Tim Dowling: on my band’s nationwide tour, it’s vital to be in the right car

After the Bristol gig we agree that the new changes are working well, and should be locked in. When a second new set list appears on the band WhatsApp on the road to Exeter, I do not question the authority of the other car, because I am in the other car.

“I don’t have a problem with that,” I say.

Already, the casual damage of touring is beginning to take its toll. A guitar acquires mechanical problems it displayed no signs of in Grantham. One of the microphones develops an ominous background thrum. Stuff gets left behind, and must be either retrieved or forsaken.

On the way to the final gig of the second leg, the guitarist and I are diverted back to Exeter to pick up the bass player’s stage clothes, which were left in the dressing room. At the venue, someone is dispatched to the bar office to fetch them while I wait.

“Good gig last night?” asks the woman at the ticket desk.

“Yeah, I think so,” I say, struggling to remember anything about it.

We are heading north on the M5 when another revised set list arrives via WhatsApp.

“The first four songs are now the last four songs,” I say, looking at my phone.

“Interesting,” says the guitar player.

“I don’t know who they think they are in that other car,” I say.

Now running late, we are reduced to looking up interesting facts about our destination: Tenbury Wells.

“It’s known as the home of the Castle Tump,” I say, “even though the tump is now in Burford.”

“They moved the tump?” he says.

“I think they probably moved Burford,” I say. “But it’s unclear.”

“Anything else?” he says.

“The list of notable people from Tenbury,” I say, “contains no notable people.”

Only after we arrive does it become clear that Tenbury is also famous for some footage recorded during Storm Bert of a tractor ploughing down its flooded high street, driving a bow wave of water into local businesses along the length of the road.

“That was here?” I say.

“That was right out there,” says the drummer.

Under the circumstances our opening song – which is about rain – could be seen as a provocation. Luckily, the first song is no longer first.

During the sound check, a further adjustment is suggested: that we transition from the new first song into the new second song without a pause.

“That could work,” says the fiddle player.

“I love that idea,” says the guitar player.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” says the trumpet player.

“Wait,” I say. Everyone turns to looks at me.

“I play the first song with my bare fingers,” I say, “and the second song with finger picks. I need time in between to put my finger picks on.”

“How long will that take?” says the guitar player.

“Let’s find out,” I say. I remove my finger picks and put them in my pocket. We play the last four bars of the first song, which ends in a wash of cymbals. After a few seconds, the drummer counts off the second song, and everyone turns to find me on all fours searching the floor for the finger pick I dropped.

“We might have to start with the rain song after all,” I say. “Unless … ”

I put down my banjo and dig through my bag until I find an accessory I have long owned and never used: a plectrum holder that attaches to a microphone stand. Once it’s installed I can leave my three picks sticking out of it, allowing them to be dispensed directly on to my fingers at will.

The next morning as we leave the Travelodge, the fiddle player’s wife shows me phone footage of the gig.

“There are no finger picks, and then suddenly there are finger picks,” I say.

“It’s like a magic trick,” she says. “You can’t see it happening.”

“And I can do that every gig, easy,” I say. “Except.”

“Except what?” she says.

“Except I left that holder attached to the venue’s microphone stand.”