Day 5: Manchester
Nau mai
Yesterday we played at the Albert Hall in Manchester.
The sky was a luminescent grey when Tristan and I emerged from our hotel room in the morning and we walked through an unthreatening drizzle to get to a breakfast spot several blocks away. HAMPTON & VOÚIS (this is how they write their name) had all the usual marks of a hip brunch spot, from the hanging plants, upcycled tables, and pleasant ambiance, right down to the annoying QR code menu that you have to access through your phone. I ordered a breakfast bowl of spicy beans topped with smashed avocado, feta, sundried tomatoes, a poached egg, and basil dressing.
An hour later and we were fuelled up and heading out for a run, joining the pleasant waterside trail that runs along the old towpath of the Bridgewater Canal. The light drizzle had been upgraded to a steady and firm drizzle that would persist for the remainder of the day. Patches of slick cobblestones made for a tricky surface and we exercised the greatest levels of caution to avoid committing one of the great tour faux pas, that of falling and breaking a finger or wrist. Our run alongside this waterway was an extremely pleasant hour, passing the Castlefield Basin and its many industrial age warehouses, and allowing us to observe the contour and grace of the many bridges we passed beneath.
One of the handsomely painted cast iron bridges that decorate the Castlefield Basin, a 32 metre span that links two miles of brick-built viaducts.
Other structures of note are the Merchant Bridge with its white-painted steel arch, and the St George’s Island Footbridge with its gleaming stainless steel safety railing.
There was time for some light tourism in the afternoon and we spent a lovely half hour visiting the John Rylands Library, a late Victorian era building that as part of the University of Manchester houses a large collection of rare books and manuscripts. The reading room of this building is a magnificent space to behold; carved stone archways opening into a series of alcoves along each wall for private study, intricate wooden panels and shelving, and a tall vaulted ceiling that brings light to the room through a series of stained glass windows. I was fascinated to learn how technologically advanced this library was when it opened. It was one of Manchester’s earliest adopters of electric lighting and generated its own power from three high speed horizontal gas engines, with three dynamos supplying a 110v system that powered the 1,500 carbon filament lamps in the building. There was an air filtration system to protect the valuable collection of books from the air of this highly polluted industrial city. Hessian was employed to remove soot and mists of water caught sulphur and other chemicals.
Loading into the Albert Hall is a process that doesn’t rely on two of the great human energy-saving inventions, the ramp and the wheel. A collection of burly men helped us cart our collection of cases and boxes up a flight of stairs that felt slick and deadly with the rainwater we treaded in. Once inside the hall everything was lifted and dumped up and over the lip of the stage which was at head height, a manoeuvre which illustrated my lack of deadlift technique and general want for upper body strength.
This was a grand old hall that we were playing in. Built in 1908 for the Wesleyan Mission it features a horseshoe gallery that wraps around the room and handsome coloured glass rooflights that carried in the afternoon rays while we set the stage. Our banner was hung, partially obscuring the tubes of the pipe organ, but looking particularly striking against the wood and stone surroundings.
Enjoying the postural support offered by the green room couches.
The room had come alive when we walked out on stage later that evening. Rain had not dampened the spirits of the 1400 Mancunians who filled the floor and gallery – if anything it had made them stronger. As a group of musicians who often live in a hazy state of ignorance with regards to day and date we have learned to pick up the subtle cues from an audience that can remedy this lack of information. When you walk out to pick up your instrument and are immediately hit with a guttural heckle of “Australia!” from somewhere in the middle of the crowd you have a good indicator that is probably Friday or Saturday night. The regularity and persistence of these heckles along with some patches of quite rough singing made it more likely that we were hearing the effects of some early evening drinking, perhaps even a full afternoon session at the pub, making it more likely that it was a Saturday. This energy made it an incredibly fun show. They were a beautiful crowd to play for and we enjoyed every second of every song.
Loading out as the rain continues into the late evening.