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To what degree is a live performance truly a co-operation between artiste and audience? Impossible to say. Let's try anyway.
Say I play a flawless, note-perfect gig (hah!). All the guitar tricks and licks come off, I don't stumble over a single lyric and I never for a fleeting second sing off-pitch. (Hah, hah, and hah again, but bear with me.) Let's say that you all sort of enjoy it and there are smiley faces all round the room BUT that no one laughs aloud, no one calls out, no one cheers ironically, no one drops a glass, or coughs, or heckles…
Well, it's a disaster. After the first two numbers I'm sweating with worry and embarrassment. You're not getting it. You're not joining in the conspiracy. Laughter is a shared thing. I don't make YOU laugh; WE laugh together at something I've just reminded us both of. Even if I've done everything perfectly, I'd guess this gig is about a sixty-percenter. You won't think I'm anything special. You will not, in short, have had a memorable evening.
On the other hand, let's say I'm performing at about sixty per cent efficiency (normal, in other words). There are a few fluffs, I make some self-deprecating joke about them, you titter in appreciation, somebody takes the proverbial ("I thought he was supposed to be a professional") and suddenly we're all in it together. I've got something to bounce off, you know I'm human, and we've got ourselves a phenomenon. It's how folk clubs work.
That's why we kept in as many of the Glenfarg heckles as we could. Some of them aren't perfectly audible on the C.D. unless you've got the sound right up. So here they are in full, to give you an idea of what was going on…
Track 2. Cheek…
After I say "We're keeping the buggers [i.e. the Southerners] back for the rest of you," some mock-rueful ScotNat - and I have strong suspicions who - calls out "Ye're no' tryin' hard enough…" Good heckle.
Track 9. Korean pig…
Stan the banjo man and I had been jamming that afternoon in the Glenfarg Hotel, and I had indeed tuned my instrument to his. So when I had trouble tuning on stage, his first (inaudible) call was "That's what you get for tuning to my banjo." Which was a decent enough heckle but one which I genuinely didn't quite catch. My instinctive put-down and its follow-up are well-worn comedians' stand-bys. Cheap shots, in other words. Sorry, Stan. (But, hey, it got laughs and I'd do it again).
Track 13. Relax…
Grant: "Thank you for having me."
Woman: [and we know EXACTLY who you are] "I haven't had you yet..."
Grant: "Have that woman washed and sent to Room 8 immediately."
Track 15. Spring Morning
You can find the full story of this routine under 'Cat Song' in the track-by-track section.
Track 17. Shadow of the Teeth
Man: "Play some more, Adrian. Grant, I mean…"
If you've never seen or heard of "That's Life!", click on the Cover Story button and all will be made plain. The other things that you have to know are that 'Adrian' (Mills) was another of us twenty or so more-or-less undifferentiated co-presenters and that our boss Esther Rantzen had and has the most prominent set of gnashers in show-business.
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