How Not to Get Changed for a Gig

It was a Thursday, I think. I'd finished work at 3:30, thrown my guitar into the back of my Citroën C1, and grabbed Sam and his guitar from the office. We both worked at the same school, which made the whole thing feel even less rock and roll. There’s something uniquely jarring about trying to channel indie frontman energy when you were, less than an hour ago, reminding a six-year-old that glue sticks are not snacks.

We headed off to Birmingham for a gig supporting a band whose name has since vanished into the same memory void where I keep old passwords and the location of my bank card. All I knew at the time was that it was “a decent venue,” which is musician code for “we’re not playing to three men and a dog in a pub where the sound system is a Bluetooth speaker and the house drum kit is a red one."

The drive was just over two hours, and as with any trip in my C1, it involved a lot of wind noise, a playlist we mutually agreed on, and a drink that sloshed dangerously in the cupholder every time we hit a roundabout. We passed at least four service stations I pretended not to need, and at one point, Sam threatened to throw himself out of the car if I played “just one more song that is by, is written by or covered by McFly.” He likes them, I just 'overlisten'. Apparently.

We pulled up in what can only be described as... a location. I won’t say it was dodgy, but it had strong “this is where someone abandons a body in a BBC drama” vibes. The venue, as it turned out, was behind a toy shop. Not next to it. Not in the same building. Behind it. As if someone had once said, “You know what this soft play area needs? A gritty indie rock backdrop.”

It was dark by this point. The kind of dark where even your car’s interior light feels like it might attract moths or judgement. We pulled into an empty car park and paused for a moment to confirm we were definitely in the right place. Sam was checking Facebook for the actual address. I, meanwhile, had more pressing concerns.

“Just give me two minutes,” I said. “I need to change my trousers.”

Now, to be clear: I was still in my work trousers. Sensible. Slightly itchy. Faintly smelling of laminating pouches and dubious looking smudges from a glue stick. I’d brought my usual gig outfit - black skinny jeans, because of course I had. I was still, in some small part of my brain, trying to maintain the illusion that I was cool and mysterious and not just a man who got whiteboard pen on his shirt that morning during a phonics lesson.

I kicked off my shoes, twisted around in the driver’s seat like a man trying to invent a new type of automotive yoga, and began the delicate task of removing one pair of trousers without alerting the outside world to my presence. Things were going fine. One leg off. Then the other. There I sat: proud, trouserless, and victorious. Ready to slip on the skinny jeans, which was already on course to be a challenge within itself.

And then Sam opened his door.

Now, the thing about interior car lights is they are not subtle. In fact, they are designed to immediately and blindingly illuminate the entire car. Like a spotlight. A stage light. A beacon.

Suddenly, in a silent car park behind a toy shop, I was lit up like an exhibit. A grown man, in his underwear, sat in the driver’s seat of a tiny car, with another man appearing to exit said vehicle from the passenger side. To the casual observer, this scene did not scream “gig-ready musicians.” It screamed “police report waiting to happen.”

“Shut that door! Get that door shut now!” I hissed in the urgent whisper-shout of someone who knows, deep down, there is no coming back from this.

Sam, confused but obedient, slammed the door shut just as I began the frantic wriggle into my jeans. Now, if you’ve never tried to put on skinny jeans in the front seat of a Citroën C1, here’s a helpful visual: imagine trying to wrestle a dolphin into a wetsuit. In a cupboard. With a time limit. My leg got stuck. My elbow hit the gear stick. My forehead smacked the rear-view mirror, and I’m fairly sure I momentarily blinded myself with my own button fly.

Eventually, red-faced and probably several calories lighter, I emerged victorious. Fully dressed, slightly traumatised, and now absolutely convinced that the world of music glamour is a lie we tell ourselves between car parks.

We walked into the venue, which, by the way, was fine. I think someone offered us a can of Red Stripe and a bag of crisps in lieu of a rider. I couldn’t focus. All I could think about was whether or not someone, somewhere, had walked past that scene and quietly decided never to trust men in black jeans again.

There’s a version of this story where I try to pull out a moral. Something poetic. Something about how behind every gig is a story, and behind every story is a moment of mild public shame.

But honestly?

Sometimes, it’s just about a man who took his trousers off in a car park and wished he hadn’t.