Turn up the Trumpeter (Jeff Spencer)

 
I agreed to do sound for a promoter friend of mine at a venue in Cheltenham. There were three bands the last of which went on at 1am. A long night. I think I got paid 20 quid and I had to pack away the PA and drive a van back to Gloucester which meant I couldn't even get p****d. A dreary night for me then.
 
The last band were ok. Kinda Crowded House style pop well delivered, apart from the trumpeter. He played a few notes at the start but they weren?t so good. He had a few problems in finding the mic in front of him and was aiming about two feet to the left. A couple of his mates in the audience turned round and glared at me as if to ask me to turn him up. Obviously this was never going to work so I just shrugged and ignored it. During the next song he gave up playing and drank his pint. During the song after that he took one of the valves in his trumpet apart. In the next song I think he dismantled another. By about the last song he had put his trumpet back together but was way too pissed to find the mic or play and just stood there looking really confused. Other than that, the band sounded great and everyone enjoyed it.
  
As I was packing up at the end around 2am, feeling tired bored and far too sober for a place like that at that time in the morning I felt a tap on my shoulder. ?Are you the sound engineer?? someone said in a broad Glaswegian accent. I expected the rare complement one sometimes gets in this job. I confirmed I was indeed the sound engineer. ?Well cheers for making me sound like shite? ? it was the trumpeter. He stood shaven headed infront of me, slightly swaying from side to side. A few thoughts went through my head at this point. I was knackered, bored, sober and underpaid. There was no stopping my brain to mouth communication now. ?Listen mate?, I said. ?You sounded like shite cos you played like shite!??
 
I meant every word.
 
Then I waited for about three seconds as he considered what I said. And he lunged at me grabbing my neck. He pushed me backwards off the stage and head butted me right above my eye. I was blinded and concussed and completely unable to do anything at this point. Even to a short drunk trumpeter. His mates came over and separated us and I was restrained quite unnecessarily hard. I assured them I was not going to retaliate. I felt I had verbally delivered by far the worst blow.
 
He was bundled into their van and I finished packing up.
 
A bit later, he came and apologized. The bump on my head was pretty big. But I felt it was well earned. He offered to buy me a drink. I asked for an orange juice and then had to listen to his life story as he tearfully explained how his wife had left him and all he had now was the band?
 
The one thing I?m thankful for is that if I?d have had anything to drink I?d have probably flattened him and dismantled him piece by piece and would now be writing this from inside prison. Instead I felt a bizarre Buddha-like calm and just felt sorry for him. 2 hours and some cans later I was raging!