Mr Potato Hands
(Some names and places have been changed)

I first saw Kenny play guitar with the High Barnets at Wellton Workingman’s Club on a freezing cold evening around Christmas time last year. He had called me up and asked me to cover the gig for my column in the local rag.
Leaving my breath hanging frozen in the air, I pushed my way through the front doors and was immediately asked for my invite. I flashed my press pass to the young lady on the door and was directed down a lobby decked with grainy photographs of chubby, red faced patrons mugging to the camera with various fish including chub and gudgeon tightly gripped in their malformed paws.
Pushing my way through the formica veneered double doors, I was faced with a scene straight out of the original Star Wars film. The one where Skywalker and Obi Wan walk into that funny bar full of things with 2 heads and 3 fingers on each foot.

The stage was against the wall to my right and infront of me was the bar, draped with Wellton’s finest professional drinkers, all deep in thought or stupor.
The dozen or so people there to see The Barnets were huddled together in a far corner, partly out of fear and partly for warmth.

I make my way to the bar and order my drink. A woman with homemade tattoos carved across her knuckles slams a warm, flat pint of lager onto the beermat in front of me. It may only be £1.30 but it still looks and tastes like month old goldfish bowl water. I smile nervously and head off to the table where The Barnets are sat, arguing about set lists and hair products.

“Glad you could make it.” Says Kenny offering me his outstretched hand. I take it and almost pull back as his cold, clammy paw slaps into my hand. He has a handshake like a limp dick but what is most alarming are his fingers. I look down and see that my hand is wrapped around what can only be described a mis-shaped potato. The sort that people used to send in to That’s Life because it looked like a knob and balls. Very odd.
I find myself wondering how he can play his guitar as well as he does with a root vegetable for a hand.

Another striking feature of Kenny’s are his sideburns. As dense as coconut matting and the colour of Lucozade. From a distance it looks as though his ears are on fire.

However, appearances can be deceptive. No sooner has Kenny strapped on his Fender Strat, his form appears to alter.
A few minutes ago he looked like a distant relative of Morph, now he has transformed into a geetar slinging, snake hipped riffmeister. His oddly shaped hands take on a life of their own, bending and twisting away at the strings. It is a joy to watch this half man, half King Edwards lose himself in his instrument. It is truly mesmerising.

Imagine Weller, Townshend and Marr driving go karts while tuning their guitars, not watching where they are going and crashing into each other. Imagine the resulting cacophony and you are not a million miles from the unique Kenny sound. Astounding.

I have been watching him so intensely that before I know it, the band have ended their set and are making their way sheepishly back to the table.

Kenny slumps down in the chair next to me. Sweating profusely and giving off an odour not unlike McCains Micro Chips. He downs a pint of lager shandy, announces that he is boiling and takes his shoes and socks off. Cue the last shock of the night.
I sneak a peak at his feet to see if they look anything like his hands. To my horror his feet are so white, they are almost see through, with thick, knotted blue veins running through them. The only thing missing is the morgue tag for they look as though he has stolen them from a drowned corpse. Creepy.

After the usual congratulations and slaps on the back, they force me into buying them a round, (The band, not Kenny’s feet) and we say our farewells.

As I pick my way through the rivers of piss that have formed in the alley outside the club, I can’t help but think what a unique character Kenny is. A warwm, genuine chap and a true talent on the guitar despite have a pound of spuds at the end of each wrist. Which reminds me, I haven’t eaten “Bag of chips please.”

 

CLICK HERE
to read an account of
THE WORST GIG EVER