes.


We returned to West Town Farm to play our first ever Bicentennial. A five way fortieth, with an industrial smoke machine. Barney, Alex and all - an honour. Congratulations once again.



Then the ace in the hole, the triumphant arena that saw our return to the public eye, ThorFest. Thorverton's inaugural beer and music festival saw us in the coveted sunset slot, and a great time was had by all. Are there many villages that can field ten great homegrown bands and twenty barrels of ale? The brains behind the operation was our very own ginger bellowsmith Bernie. Good work, Mr Samuel. Same time next year please.

And most recently of all, a Friday 13th date at our favourite Somerset drinking den, the Racehorse. What could go wrong? Apart from the exploding effects boxes and breaking strings leaving Bunting woefully exposed, filling time with his repertoire of precisely three jokes. Two of which are cheese themed. We smashed the bloody back doors in all the way to half midnight in the end though. Mary, we love the way you do what you do.

And that's us. We went for a bit. But we're back now. We never really went away. And we've missed you. And want to get right up close to you. See you down the front.

Love you byeeeeee! X

- posted from a wireless telegraph

Ashy Ashy Ashy! Hill Hill Hill!

Despite the murk, drizzle and bracing chill wind, we were sure it must be summer - because it was time for the Ashill Beer Festival!

We were headlining the opening Friday night tonight, which was new turf for us having been the Saturday main draw the last two years (see previous editions). What with the weather, many of the good citizenry of the village were keeping their powder dry for Saturday. But if there's one thing you can count on, it's that we will play our little hearts out and sing until our poor blackened lungs are a-quiver.




And we did. Two hours, straight through, no breaks, no let up, no retreat, and at times, practically no audience. But once the sides went back on the marquee and the howling gale and accompanying sideways rain were shut out, we were back in our cosy element and the crowd built up.

And, as we do, we delivered. It was, all said, a great ending to the opening night to one of the finest beer festivals in Devon (mind you, ThorFest hasn't happened yet...). We'll be back next year!




And that is us done for now. The summer garden party and wedding circuit will be keeping us from the public arena until ThorFest, at which we will be fully intending to smash Thorverton's back doors in all the way til midnight.

See you there!

Byeeeeeee!
X

- posted from a wireless telegraph

The Fantastic Four

Its been a bit like bread without the butter of late. Or perhaps more appropriately, The 'Tap without St Hubbins. But rumours of Markie's demise have been greatly exaggerated it seems. That's right, the missing link has been unearthed, the fourth cylinder is firing, the cream is back in our skinny latte, the lead back in our pencil. Whichever way you want to look at it, we're back at full power!

And it was serendipitous that our favourite Exeter haunt, the Bowling Green, should be the epicentre of a Pub Rock Explosion that registered 7 on the Rock-ter scale, what with the best looking bar staff in Exeter being on hand to man the pumps and all. Come the zombie apocalypse, we want to be on their team.




The pub was packed despite the wonderful weather, a testament to our ability to tempt even the staunchest carnivore from a burnt banger. The crowd were excitable to say the least, and up for it from the off. The lessons learned from our enforced three piece experience were put to good use, and it all worked out rather marvellously. You can click this bit if you want to see a video!

Typically, with only three hours available, we didn't have time to play half our stuff, but there's always next time.

We're full steam ahead for headlining the Ashill Beer Festival next Friday night - come on down from ten 'til midnight and have a listen to the rejuvenated, re-energised and some would say repetetive Thorvertones! Friday is, after all, the new Saturday!

Love you long time

Byeeeeeee!
X

- posted from a wireless telegraph

Three is the tragic number...

Friday night rolls around again and STILL no Markie! Our appointment with the Crediton and District Skittles league wouldn't wait for his slow recovery, and given that the poor chap had only just managed to hold onto his second slice of toast in eight days, we could hardly begrudge him his sick bed.




So with palpitating hearts we took on another night as a three piece. However, the raucous crowd that bore us aloft through the previous weekends nerve racking festivities was sadly missing, with the trophy presentation, buffet and raffle a long way above us on the bill. Time to knuckle down.

Our first set passed with nary a ripple from the crowd, who were largely in the lounge bar next door. The occasional 'Woo-Hoo' was all we could elicit from the assembled skittlerati.




After a 90 minute break for the buffet and awards, broken only by a momentary reappearance of the pictured Bolham Revealer (see previous) we pressed on with our wildly inappropriate modwardian rock and roll extravaganza. Three songs in, and it was time for the raffle.

By the time we got going for the final push, with an empty room, we feared the worst. Without Markies stunt guitar work and melodic wailings, could we salvage any dignity? Turns out we could, just. As we sailed into the choppy waters of the 80s section, stirrings were visible, then dancing, then, against all the odds, widespread joy and jubilation and demands for more. With a My Generation encore duly dispensed, we disappeared into the night with our pride intact, but we've never missed you more Markie! Enough Malingering already!

See you at the Bowling Green. There will be four of us if it kills us.

Love you,

Byeeeeeee!

Post Script: Markie's experimental new spleen seems to be doing the business, and with a favourable tailwind will be on his converse clad feet in next to no time.

- posted from a wireless telegraph

You've been listening to... Some Thorvertones

What have we learned in the past week?

1. That with sufficient grit, determination, alcohol and a sufficiently inebriated crowd, we can achieve the impossible

2. That nobody should ever, ever, on any account, consume a Prawn Kebab that's been left out for the day then barbecued in the dark.

That's right - as we geared up for a return to the Racehorse (which is now surely the home of some of the more cockahoop receptions we've been blessed with), news came through the wireless telegraph that Markie was laid low.

"Never mind", we thought. "Given his iron constitution and masters degree in self-medication (as evidenced by the New Years Eve performance which he sadly can't remember), he'll be fit as a fiddle by showtime" ejaculated Bernie in remarkably realistic prose.

But it was not to be. Barely able to stand, having not eaten in five days and visibly reeling from the shock of the elevated sewerage charges levied by South West Water in lieu of his loo, he had to hold a trembling hand up in defeat.

After much soul searching, and a massive kick up the arse from Mary from Tipperary, we decided to press on as a threesome. And once we'd got that out of our systems, it was off to the Racehorse.




Despite initial nerves, we hit the ground running. Four songs in, during 'Gloria', and it started to become apparent that we might just get away with it. Two sets in, and a couple of impromptu stage invasions later, it became clear that the Racehorse Massive had drunk enough to almost guarantee it.




And when, apropos of nothing and having not played it in over a year, we decided to launch into 'Sally Maclalane' in honour of our Gaelic Mistress, the place went mental and we knew we'd be able to leave with our heads held high. Phew!

There's a bit of a video from earlier in the night to be found on YouTube here (thanks Claire!), if you want some insight into how we sound 'UnMarked'. And if you want to make a contribution to the 'Markie Get Well' fund, Jamesons is £2.30 a shot down the Exeter, he'll be there by next Wednesday.

See you soon.

Love you byeeeee!
X




- posted from a wireless telegraph

Call that a bank holiday?

Cos we ruddy don't!

It's been a busy couple of weeks over at Tones Central, and not always for the right reasons...

Starting on a high note, as Marky is wont to, we helped raise funds for the Ottery Scout Hut in a characteristically chaotic manner by playing the devils music at ear splitting volume at The Instititute whilst dressed in our bestest scouts uniforms (pictured), and encouraging a host of most un-scoutsmanlike behaviour amongst the natives.






Good work Ottery - here's some bad footage of us in action playing yet another inappropriate number. We want to come back. We promise not to dress as small boys next time. Except Harry. He can't help it.

Where next? Why, the Twyford! What's that I hear you cry? Closed for business? Mais non, mon cher - they're properly ouvert and wanted us back to do what we do! And we did. And it was all going so well - here's a video to prove it.






What we weren't counting on was the pint of water, oh so precarious, on the shelf above the mixing desk, teetering and vibrating with every Bunting rumble, edging ever forward until... Oh my! Cue sizzling electrical goods, loss of all power, embarrassing early finish, and retreat with tail between legs. People of Tiverton, we have not been more contrite, and promise not to do it again. We can't afford to. In five years we've never had to leave early. We'll be back.






So on to Sunday, and a chance to play at the best one day festival in mid Devon in Mid May. The sap was rising, and it was looking like actual Spring. We had a lovely time. Great crowd, great organisers, lovely stage and sound (and fortunately for us, someone else's PA...). Couldn't have wanted more - except maybe more time.

We're a tantric band, more accustomed to a three hour odyssey of a set - a journey, a slow build, an orgasmic crescendo. You know the sort of thing. Only having a half hour felt more like a quick knee trembler behind the bike sheds. But you can't beat the odd quickie, and we had a whale of a time. Thanks for having us, Bow. we'd like some more, please! More video ahoy!

And alls well that ends well. After five days in the airing cupboard, the desk has dried out and lives to fight another day. To the Tone Cave people!

Love you byeeeeee! X

PS - here's one for the ladies.




- Posted from a wireless telegraph

Thorvertones calling!

We played the Bowling Green for the first time in what felt like an age - and like a sailor on shore leave, all that pent up desire for the best looking bar staff in Exeter was diverted into spurting pub rock art all over the joint. The presence of Bunting's former bandmate and Peryls sticksman inspired the first successful 'My Generation' bass bit in over two years, and the presence of some of Exeters sexiest faces inspired the cracking time that was had by all. The equipment worked! Nothing broke! The curse of the Bowling Green is no more! Sadly, and unusually in the modern era, no photos survive. So here's an only lightly soiled picture of the lady we give all our pocket money to for services too despicable to go into here. Enjoy. We do.






As for the party in Taunton we just played? It's not the done thing to blog about private bookings, but the fact that our flow was interrupted by ebullient partygoers crashing onto the stage scattering microphones and effects pedals asunder not once but twice, and five separate encores were demanded despite the three hour set is a measure of the carnival atmosphere. The final four songs summarise neatly why we love playing Taunton so much: Purple Rain > The Hokey Cokey > Love Machine > My Generation. Even substituting the line 'Why don't you all f**k off home" into the latter at 12:15 failed to put a dampner on things. Superb.

With the news that the Twyford is back up and running, we would appear to be on a roll.

Next stop Ottery. We're off to get measured up for our Cub Scout uniforms. You heard it here first.

Love you byeeeeee!

- posted from a wireless telegraph

Turner Goes Fourth...

I can't believe it's taken so long to mention this. Last Wednesday, whilst rehearsing 'Behind Blue Eyes', the Thorvertones managed their very first FOUR PART HARMONY.

"Yeah - so what?" I hear you cry.

Well for starters, it means that you can look forward to Harry Turner coming out. From behind his saucepans, and joining the musicians at the front.

If the prospect of a full length Turner doesn't get your attention, then nothing will.

But we're not ready quite yet. We're still honing our barbershop skills to perfection (or as near to 'perfection' as the strict parameters of our Punk work ethic will allow).

There's still plenty to look forward to though, including some new medleys:

'Whole Lotta Rosie' and 'Pretty Vacant'
'Whiskey in the Jar' and 'Wild Rover'
'My Generation' and the 'Hokey Cokey'

Love you! Byeeee!

- posted from a wireless telegraph

A winters tale...

The old stovepipe is getting more irregular than the technicolor belchings from the Vatican, and in a fashion not entirely dissimilar to the bong-based confusion that saw 'Mad' Franky annointed as pontiff, we've stumbled through the winter months in a haze of stage theatrics and flu remedies.
From where we stand now, the weeks and months since New Year's triumph are a little hazy.

We had to bid a sad farewell to the Twyford in January. Global Economic Meltdown has finally reached Tiverton, and nailed down the coffin lid of one of our favourite venues. We're a little light on the details, but I'm sure it was marvellous and I put our mental blank down to the aftermath of New Years Eve. Mark's hangover of New Years week was such that even his teeth were visibly throbbing, so anything is possible.




February? Bow. As in Selecta. Always nice to play on a big stage - and now the citizens of the people's republic of Bow know what to expect at the Heart of Devon festival in May, they have plenty of time to make alternative arrangements. There may have been another gig in February. Again, answers on a postcard.




There has definitely been a trip back to the Pinhoe and Whipton Labour Club. Although largely apolitical, I can't see us accepting a similar invitation from Cameron's cronies, but we would make for a great soundtrack to a Billingdon Club style riot - especially now the Onanism Suite is coming together.

We've played a wedding. Notable for its wonderful lady bride, sweet shop, bonhomie, and the unwelcome reappearance of the 'Bolham Revealer' (pictured) an excommunicated 'Fifth Tone', who's amphibious exhibitionism got us in hot water with the WI on more than one occasion before we spurned him. We're stronger without his free jazz trombone.




We've been to Tiverton again, but breaking new ground at the Hare and Hounds. Our sound was strange, but apparently welcome. Whether we'll be back we don't know - the 'business for sale' sign doesn't bode well, especially after the Twyford closed down. The Lengths some landlords will go to to be rid of us know no bounds.

Next stop the Bowling Green - and a return to coherence. Maybe.

Love you!
Byeeeeee
X
- posted from a wireless telegraph

Tap... tap... tap.... Is this thing on....?

Uncle Bernie here. I'm not usually found at the controls of the blog engine, but brother Bunting has asked that I summarise the run up to the new year in sparkling prose.

Trouble is... my short-term memory is shot to pieces after forty years on the laudinum, and I spend must gigs with my eyes shut tight to prevent my eyeballs from popping out.

Well, here goes... The main theme running through the gigs in December was illness. I have seldom seen such displays of stoicism as would compare to the lads bravely soldiering on through dysentery-like symptoms, simply to keep the patrons of our various haunts entertained.

That said, there's a lot to be said for the curative effects of the best-looking-bar-staff-in-Exeter (c) at the Bowling Green. On this occasion, nobody was afflicted too badly, and spirits were high as we dusted off the Christmas single, managing to get the whole place singing, even without the aid of the panto-style lyrics board.

By the 22nd of December, the Exe Valley was well and truly submerged. I always thought that if Stoke Canon ever made it onto the national news, Tessa would have something to do with it. However we hoved bravely through the rapids that were once the main road, amidst soggy ITN reporters and degraggled refugees in dingys and got  to the Whipton and Pinhoe Labour Club well on time. I had, by this point, eaten a whole packet of 'Vocalzone' lozenges, so my voice was in great shape. Pity the same couldn't be said of my pants.

New Years Eve. Well, there lies a tale. Markie 'Mark' Williams had taken to his bed some days earlier, and was a sorry sight as he limped into the Racehorse, and collapsed on a monitor. We considered setting up a temporary field hospital in the kitchen, but sadly it was full of canapes.

The lad did good though, seeing in the new year by boshing an entire bottle of Jamesons (I swear - we should have shares) and kindly donating an extremely expensive stratocaster to some drunk girls after losing his glasses.

Good work - bring on '13.

x