A band must have a van

I had one of those rare opportunities of catching up with an old ‘band mate’.

Dave and I had been members of my very first (and only) professional band Amaziah. By professional I do not mean that we were unemployed and signing on the dole, I mean we actually got paid to play. Alright fair enough, by paid I mean fifteen quid a week, but it was few years ago and even that meagre allowance meant that we were ‘professional’.

We were budding rock stars and certainly looked the part. Dave had the new wave thing going on with black spiky hair and tight jeans and I was going down the new wave of British road, long blond hair and bright green jump suit. Also to quote the Nickelback song ‘We all want to be a rock star’, “we will all be skinny because we just won’t eat”, was a quote that fitted us well. Accept in my case I just couldn’t eat. I was a typical rock god in the making, a whole bunch of neurosis bagged up together. I was so crippled with anxiety that I would puke any time I ate…but hey…it was a great look! (the skinny not the puking).

Anyway, as Dave and I shared a glass or two memories returned to a time when we had to hitchhike the entire length of the country in just one night.

You see, like many bands before and since we suffered from the malady of too much gear and not enough van.

We had an old City of Bath ambulance, which had served its purpose for the band for many years, but by now had seen much better days and certainly was struggling to cope with the weight of equipment that bands such as ours require to make the deafening din that we did.

It had already let us down on a trip to Holland when one of our road crew very helpfully made us a drum riser that doubled as a flight case. Trouble is what he hadn’t factored in was that the case was so heavy it took four burly blokes to heft into the van….empty….Loaded with all the stands and drum hardware it was impossible to lift.

However, they got it into the van regardless of the poor things feelings. It gave up on trying as soon as we reached the Hook Van Holland. We spent the rest of the tour in a hired truck, which pretty much cleared any money that we had hoped to make on that tour (so you can see why we only got fifteen quid a week can’t you).

The final straw for ‘ol Bessie’ came following a short tour of Northern Ireland during the height of the ‘Troubles’.

We had survived the ‘troubles’ and had even got away with telling one of the British troops on patrol that one of the band, who was waiting for chips in a chip shop, that he might be carrying a gun.

We thought it was funny….the soldier did not, and our drummer sure as hell didn’t. Smell it, he was sitting in it!

Anyway, the ferry journey back was pretty much as it was going, horrendous!!

You hit a point in the sea sickness when you are afraid that you are going to die, and then you get beyond that when you are afraid that you AREN’T going to die.

Believe you me. A heavy sea, a huge number of Orange Band marchers, spilt beer and wall to all vomit is probably the closest I will get to hell this side of eternity.

It was so rough that a lorry went over in the hold, and ‘Ol Bessie’ just quietly took it all, sadly sagging below the weight of our kit.

Getting off the boat involved the driver taking a run at the gang way and hoping that the gap between the boat and dock didn’t increase with the swell.

Having ‘hit’ land I fear that ‘Ol Bessie’ got a cob on, whispered in mechanical speak ‘stuff this for a game of soldiers’ and gave up the ghost. With an exasperated crunch the whole underside of the ambulance collapsed and we juddered to a halt.

We were in Stranraer, Scotland It was midnight and we were a very long way from home (Bristol).

The trouble is, I had promised my girlfriend that I would see her before she went to college in the morning (yes we were that young). She had been a bit upset about us going to Northern Ireland in the first place and so wanted to see me back home safe and sound (the fact that she has been my wife for the past 26 years probably meant that she actually liked me).

A promise is a promise and I had no intension of breaking it.

So Dave and I set off at the stroke of midnight to find our own way home.

This involved two scruffy youths in old army great coats and the air of travellers who had recently survived the Belfast/Scotland crossing, hitching a lift with whoever would give us a ride.

Well, believe it or not, we got picked up by several huge lorries that were travelling down south. They were an odd assortment I can tell you, probably why they deemed to give us a ride. One swore back was white that he was the whip playerer in Dave Dee Dozy Beaky Mick and Titch and another who we suddenly realised to our terror was fast asleep and had been for a good many miles.

However, despite the weirdoes, dangerous drivers and copious amounts of baked beans (they all insisted on stopping and having breakfast…right through the night) we made it to the outskirts of Bristol by day break and hopped on a milk float for the remainder of the journey home.

I got to see my future wife and both Dave and I managed to get to our beds to get a few hours shut eye, unlike the rest of the band and crew that ended being stuck in Scotland for days.

‘Ol Bessie’ sadly never recovered from this final insult and had to be gently but lovingly led into a field where she was shot through the head gasket.

Gone but not forgotten she was replaced by a shiny black Mercedes tour bus…which we loved, as it had proper seats.

From those days forth I dream of expensive tour buses with beds and fridges and even…dare I say it…a toilet.

Sadly, all we have these days is a humongous horse box, which still struggles under the weight. ‘Ol Bessie’ whispers to it from the beyond’, “run away, run away”.