The worst venue for a gig that I played in was a farm in the middle of nowhere. Harlow took the gig at short notice when another local band pulled out.
We didn't get paid for the gig, but we did it as our conductor felt it would be a good opportunity to get ourselves seen in public.
When we got to the farm, it was clear that (a) there would only be farmers there; (b) there were only about 20; (c) only the farm owner was local; and (d) the farm owner wanted us to play in a barn far away from the entrance but didn't want us to drive cars across his fields to get our gear there.
When we got to the barn, there were no chairs. The farmer said we didn't need them as we had legs.
In the end, he provided four bales of hay for the tuba players to sit on, but everybody else had to stand.
To round of a very poor day, the event had a host who was about as funny as a car crash. He came up to me, kept putting his hand on the slide of my trombone whilst I was playing, despite being alerted to Acton's Rectum, and then when we'd finished the number, asked (over the air via his microphone) why I was in a bad mood.
I said that it was, in the main, because the idiot farmer hadn't provided chairs.
"Oh!" he says, "that's not good. Never mind. Let's have three chairs for the Harlow Band!! Hip hip..."
He's only alive because John Stradling and my little brother restrained me.
Needless to say, we never back.
