How to be a bonafide Rock God

Oh come on!!!!

2011-11-04T09:32:00.000-07:00

The trouble with putting shows all about hard working bands on television or in the movies is you invariably get scenes where the band arrives with most of their gear on the back of a scooter and having literally ‘thrown’ their kit in the general location of the stage, rock into a finely produced set of songs that U2 would have been envious of.

Normally these kinds of events take place at the end of some Disney movie or other and leave the viewer truly believing that ‘a band can actually fly’.

What people fail to take into account is that it’s ‘made up’. That it has all the artistic reality of Dumbo and that it doesn’t actually happen this way.

Firstly in no way in this world or the next does anything sound as tight and as crisp and more importantly in tune as do the songs in these movies. It just doesn’t happen like that. Even if you do get to see a genuine live performance on TV it has had every bum note, guitar gaff, missed beat and mistake finally and carefully produced out of it. A great example of what happens if this hasn’t happened was the recent filming of Bon Jovi playing live at Hyde parks London Calling. This was not doctored in any way and what you saw is what the crowd in London got. Even my good lady who is an ardent Bon Jovi fan said “bilge he’s singing flat isn’t he”. This isn’t reflection on the musicianship of artistes it’s just life.

The second reality check and the most pertinent to this tale is at no point do the band turn up with all their equipment in a shopping trolley and are ready to play in four minutes flat.

The Mudheads have a horse box, which is enormous, black and has frightened the dickens out of several motorists following the band on many occasions. CJ found it hilarious to paint the insignia “Have a Nice Day” on the back of it which would be the last thing that the terrified driver would see as this wheel crazy leviathan veered wildly and ran them off the road.

This horse box is so loaded with equipment that we have snapped the axel on it several times and have had to fit a new fly wheel that could just about lift a tank.

To unload said horse box, carry approximately 2 ½ ton of electrical kit into a venue and then set it all up ready for action, even with a finely tuned work force like ours (cough) takes a minimum of two hours.

So when we are faced with the prospect of undertaking a benefit type event, in the outdoors, in what transpired was heavy rain and they want us to perform for 15 minutes as everybody is leaving I think the expression is ‘”get lost”.

Honestly where do people get their ideas from. Walt Disney’s company have a lot to answer for.

It had to be the drummer

2011-08-31T09:18:00.000-07:00

Now I am not going to be disparaging or needlessly rude about anyone, but it does have to be said that if there is ever anybody in a band that seems to break wind as a form of artistic expression then it has to be the drummer.

CJ is a genuine virtuoso at this.

It could be because of his fondness for spicy food. It could be that he excels at growing his own vegetables and has a healthy level of fibre in his diet.

What ever the reason, in every school class, there was a kid that sat at the back with a self satisfied grin on his face as everybody else was hanging out of the windows. I genuinely believe that CJ was our man on the ground in those situations.

This has been a long standing issue for the band, especially when we were locked in the studio together recording our first album.

When you are locked in an air tight, sound tight, generally claustrophobic space and CJ decides to ‘relieve’ himself of built up pressure you have two choices, die, or invent ever creative ways to subdue the gaseous beast that had been released.

It was on this occasion when yet another ‘take’ had been abandoned and the guitarist, Matt and I had gone a strange shade of green that our producer introduced us to the concept of the candle.

Candles were lit in the studio not in order to induce a new aged ambience but as a means to ‘eat’ the methane gas that was emanating from the drum booth.

Keep this thought in mind.

Over the years we have not been plagued by this ‘creative’ expression too badly although it is always wise to have one finger poised in readiness over the window button in the car on the way to a gig.

Performing in a myriad of pubs, clubs and bars had not been a problem as anything CJ could produce was soundly disguised by cigarette smoke. This of course changed dramatically with the introduction of the smoking ban and we suddenly realised that our erstwhile drummer was not alone with half the cliental ‘farting’ for England. To be honest the average Saturday nights public house smells more like a packet of dry roasted peanuts.

At least we have a small bank of electric fans to blow anything acrid or noxious back at the drum kit.

In our practice room we are not so fortunate and I knew we were in trouble when CJ proudly announced that he’d had a particularly fiery and spicy curry for lunch.
An hour into the practice all went south when CJ could not contain himself any longer and ‘let rip’.

As the singer I have to gulp in more air than the other two. This quickly became a distinct disadvantage as the result of CJ’s lunch time frailty caught me soundly in the back of the throat. I nearly introduced them to what I’d had for tea at the moment as I gagged violently into the microphone.

Even CJ got caught violently off guard within the full force of his own creation and nearly fell back off his kit.

Knowing that this could quite probably put a crimp on the whole evenings work he threw open the sliding doors and disappeared into the labyrinth that best describes his garage.

He returned with what could best described as a flame thrower.

As a sheet of flame shot out of the end of the metal rod and canister he held ominously in his grip into the room where Aaron and I stood, memories of those idiots you see on Youtube who seems to think that girls are thoroughly impressed by somebody who can actually light their own farts came to mind. Methane gas is highly flammable as far as I can remember.

Our little practice room has an emphasis on small and Aaron and I had no place to hide and we had visions of the opening scene of Die Hard 3 being re-enacted in Bristol.

Thankfully, nothing exploded but we were left with the gaseous stench of the fuel that had produced the flame in the first place.

It just had to be the drummer.

I am officially getting old!!

2011-08-09T09:41:00.000-07:00

I am officially getting old!!

I don’t mean in terms of advancing years (although it would be helpful if they too could slow down a little). No I mean in terms of the things I don’t understand.

This is a musical blog entry but on a slightly different vein.

I got a call from my guitarist son Aaron asking what I would be doing on this coming Thursdays tea time. I am always suspicious of this question from either of my two offspring as it invariably results in me having to drive them somewhere.

This time it was not a transportation request but something of a more interesting nature.

His wife, my daughter-in-law, is a primary school teacher (that’s kids up the age of 11 yrs if you are reading this from outside of the UK) and they were due to hold their annual leavers disco on that Thursday.

They had sadly received a call from the grieving widow of the chap that normally did the disco for them who had reportedly and rather tragically had a heart attack and had dropped down dead whilst on holiday. I wondered why they had used the services of such an elderly gentlemen any way for entertaining young un’s when I was informed that he was exactly the same age as me….gulp!

Aaron phoned and asked if I could pull the bands PA and lights together so that a disco could still go ahead. I enquired if he would like me to do it with him. His response let the colour fall from my face when he said “no, not me, I’m working….you”.

Now, like most people I have always fancied being a radio DJ. I even signed up to be one on hospital radio in Poole, Dorset, but they closed the station the week before I was due to go on air (some would say a lucky escape from the already suffering patients).

The idea of spinning the discs whilst indulging in some witty but none the less gentle banter has always appealed to me. I have always enjoyed my stints of being interviewed and performing on radio.

However; running a school disco for about 60 ten to eleven year olds was an entirely different prospect indeed.

You have to remember that these kids were now the biggest in their school. They were way too old for this place now and they knew it. Cocky beyond reason they would strut around the place as if they owned it and in their pre-adolescent minds…they did. The only solace for the weary battled fatigued teaching staff struggling to maintain control was that these Billy and Belinda ‘know-it-alls’ in just under two months time would once again be the smallest kids in another school and would have those smug expressions whipped clean off their faces.

Anyway, it was for these little urchins that I was being asked to provide an evenings entertainment.

I’m not too proud to admit it but I panicked.

What did I do when I am in similar situations…..I called CJ that’s what I did.
Primarily I phoned him to see if he could drag our kit out for me to collect and to ask him for a few suggestions (he has school aged daughters one who is also leaving primary school so in his role on the PTA he has himself provided several discos).

I have always maintained that CJ is a diamond geezer and one of the most helpful people I know but this time my gratitude went onto a new plain of thought when he chirped up. “Tell you what, I’ll come and do it with you”.

This was going to be a new experience for me I can tell you.

Thursday arrived and CJ and I met down by the school (in case anybody out there is wondering both CJ and I are in receipt of CRB certificates in relation to our employment….we are considered ‘safe’ to work with children. Besides, there were teachers everywhere. Even so it didn’t stop a growing sense of dread building in the pit of my stomach.)

It was here that the first incidence of my aging comprehension had its first bite of the cherry.

Bearing in mind that we are talking about children here. Little un’s….kids that still perhaps wearing Barbie Doll/Action Man or High School Musical pyjamas to bed, I was floored when a whole fleet of stretch Limousines turned up and out poured a throng of giggling school girls dressed like they were at the opening night of the Oscars.

What the hell was all that about???

Now I know that the fascination for the American High School leaver’s ball has entered our shores, perhaps a couple of decades ago. And I know that this has attracted the use of Limos for the arrival.

But 11 year olds?....oh come on!!!

Shaking my head in despair we decanted the PA and lights in to the school hall and prepared to…’rock’!

Now the modern disco is really a thing of beauty as no longer does the poor struggling DJ have to load in massive speakers and case upon case of Vinyl records or CD’s (if you are that little bit younger).

Nowadays, the speakers are far more efficient and smaller in size and both of us carried in our entire record collection on a couple of Ipods and a laptop computer (God Bless the inventor of Itunes).

I was all for downloading the last three editions of ‘Now that’s what I call Music’ but CJ promised me that he had it covered.

And then THEY arrived.

I love the difference in the maturity of boys and girls (something my wife insists never changes).

The boys all bounced in, decked out in sports clothes with perhaps the initial attempts of spiking their hair up…..just a small nod towards the fact that give it two or three years and they would be thirteen and it would begin….bring it on.
The girls however; were a completely different kettle of fish.

Many of them clearly wanted to be 19 yrs and dressed as such. I didn’t know where to look……I bet their dad’s didn’t see them going out like that. Why can’t kids just be kids??

Ah well, nobody else seemed to be bothered by it and so I elected to get on with the job in hand.

This is really where I left reality.
The kids started to pour up and ask for their favourite tunes….all of which were a total mystery to me. I hadn’t heard of one of em!!

Perhaps if I listened a little less to Classic FM and Planet Rock and little more to Radio One and Heart FM I might have a little bit of inkling as to what they were asking for.

As it was I felt like I was working on the reception of a specialist Emporium for the more discerning weirdo!!

“Do you have any S&M”?

“You can’t ask for that!! You’re 10 years old!

“It’s a song by Rihanna”

“Is it?.........whose Rihanna?”

The boys kept asking for a track by a band called LMFAO. CJ had to explain to me that this in fact stood for ‘Laugh my ****** ******** off’ (you can fill in the blanks) I was stunned.

When I was 10 years old we had ‘Gimme Dat Ting” and “Bridge over troubled water” for heavens sake.

The funniest thing was being terrorised by a mini Emo in the making.

At the beginning of the evening this sullen rather rotund child stormed up to us with her arm outstretched clutching some sort of dance CD. I asked her if she wanted us to play a track off of it. She replied “No, all of it” and stalked off.

Now neither CJ and I had any idea of what any of it was on the CD and we were not about to take any chances given that the kids were already ‘getting down’ to S&M, it could have been wall to wall sex for all we knew. So we stuck it to one side in the blind hope that said child didn’t notice.

She did!

You’ve heard the expression ‘if looks could kill’….well I got one of those…..it withered me where I stood. 28 years of marriage and I have done some stupid things in my time, but I have NEVER had a look like that from my beloved…..eech! I’m surprised I could sleep that night.

However; taking CJ was the coup of the century. He played song after song after song that the kids loved….I hadn’t heard of one of them.

They would have eaten me alive if I had gone on my own. I’d considered playing a song from the Wombles, you know, just for a laugh, and of course I would have had to have put a bit of Status Quo in there.
Thankfully the evening was a short one, which was just as well, as by the time I got home I was in desperate need of a large glass of wine. My level of respect for my daughter-in-law and her colleagues has risen through the roof.

CJ was a proper trooper and I was once again utterly grateful that he had saved my back side.

However; in the words of the immortal Terry Wogan

“Is it me”

Bob the Builder - "Can we fix it? yes we can".

2011-07-14T04:12:00.000-07:00

I have just developed a new and deeper appreciation of that much maligned species called the ‘Roadie’.

This was caused by the experiencing of two completely diametrically opposed events that took place within the space of the same week for myself and Mrs RG.

The first was our annual outing to see the American rock stalwarts Bon Jovi at the Bristol City Football club stadium.

True it was only five minutes ago that I was writing exuberantly about our experience at the O2 in London (it was in fact exactly 12 months ago) but if Mrs RG doesn’t get the annual fix she may cast a wander ear to other sources of musical entertainment, and as there is some unbelievable tripe out there I for one rejoice that at least the recipients of her audible interest are in fact blindingly good song smiths.

However; to the point. Bon Jovi tend to favour big (I and by that I mean HUGE) arenas in order to cast their musical net as widely as they can to as many people as possible.

With this in mind, in order that those in the ‘cheap seats’ can actually see a show the tour have remarkably large stages and even bigger video screens.

Apparently, if my information is correct, Bon Jovi travel with two complete set ups so they can move from town to town every single night. So if they are performing in say Bristol they can then play again in Manchester the following night. And believe me, that is no mean feat.

Those stages are absolutely enormous.

What you are basically getting is a team of ‘Roadies’ descending on a stadium perhaps on the night before the gig and have the whole place rigged, set up and live by about mid afternoon the following day. Then at about 10 or 11pm, the whole lot comes down, is packed up and off to another arena or stadium.

I am extremely impressed and the reason for that was brought home rather vividly at the end of that week.

To set the scene.

Once upon a time I was a Boy Scout. Mrs RG in turn used to be a Girl Guide. As part of our childhood uniformed activities we would camp in tents. This was never as cheery a ‘singing round the camp fire’ experience as you mind imagine. Myself, Quicksketch and Bassbin were once sent on a patrol leaders camp in order to make us into ‘men’ and enlightened leaders. What actually happened was myself and Bassbin nearly got sent home for fighting at the tender age of 10 or 11 over, believe it or not, a woggle (that was the plastic thing that held your neckerchief together and was the colour of your troop, or Six as they were called).

We were tired, fed up and cold and getting extremely grumpy and tetchy with each other. I have no idea what caused the fracas but BB wrenched my woggle from my throat and threw it definitely to the ground. I instantly demand that he pick it up immediately or I would rearrange his charming and boyish good looks. He of course fully aware that mobile phones were not to be invented for at least another 25 years or so knew that I had no way of contacting my lawyer told me to ‘Sod off, and to pick it up myself”.

Of course the gauntlet had been thrown (well, the woggle any way), honour had to be satisfied and with that punches were thrown.

Neither of us were or are men of violence (BB went onto be a Policeman and having left the force I was informed by one of his former colleagues that he was ‘way to nice a bloke to be old bill’ something I feel that he should be proud of) and so the air of aggression was short lived and probably more akin to a couple of squabbling girl guides.

The fight was short however not because we were not fully committed. No, the rise in temper was at least keeping us warm, unfortunately the fact was that we were caught in full ‘Fight Club’ mode my Baloo (it’s probably best not to ask but all the Cub scout leaders were named after characters from the Jungle Book). Anyway, the first rule of Fight Club is never to talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is don’t get caught fighting by Baloo.

He was not happy and we both had our ears soundly bent on how we had brought shame and ignominy to our troop and only apologising to each other and shaking hands prevented us from being sent home to our parents under a cloud of disgrace and further punishment.

The point of this little aside is that my childhood experiences have taught me that I do not under any circumstances ‘do’ camping. If it doesn’t have air conditioning, a flushable toilet and a shower I ain’t interested.

Back in the day of a more flourishing rock career I would wave the fee for festivals that I performed at as long as I was housed in a decent hotel somewhere close. I hate festival camping even more than Scout camps.

However; as you are all aware we are in the grip of a global economic down turn and times are to say the least, hard.

So now that that the sprogs have flown the nest myself and Mrs RG decided that we would dip our toes back into the ‘camping’ game. Besides ‘woggles are a thing of the past and such things as ‘electric hook ups’ exist enabling the use of such luxuries as heaters, microwaves and laptop computers.

Now this is where my new found appreciation of the remarkable skill of the Roadie comes in.

They can set up an entire stadium with stage, PA lights, screens and goodness knows what else, AND take it all back down again in just over 24 hours (that includes sleeping, eating and other necessities.).

The tent we had purchased for our big camping adventure had claimed (rather loosely I beg to proffer) that the canvass living quarters could be fully erected and habitable within 25 minutes. My response to that is ‘Horse manure’.

Two hours it took us, yes TWO hours, and that was just to get us to a point where we would be dry to unpack if it should have rained.

Regular readers of my blog will know that I long to have a crew of roadies to take care of my musical needs. I am now wondering if one them would fancy the occasional weekend job taking up and putting down our tent.

Guys (and girls) of the road crew profession. I salute you!!

Mystery Illness

2011-06-10T06:01:00.000-07:00

“I'm a celebrity, with depression, anorexia
And a mystery illness which should make me even sexier
Celebrity, with superficial grace
Always wearing this mask, that eats the face”

From I’m a Celebrity by Martyn Joseph & Stewart Henderson

Those that read my last entry will know that I had been referred for a series of blood test because I was suffering from chronic fatigue and an overwhelming desire to eat my own body weight in chocolate.

I have now had my diagnosis and apparently I have ‘Graves’ Disease’.

Having the word ‘disease’ associated with you is never a pleasant experience, but add the word ‘Grave’ to it and I began to feel extremely uncomfortable.

This growing feeling of dread was not helped by a good friend who looked up the condition on Wikipedia and announce triumphantly that I have a condition that is normally associated with teenage girls.
This might explain my tendency to flounce and to go all duey eyed over Justin Bieber posters but it is not something that I want broadcasted abroad.
Eager to find a common link with other rock stars who may have suffered the same fate as me and find just a modicum of credibility I typed the word ‘celebrity’ with ‘Graves Disease’ into Google. I was mortified to discover that although the list was long I had hardly heard of any of them. Most had died over 150 years ago, there was an actress or two that I am sure are famous from the village they originated from, an Australian folk singer I was blissfully unaware of…and….George W Bush senior!!
Well that explains it all!!

It was suggested that in order to maintain rock & roll credibility I should lie and just say that I am suffering from the ravages of a major heroin addiction but as EVERYBODY who knows me is aware that my narcotic of choice is red and comes in a 75 cl bottle, preferably from the New World, the addiction claim probably wouldn’t wash.
I could always go down the modern celebrity approach and be extremely coy about a ‘mystery illness’. This seems to have worked well for Cheryl Cole although you can over play it like Kerry Katona and become so unemployable that you even lose your job at Iceland (if you are reading this over seas, Iceland is a frozen food retailer which specializes in selling food that is so cheap that there is probably more nutrition in the box the food is sold in than the food itself).

So I may have to take it on the chin and either keep my gob well and truly shut or admit that I have an illness that lends more to excitable teenager crushes on pubescent boy bands and prolific text messaging than it does to a man of my more distinguished years.

As long as I don’t end up looking like Keith Richard I may just get away with it.

I’m a celebrity, tousled and vivacious
I’m a celebrity, publicity voracious
I’m a celebrity, a midiocre icon
I’m adorable, especially when the mic’s onCelebrity, with a pre-nuptial arrangement
To be followed by a photo-spread estrangement
Fashionably turned out
Immaculately churned out
Rehab ripe and burned out
On a short lease destiny
Magazine confessional
Vulnerably obsessional
An emotional professional
Renowned for being me, me, me
I’m a celebrity, a surface raconteur
I’m a celebrity, RSVP’s everywhere
I’m a celebrity, attending acting classes
I’m a lap dog, a poodle for the masses
Celebrity, with injected lips that pout
I am a spiritual, with a cook-book coming out
I’m a celebrity, every word is true
I’m a celebrity, misquote me and I’ll sue
I’m a celebrity, with depression, anorexia
And a mystery illness which should make me even sexier
Celebrity, with superficial grace
Always wearing this mask, that eats the face
Fashionably turned out
Immaculately churned out
Rehab ripe and burned out
On a short lease destiny
Magazine confessional
Vulnerably obsessional
An emotional professional
Renowned for being me, me, me
Celebrity

Chemically enhanced!

2011-06-06T08:52:00.000-07:00

Do not despair…..I will continue…..I must……I will be severally chastised by good friends if not.

What must I continue I hear you cry?.......performing in a band is pretty much the answer. Performing at all basically.

Its okay it’s not terminal. I have now discovered that my totally lethargy towards playing is in fact chemically based. No, I’m not popping anything that I am not supposed to, it’s just that I have a lack of a chemical called thyroxin in my system that has left me feeling like I have gone fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson and then not slept for a week.

They tell me that this particular problem is hereditary (thanks mum) but easily treatable although I will join ranks of those that have to take tablets every day for the rest of their lives.

Hopefully what I will end up is enough energy for three and a renewed passion to rock & roll. There are still many stages that need ripping up!!

You will be the first to know.

I’ll be back shortly I promise.

Laters dudes
RG

All of our Heroes

2011-05-06T07:01:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday was a land mark for me. Not because we were performing to a sold out and packed Bristol venue but because I got to shake hands and share the same stage as one of my childhood heroes Bruce Foxton.

I have mentioned in these pages before that I have never considered myself to be a Bass player (my band mates would site that I claim this with good reason). To me the Bass has never been the ‘rock stars’ instrument of choice and thus I had to be a guitarist.

However; I was never any good at the twiddly twiddly bits and so I was always a ‘Rhythm guitarist as opposed to being a lead guitarist.

For some strange reason that I can never fathom virtually every band I have ever played in has been unable to keep its Bass players so Monkey boy would invariably find himself back on four strings as my six stringed contributions were rarely missed.

However; this is something that I have grown to be at peace with although just once in a while it would be nice for somebody (anybody) to pat me on the back and ‘that was a nifty bit of bass playing their buddy). Until that day, probably when hell freezes over, I shall content my ego with positive comments about my singing ability.

All this being said two men really stood out as bass playing heroes for me, well three really, the third being Geddy lee from Rush but I was never really a Rush fan apart from their two big hits and so I cannot count him as an inspiration.

These two giants were Phil Lynott from Thin Lizzy and Bruce Foxton from The Jam.

Both were phenomenal bass players who had very distinctive styles but who could also sing.

Phil Lynott was probably my first man crush and I even had an awful curly perm and grew a moustache at the 18 to look just like him. One down point, he was cool and black and I was dorky white. There is video footage of me performing during this period; however my wife showed this to our former guitarist who laughed so hard that it brought on a fairly severe asthma attack so I think this film is best left where it is on health & safety grounds.
Bruce Foxton was a vintage that I grew to appreciate more and more as I grew older and played bass more and more often. The guy quite literally is a genius.

His style is unique which allowed guitarist Paul Weller to go in all sorts of directions whilst Foxton held the whole structure of the song together. However; many of his riffs are so distinctive that within seconds of hearing them on the radio you know what the song is going to be and who is playing it.

So you can imagine carrying this man as one of my inspirations since I was sixteen years old made for a major jolt of excitement when we were asked to perform as support in Bristol for his band From The Jam last week.

I hadn’t felt as nervous as this since I had played to two packed houses at the Brixton academy…but it didn’t matter as I had lost my sun glasses (prescription) and I couldn’t see the large crowd any way.

By the time we had arrived at the venue From The Jam had sound checked and had disappeared off into the night to eat. I had a sinking suspicion that I would never meet the man himself.
Still never mind, at least we were on the same stage.
Anyway, we had a blinding gig marred only by the snapping of one of my strings (we had gone acoustic for ease of get on and off and I can get a little heavy handed when I am excited…..keep all comments to yourself please).

The crowd gave us a blinding round of applause and we were off and out of the building via the adjoining work shops straight into the main band that were getting changed.

I suppose the sight of witnessing your hero struggling with his flies would be a dampener on most but not on I who had quite unashamedly turned into a complete fan boy!

I stuck out my hand and said ‘we’re your supporting band tonight, it’s a great crowd’. He very graciously having ‘adjusted’ himself for modesty returned the hand shake. I then promptly blurted out “Thanks for inspiring me”.

His two band mates promptly sniggered and made some comment about Bruce being ‘really inspirational’ but he didn’t seem to mind.

It was a magic moment for me.

Just on a vanity note and something that made me feel a whole lot better. Bruce is in his mid 50’s but on stage he still looks 30 years younger/ however; up close the illusion is broken. He’s still wearing well mind so don’t get me wrong, but there is definitely no pretending on a face to face basis.

Maybe, just maybe….at a distance, with the bright lights on me, I might look like I’m still relatively young….if only I could lose a couple of dozen pounds into the bargain.

A few days later I e-mailed the venue owner and thanked him for the opportunity. I did happened to mention though, that I have always been a fan of Ian Hunter, formerly of Mott the Hoople, and that if he by chance ever happened to book Mr Hunter that he might just consider us again.

I’ve got a list you see, and I would hate to lose the opportunity to play with my heroes before like Phil Lynott they sadly move onto that rock & roll show in the sky.

The boys are back!

2011-04-26T04:14:00.000-07:00

I do have to write in an apologetic state as I have promised you that I would endeavour to write at least once a week.

My excuse (.for that is all that it is) was that our guitarist, who also happens to be my son, got himself married.

Until you have experienced this particular delight you will have absolutely no idea the emotional and mental space it demands of the parents. I thought that having myself been married that it would be a walk in the park. No chance.

So sadly I have much neglected my blog.

I suppose that it was also synonymous with my lack of playing over the past few months as I had intimated in my last entry I had become fed up with the whole ‘performing’ thing was not in mood to be entertaining nor creative.

However; the sun has been shining and I have had a good healthy dose of vitamin D and am feeling generally at one with my inner rocker once more.

Also with the prospect of performing with my childhood hero ‘Bruce Foxton’ this week I feel the tinge of excitement that tends to inspire those of us that take to the stage for the edification of an adoring public.

All things being equal I shall return with the rockers pen and strip my soul for the delight of you lot!!

On another sadder note.

I often have a little browse through the statistics of this website just to ensure that I am not just writing this blog for my own benefit (if you left more comments I would know that you are actually reading what I am writing).

Anyway the stats show that a good deal of my readership come from Japan. You guys clearly love your rock.

In fact one of my first albums I purchased was the legendary Cheap Trick Live at Budokan…what a blinding album that was.

I have had friends who achieved nothing in this country and have had phenomenal success in the land of the rising sun. It is a land that clearly appreciates a good hard rock riff.

We in the West have been watching in awe as the news of the incredible tragedy of the earth quakes hit your shores.

It doesn’t mean much I know but please be assured that the prayers of this fellow rock lover are well and truly with you and I pray that the Phoenix will raise quickly from the rubble and you will be back rocking & rolling as soon as you are able.

We’ll speak soon.

RG

Revenge is a dish best served explosively.

2011-03-11T05:48:00.000-08:00

I had received two comments from our support artiste at our last gig that I really appreciated and helped make my evening.
The first was that I “didn’t have enough wrinkle to be old enough to be Aaron’s father” always good for the fragile ego that one.

The second was that we were a really friendly band and fun to perform with.

I have always prided myself as being easy to work with and I have tried my hardest, as have my band mates, not to be too precious and to make friends rather than bad reputations.

It remind me of all the bands over the years that I have been involved in supporting and even those who then in turn ended up supporting us (beware the old adage, be careful how you treat people on the way up as you never know who you are going to meet on the way back down again).

On the whole we have had a great time meeting loads of new bands and artistes and only a few stick in my mind as being a right royal bunch of jerks.

Sadly our last gig at a well known Bristol venue a few years back did end up with both Support bands giving us withering looks, that they were indeed way too special to be supporting a bunch of losers like us.

One of the bands even decided that they were soooooooo special that they went well over their allotted time and ate royally into our time slot. Believe me that hurt, especially as we had worked so hard to get an audience there in the first place.

Subsequently as the venue allowed them do this we shook the dust from our sandals and have not returned there since.

Unsurprisingly it was the same venue where we were booked to support a well known signed folk rock act that decided that they would continue to sound check until the very moment that the doors were opened. The venue then chewed our backsides off for not being ready on time.

I am also reminded of the time we were booked to support a local band in Bristol only to be told on arrival that the band had no equipment at all, and I mean nothing; the guitarist had to borrow a plectrum (pick) from Aaron.
The drummer then set about resetting CJ’s drum kit for a left handed drummer only to break it in the process. Of course we didn’t realise this until about a third of the way through our set when the whole lot began to part company with CJ and itself and literally fell apart.
The band that had inflicted the damage on our equipment and kit then held court in the next room drawing the crowd away from our set.
I have said it before and I shall say it again…why do we do this to ourselves?

What we really need is a personality like our former guitarist Matt. He was once incensed that the support band having played to our audience began to pack up and were preparing to drive home. Matt stormed outside the venue and frog marched them back into the building and having removed their van keys told them that they were going no-where until we had played. We had been good enough to support them and they were going to return the favour by boosting our audience in support. I would never have had the nerve to do that.
Mind you our tales are nothing as compared to those who have had the pleasure of being ‘Road Crew’.

I once knew a guy who went from being a sound man onto becoming a road manager for acts such as George Michael. During recording sessions he would regale us with his tales of the road.

The funniest were of his memories of being on the road with a Spanish Heavy Metal band in Europe. The funniest account gave me hope that there is indeed such a concept as ‘justice’.

This particular band did not treat their crew with much respect at all to the point that they didn’t really budget the tour with such frivolities as ‘food’.

Now they do say that an army marches on its stomach and this is even more so for a road crew.
After a couple of weeks of this the crew had lost all its good humour and patience and were hungry, tired and fed up.

Part of the band’s show consisted of large pyrotechnics which had to be constructed by the only member of the crew who held an explosive licence, Bluey.

One night, fed up to the back teeth and extremely hungry Bluey got completely wasted before the gig and decided to take his revenge on his inconsiderate task masters.

Now bear in mind that each flash bomb only needed a tea spoon of this industrial strength gun powder for spectacular results, Bluey walked up each flash pot and poured a whole tub into each one, yes a WHOLE tub.

Then Bluey, satisfied with his act of vengeance curled up behind the mixing desk and fell last asleep and was totally unarousable.

My friend and his crew were then faced with a huge dilemma. Bluey was the only one who held a licence to handle this stuff. If anyone of them had as much as looked at the gun powder let alone touch it they could have found themselves being prosecuted under health & safety.
So they decided to leave it as it was and go and warn the band.

“Listen lads, it’s the last gig of the tour so we have decided to make it a spectacular one so what ever you do stay well away from the front of the stage at the point in the show where the flash pots always go off”.

The band gave an off hand reaction to this. They were leather clad rockers, nothing would distract them from doing what they did best….rocking.

However; despite their bravado they all began to look a tad nervous as the song in the show arrived that was normally accentuated by a controlled explosion of flame.

As the drummer leaned into a roll of the drums that announced the arrival of the explosion the band’s demeanour was now one of naked fear. With that my mate hit the detonation button.
Apparently what resulted was a solid wall of sheer flame 50 ft high and about 50 ft wide.

The band literally fell backwards into their amps and speakers completely blinded and sun tanned and the drummer fell of the riser into the orchestra pit behind.

My friend said that it was the first time that he had ever seen an audience turn as one and flee.

The explosion was so fierce that one of the venues officials called the bomb squad as they though the Basque separatists had been at it again.

At the end of the show my friend went to retrieve the pots and found that they had been blown clean through the stage itself and were now firmly buried in the concrete floor below and were going nowhere.

And the band who had suffered such retribution?
Well, they were all grins and thumbs up asking if they could do that again the next time they toured.
I suppose that once a Pratt, always a Pratt.

But it was a valuable lesson to me “Be careful how you treat people on the way up as they may have a bellyful of Jack Daniels and a dynamite licence”.

There and back again

2011-03-01T03:07:00.000-08:00

The rock & roll life can be somewhat of a roller coaster ride at times. One minute you are riding high, heart beating fiercely, white knuckled as you race with the birds on top of the world and glad to be alive.

The next you are plummeting down towards the puddles of child produced vomit, loose change and pocket bric-a-brac that you lost the last time you screamed this way. Only to find yourself 30 seconds later hurtling back towards the stratosphere with the wind whipping through your hair and looking forward to another heady session of head butting seagulls.

I have experienced the rock & roll equivalent of this twice in one week.

The hurtling downwards experience was as we performed at the Louisiana last Sunday.

On the face of it all went well. The hard Core Punk outfit that had been supporting us had pulled out at the very last minute only to be replaced by the talented songster Julie baker who was a dream to work with and extremely friendly tuboot.

We also had a small but enthusiastic audience and they clearly enjoyed themselves.

However; for me my entire evening was back to front, upside down and yanked through a hedge backwards.

As we hit our opening chords of our first song something went horribly wrong and my bass nearly brought the back wall down. Clearly I have developed a technical fault with my guitar transmitter.

Anyway the sound engineer quickly solved the problem front of house and all was well. Sadly my onstage mix had been shot to hell. I was slowly being lifted off of my feet by a sheer wall of noise being produced mainly from Aaron’s guitar and my vocal in the monitor mix.

Being an old fart I normally wear ear plugs as I am becoming concerned at the long term damage I am doing to my hearing (it’s bad enough being as blind as a bat without adding ‘deaf as post’ to the equation). The trouble is with this level of volume the plugs were simply distorting the sound to an unusable mess and so I had to rip them out.

What I then experienced was the audible equivalent of leaping from a toasty warm bedroom window into the English Channel in January. Shocking.

My head was spinning and within almost no time at all I couldn’t pitch a note to save my life though saving my reputation at the point would have been of more value.

Now you would have thought that after 33 years I would have developed the communication skills to inform the in-house engineer of my dilemma and get him to ‘sort it out’.

Sadly this skill has always eluded me and in melt down situations like this I generally proceed like Bambi caught in the headlights of a forty tonne juggernaught on full throttle.

In the past my guitarists have wised up to my disability quickly and risking me look like a complete incompetent in front of the sound guy told him exactly what I needed on my behalf. This is a responsibility I have been more than happy to hand over to somebody else no matter how ‘retarded’ it may or may not have made me look.

Perhaps it’s time to pass this particular mantle on to the next generation and get my son and guitarist to communicate in that ancient language of ‘technical’ in that dark and mystical way to the shaman of sound and volume while I simply recite the time honoured incantations of “One, two, one, two, testing, testing”.

As it was I had to try and play, sing, pitch and remember all the words whilst my eyeballs were slowly being pushed to the back of my skull.

It was a losing battle and I began to get more and more lost in songs that I have been singing for years. This tragic outcome wasn’t helped by Aaron announcing to the crowd that ‘This is another song that the old boy wanted in the set, watch him mess this one up’. Maybe I need to have a gentle word with him at some point, preferably tooled up with a nice stout piece of two by four. You may not be allowed to smack your children any more for lack of obedience but there is nothing to say that you can’t beat them senseless at the age of 25 for humiliating their old man in front of a laughing audience.

Anyway, the long and the short of it was that as soon as the last chord had been struck I was off that stage as fast as my knackered old knees could carry me. Packing up was a daze and goodness only knows how I managed to drive home at the end of the day.

As I sat crashed in front of my television set with the tinnitus in my ears threatening to explode my head I pondered the premise that I may just be getting a little too old for this lark.

That was the bottom of the roller coaster ride. However; just as surely as you career downwards you normally whip straight back up the other side.
The slope back up came the following Saturday when my mobile phone rang.
“Hi Paul, this is “Gareth Chillcott here”. I instantly snapped to attention. I mean, this guy is rugby royalty.

Now from my blog stats it shows that the large majority of my readership comes from the US and South Korea (clearly you guys like your rock & roll down there) and so you would not have a clue who Gareth Chilcott is.

In rugby terms I wouldn’t say he is the equivalent of David Beckham (Lord no) but probably more of a Wayne Rooney (you’ve heard of him as he plays for Manchester United and it doesn’t matter what part of the planet you come from you ALL know Man United). Anyway, Gareth was a famous and much respected rugby football legend who played for England and who just happens to hail from Bristol and we are all very fond and proud of him.

Anyway to keep himself in his retirement Gareth purchased himself a music venue and puts on some of the best gigs in the South West and here he was phoning me and inviting myself and Aaron to support ‘From the Jam’ (made up of two of the original members of The Jam).

I was a big fan of The Jam in my teenage years and had rushed to get tickets when they had kind of reformed with a new lead singer. Talk about made up…..I get to play with my heroes and all the frustration and negative thinking of just under a week ago melted away.

The roller coaster at this moment has reached the highest point, the view is incredible and air is clear. For now at least I am going to stay there…….roll on the end of April.

“Now that’s entertainment”

Sid Snot Calling

2011-02-17T07:59:00.000-08:00

I haven’t had a crack at the old promotion, well not big time anyway, since the Gutter Brothers game to Bristol. That particular exercise put me off of ever doing it again. Man but that was hard work and it consumes your every working moment.

I mean I almost have to sell my soul to Santa in order to get 93 souls though the door on that night and that was considered a really good turn out.

So you can imagine my delight when I discovered that I am once again tasked with hitting the campaign trail and that I have under one week to promote the dickens out of The Mudheads latest venture.

The Louisiana is fantastic little venue right in the heart of Bristol and we have generally always enjoyed playing there. However; this is something that we have done sparingly as our ‘fan base’ (cough) have the opportunity to see the beloved band of their choice for free almost any Saturday night they care to. So why would they want to pay five quid for 45 minutes of us on a Sunday night.

To see how we handle the band that will be performing with us that’s why!!

Somebody somewhere was clearly not looking at content when they pulled this evening together.

The band we are playing with and that will be opening for us have turned out to be, and I quote, Hard Core Punk. Having listened to their music on Myspace, the term ‘Hardcore’ is perhaps a little bit of an understatement. These guys could strip the graffiti off of a brick wall at half a mile. Aaron assures me that for their genre they are extremely good. However; to be honest, they frightened the life out of me. This was not helped by their EP cover which has a picture of a guy vomitting his spleen up.

This could go either one of two ways. We could make a lot of new mates, OR, and judging my the picture of the insane puker it is more than likely going to be this, a blood bath.

I wonder once again why I do it to myself.

Ah well, at least this guarantees that you’ll all tune in next week to see what happens.

Until then, “Those who are about to die salute you”.

A Dream Realised

2011-02-09T01:25:00.000-08:00

Regular readers of this blog will already know that one of my life long ambitions for becoming a successful rock & roll legend is that when I arrived at a venue all the equipment was set up in place and plugged in ready to go. And following the gig a band of committed roadies would crawl all over the gear like a nest of ants stripping the stage bare and returning their haul to the warmth and safety of the awaiting haulage trucks.

This would all of course give me ample time in my luxury hotel suite to prepare myself mentally, physically and spiritually to deliver my rock & roll best to an adoring audience. Following the show I would be able to quickly retire quickly to my inner sanctum in order to freshen and cleanse myself for the following day’s extravaganza.

This dream is of course all complete clap trap and I have spent the last 30 odd years lumping around a variety of musical back breakers with the rest of the band in the name of entertainment.

However; this weekend just past I did get a taster of what it could be like (without sadly the luxury accommodation to go with it)

To say that my week had been a nightmare would be somewhat of an understatement.

Having parents that are still physically active can in its own way be a challenging prospect, especially when my fit and sprightly 75 year old father decided to take off for a good stout walk between Bristol and Bath along the cycle track that ran alongside the steam railways line.

Great idea that is until you catch your boot toe at pace on a piece of frost risen tarmac and bite a piece out of the track.

One heavy tumble later and a broken hip our late Queen Mother would have been proud of dad found himself flat on his back and wondering how the heck he was going to get himself the two miles back to the car park and civilisation before he froze to death.

They do say that the Lord looks after his own and in this case the ‘looking after’ came in the form of a cyclist who was also a qualified First Aider.

The long and the short of it, having failed to get an ambulance down the track or an helicopter close enough to the scene, my father became the first man I’ve heard of to be rescued by Steam Train (we never do anything by halves in my family).

So that was crisis number one. The second was when my very own partner in crime, the delectable Mrs Rock God found herself collapsed in a state of sheer agony and unable to move. Thankfully my level headed student daughter was on hand as I threatened violence most horrid to the poor emergency services operative if she didn’t stop making excuses and get an ambulance to my home immediately. Daughter number one wrestled the phone from me and without threatening illegal and painful reprisals got us the ambulance we needed.

Crisis number three the following day came from my mother who was clearly in the mind set that she was missing out on all action and developed an infection in her recently operated upon eye. The result, yet another trip to a local eye hospital.

By the lunch time of the day of the gig I was looking down the wrong end of a very black hole of stress. The thought of a long evening lumping and assembling musical equipment, performing and then disassembling it all again did not fill me with enthusiasm.

Thankfully I play in a band with two diamond geezers and they both realised very quickly that I had hit the wall and getting me to stand in front of an audience and actually remember who I was let alone what I was supposed to be playing would be miracle enough and they ordered me to stay at home until a car came to collect me.

This was one weird experience as we now have a very set routine on gig nights that starts at approximately 7pm for me and this was going to take me well away from that routine.

Saturday night, 8:30pm and I was sat in front of the television with a glass of wine in my hand all ready togged out in my stage finest.

Actually that gives the impression that I was relaxed and awaiting my chauffeur. In reality I was pacing a bit and the driver was in fact my daughter-in-law (well she will be in just over two months time).

I also felt a HUGE sense of guilt. Whilst I rested, my comrades in musical arms were having to do all the hard work.

I needn’t have worried. Sue collected me bang on cue and delivered me to the venue with about 15 minutes to spare and it would seem that I was not missed at all. In fact, I got the distinct impression that they rather enjoyed not having me in the way for once and had set up more kit than usual in less time than they normally would.

I sound checked……..tuned my bass and we were off!!

Two hours later, I had time enough to throw my bass into its case before I was grabbed by my temporary minder by the scruff of my neck and bundled back into her car and delivered back home to the arms of my loving wife.

I would like to say that we finished off the evening in true rock & roll style with much partying and rock & roll. But bear in mind the weekend we had both had (especially Mrs RG), we actually finished the evening in a truly un-rock fashion sat watching Escape to the Country whilst sipping a large glass of vintage scotch.

And my band mates? Apparently they took half the time to pack up as we normally would and didn’t miss me one bit.

I bet they would if I suggested the same arrangement next week.

Dressed to kill

2011-01-26T06:51:00.000-08:00

Ever since Elvis took to the stage with his low slung guitar and quiff and the Beatles shaved theirs off in favour of mop tops and collarless suits, the budding rock wannabie has struggled to find the right image that would define them as an artiste or as a band.

Some of the images have become iconic (The sex Pistols safety pins and ripped t-shirts, The Jam’s mod suits, The Beatles Sergeant Pepper look) others have been installed into the hall of fame as a downright embarrassment and remembered in terms of parody and humour (Zig Zig Sputnic, the whole of Katchagoogoo, and anything worn by Boy George).

Get it wrong and you could well find yourself being remembered less for your hit singles and more for the ridiculous hair styles that you and your friends sported on Top of the Pops back in the 80’s (ask Nic Beggs and Limahl)

The trouble is, every musician realises very early on that if you want to make a good first impression then it best not to amble onto the stage in your pyjamas (unless of course you are the keyboard player for the Boomtown Rats).

You have got to make an effort in order to visually define what kind of band, artiste or singer you are.

If a band wanders onto stage wearing ripped jeans, t-shirts, a cut off denim jacket with “Satan’s very own rock band” emblazoned on the back and hair that almost touches their knees, it is unlikely that they are going to be an experimental jazz outfit or the Bath City All Male Voice Gospel Singers.

Again if the singer saunters on to stage in a sharp suit with teeth to match and patent leather shoes, the entire ensemble dripping with smarm, then it is highly unlikely (although not impossible) that the band will then subsequently launch into a death mental onslaught of ‘Bring your daughters to the slaughter’.

Nine times out of ten what you see is normally what you get.

This has been something I have personally taken seriously, often much to the amusement of my band mates.

In Amaziah I experimented with a variety of looks in order to try and get away from the traditional ‘metal’ look and lent more towards the emerging New Wave flavour.

However; there are photos of me in a huge white sports blazer (formally belonging to my father in the 70’s) and huge aviator sun glasses. Not a great look for sure.

In the end, inspired by Sting from The Police I settled on a bright Green jump suit that I had purchased from Bony Maroneys a second hand clothes shop in Bristol frequented mainly by punks.

Nobody appeared to find this look funny and so I stuck with it.

The only draw back was that I only had one of said piece of clothing so as you can imagine by the time I had reached the end of say a two month tour of Europe the jump suit was capable of getting in to the truck on its own at the end of a night. If I had tried to fold it, it would have been in serious danger of snapping and it smelt worse than a pair of trousers after the hundred year war.

The jump suit went to a good home in the end and was eventually used as a maternity outfit for my wife who was expecting our current guitarist Aaron. She has always been slim so you can imagine that back in the day I was Rock God in physical stature as opposed to now having more in common with Buster Blood Vessel from Bad Manners.

That was probably my one and only successful stab at a dress code as since then I have tended to be at odds with my band mates when it came to a corporate band image, or at the very least I have generally got it horribly wrong.

Mind you it can be a real indication of where the band is at.

In the original incarnation of Mudheads Monkey the band took to the festival stage in our rock finest, I was wearing doc martins, tight torn jeans, baggy shirt, funky waist coat and a bandana around my throat…….a bit of a rock folk troubadour look if you like.

Bassin was decked all in denim and sporting cool shades (being inspired by Bruce Springsteen and that blue collar poet look), Matt had a bit of an early skater boy thing going on. The drummer Mark, well he wore a knitted pullover.

Nothing states “I really have had enough of this” better than a pullover purchased from Marks and Sparks.

I believe we did one more gig after this before Mark quit.

Being my brother-in-law and much loved friend I still see him regularly and I often see that look in his eyes that suggests that I really ought to grow up and stop trying to be 25 again…and get my self a decent British Homes Stores pully.

In our next version of MHM this time with CJ drumming we tore up the stage at the Greenbelt Christian Arts festival in our very best imitation of a folk grunge outfit in the school of The Levellers. All tie dye and baggy trousers

The trouble is we were much more musically inclined to the Indie pop school of rock and our look was totally incongruous with the music, and we lost the opportunity of a decent promoter on the back of this particular tailoring disaster. We went back to the t-shirts and jeans after that.

Recently we have been experimenting with the ‘school daze’ look, all white shirts and school ties. This was in the hope that people would get the irony that the 50 year old singer was dressed in a school uniform. I mean, Angus Young for AC/DC has done it for years and he is older than me. Besides nothing says New Wave better than a school tie. Nobody got it.

We are now going to have a stab at the ‘well groomed’ dude look once more and I have recovered my oldest suit from the attic and we are going to ‘make an effort’. All suit jackets, smart ties and shiny shoes.

Trouble is, have you ever tried to get changed into a three piece suit in the gents toilets of a crowed pub. Unpleasant to say the least.

Also a waistcoat, tie and full jacket does nothing to keep me physically cool. We will have to see if this works or not or if I just drop down dead from heat exhaustion.

What ever happens it won’t be anywhere as near as bad when Matt and I went all country when supporting Country & Western legend George Hamilton the 4th.

We were snapped by our local paper dressed in checked shirts and waistcoats, a right couple of ‘good ol boys’ Man is that picture embarrassing. I’m not sure what was worse, the shirts or the over enthusiastic grins which adorned both our faces as we sandwich this giant of country who we were both way too young or British to have heard of.

I think I would rather go back to the bright green jump suit.

I'm singing in the rain

2011-01-14T04:15:00.000-08:00

Most musicians do it has to be said, prefer the luxury of performing in the dry.

We will on occasion, if the situation is right (for that read remuneration) allow our fingers to get somewhat cold for an open air event. Wind, sun even fog will not deter us especially if there is a pay cheque at the end of it. However; at no point will any band worth their salt mix an event with running water.

Now you may accuse me of being somewhat precious at this point, but even I, who was unceremoniously removed permanently from any kind of science lesson at school due to an unfortunate incident with a highly flammable chemical and a lit bunson burner, can tell you, live electrical current and water do not mix, under any circumstance.

Cast your minds back if you will to the onslaught of autumn (fall) last year and in particular to November the 5th, Guy Fawkes Night (in case you are not from the British shores, we celebrate the failed attempt of a would be assassin to blow up the government in the Houses of Parliament – it happened many hundreds of years ago but we still go for any excuse to stand out in the cold and let of fire works).

Now CJ works hard for The Mudheads and has his work cut out as our logistics man and in order to contribute to saying thank you to him for all his efforts we like to lend our services as a band to his daughters school every November the 5th for their annual firework party in order to help raise funds for the following year.

We have done this for quite a few years and although they have always been extremely cold events we have always had a great time and have helped to raise many hundred of much needed pounds for the school.

We had a break last year when a new chair to the Parent Teacher Association was appointed to replace our over worked drummer. The new man promptly decided that he would do something far more contemporary and exciting and booked a former X-Factor contestant for the princely sum of 80 quid (that may not sound a lot but I am not sure that she was even a finalist and bear in mind that The Mudheads were completely free of charge…. And they even charged us for our own hotdogs).

Anyway said plan went horribly wrong when she mimed three songs (badly) and then bogged off with the PA leaving the party in deathly silence. Subsequently The Mudheads and our sound system were immediately re-booked for the following year.

These events have been, without fail, cold affairs and normally the coldest night of the autumn leading into Christmas. This year not so cold, mainly because it was absolutely hammering down with rain.

We were set up in a band stand and CJ had butchered a gazebo to make a back drop in order to afford us some kind of protection from the driving rain that was being pushed by one hell of a gale from behind us.

This did not however stop half of the rain whipping under the tarpaulin and straight up the back of our legs.

Also, as we gingerly plugged our instruments in to the mains supply, we discovered that the roof of the band stand had not been built to withstand the onslaught of such a torrential rain fall.

As the roof began to leak like the ceiling underneath an unattended flowing bath tub CJ began to resemble a hair rock drummer in some badly made 80’s MTV video as his cymbals sent cascades of water back up into the air every time he belted them. Being back lit by the stage lights it looked spectacular but it was not doing his kit any good at all. At least he wasn’t actually physically linked to voltage, Aaron & I both were.

Thankfully our quick witted drummer boy noticed the roof finally giving up the ghost directly above my bass amp and leaving his drums mid song threw his rain coat over the top of my kit, seconds before the deluge dropped from ceiling like Niagara Falls.

As Aaron’s guitar glistened shiny wet he had a distinctly nervous appearance about him as he took the full force of the wind driven rain from his side of the stage.

We performed to a large if not utterly soaking wet audience until the fire works were due to be lit and then we set up damping down as much of our equipment as we could and wringing out the guitars and drum kit. Then back on for a second half.

I have experienced audiences turning on their heels and fleeing at my gigs before but never with quite so much passion.

As soon as the last rocket fizzled into the nights sky parents grabbed their sodden offspring and legged it to the safety of their cars and home.

We were left playing to a veritable waterfall of rain and CJ’s wife and children.

The school treasurer virtually threw a crate of beer at us in form way of a thank you and also hurriedly disappeared into the mist.

I have mentioned on several occasions that our equipment is not cheap. It is the sort of stuff that as budding teenage rock stars we would salivate over when our noses were pressed up against the music stores windows and although we are not materialistic about it we do appreciate that we are indeed fortunate to have this resource and endeavour to look after it.

Having it drenched in sky juice and then loaded through the rain back into a soaking wet trailer does not nothing to instil a firm sense of well being and as CJ finally slammed the trailer doors shut in a scene resembling something out of Morgan Freeman’s ‘Hard Rain’ we began to wonder if we would every be able to use any of it ever again or if we would simple reconstruct the evening s fire work display, indoors, the very next time we endeavoured to play.

Anyway, bottom line, most of kit is either British or American made and built to last and thus survived handsomely, which is more than be said for CJ’s drum skins and my nerves.

But hey, if we didn’t have these experiences what would I write for you??

Next, expect an entry about a gig in a blizzard and being flattened by a tornado.

Pick a song, any song

2011-01-05T05:49:00.000-08:00

Responding to the requests of your listening audience is an art form in itself.

As I have written many times before, as a band we do not ‘do requests’. This is something that is fraught with danger and basically we are not a living breathing juke box and have no wish to be so.

We perform songs that we like and that get our systems buzzing when a song eventually clicks in rehearsal and for that I make no apology. I don’t care how popular it is I ain’t going to perform ‘Umbrella’ by Rihanna.

That being said when appreciative audience members proffer a strong opinion you would be wise to listen to what they are saying, especially if they are well lagered up and within two inches of your nose. An example of this was perfectly displayed at our last gig before Christmas.

A forty something had clearly been deeply moved by our inclusion of several punk classics to which he had grooved his socks off and sent the rest of the revellers crashing in all directions. However; he was mortified that at no point in our set were we even going to attempt ‘If the kids are united’ by Sham 69.

Personally I could think of nothing better….a right royal tub thumper that one.

However; and here is the rub, my two younger colleagues, one who is fifteen years younger and the other exactly half my age have never even heard of Sham 69 let along their football terrace anthem. If they have never heard of the song they protest, then neither will the audience.

My protestations that there are loads of people in our audiences that are forty five something’s, mainly because they don’t need either a note from their mothers to be out or a baby sitter any more, that would well of heard the song falls on deaf ears especially when at the very same gig somebody, much younger than said punk rocker, but equally as loud, complained that we didn’t play any ‘Kings of Leon’.

Aaron; he’s well up for it. CJ; well he’s heard of Kings of Leon so that is a start. Trouble is I am completely flat lined on the band…nada, zip…they don’t do a thing for me….sorry about that and all, but we all have our own particular tastes.

And that is the problem and despite what many may think it is not an easy one to over come. Our band covers three generations, each with its own anthems and classics. You also have three strong personalities and endeavouring to get the three to come to one accord on song choices has been a nightmare over the years.

It’s one of the reasons that all of our songs are so short, many with sections surgically removed. It is because one member has violently disagreed with the choice and has only capitulated if a bit of is removed.

You could argue that is no way to run a band and you could well be right. However; I have played in several bands where all the players are roughly the same age and we still couldn’t agree then either.

So we have to proceed on the basis that if we keep chucking enough songs into the mix……then at least one third of the audience at any one point is going to enjoy a third of the set.

However; I still am not going to play ANYTHING that might have appeared on ‘Now that’s what I call music’ in the past 18 months.

Anyway, despite the criticisms, we still love it and that in the final analysis I suppose is what really matters at the end of the day.

Heck but time flies by past!!

2010-12-21T06:45:00.000-08:00

It was only five minutes ago that I was telling you about the tractor fancying Hillbillies of Vermont and here we are just a few days away from Christmas and not an utterance from me.

It was Billy Connolly who said that he could sum up his year in the words “May old acquaintances be forgot….happy birthday to you…we wish you a merry Christmas……where the hell did that year just go?”.

Musically 2010 has been a relatively quiet one. We have only performed 15 gigs as The Mudheads and about another three or four acoustically as the Loaders. Now not many years ago that would have been considered a good number for any group. However; only a few years ago for us as a band we were up to about fifty a year and turning down more work than we could actually take. The sign of the times I suppose.

Most of the venues that we had played in regularly have now closed their doors, either to live music or totally…..some just to us (we are rather expensive now and there is a recession on after all).

It is rather sad to drive around the city of Bristol and see so many venues boarded up or given over fully to that other evil ‘Sky Sports’….shudder!!

However; as a band and as a singer we are not over and done with just yet…….although the way we all felt after our last gig a few weeks ago might suggest if we don’t spend just a few more days in the gym we might all be physically ‘over’ permanently real soon.

We don’t know what 2011 has in store for The Mudheads but we intend to keep bashing away at it and fine tuning the old set to perfection. My main ambition is to get my old partner in crime Bassbin to attend one of our gigs and go “Blimey, that was a good choice of songs”………a rock god must have his dreams you know no matter how deluded!

We have also discovered the joys (or curse) of video.

CJ had purchased a digital video camera and we thought that we ought to try and get something up on You Tube from a live gig. I think the text speak for this is OMG.

Personally I think the other two look great, however; I look like a middle aged, over weight civil servant (any comments to the fact that this is exactly what I am will lead to unfavourable responses on my behalf…….Keith Richards may look like a walking corpse but he does not require anybody to point this out to him as he is a bonafide rock giant and above such trivialities as the ravages of time).

This instigated the immediate need to tweak my image ever so slightly…..I now am on the hunt for a Pork Pie hat…….!

Now many have pointed out that my general peer group all look pretty much as I do. One too many late night curries and beer leaving its indelible imprint around our mid rifts. What hair we have left is grey to the point of going white. Eyesight so poor that where as we used to struggle with the concept of spelling ‘eagle eyed’ now we use words like ‘Varifocal’. Bodies that could scramble into the branches of a tall oak like a primate gazelle now require helping hands to retrieve us from the insertion of a dvd into it’s player.

Basically at my age, most of mates like me looked slightly …well ..clapped out!!

However; as I like to point out…most of my mates don’t have to have this particular indignity paraded in front of several hundred revellers of a Saturday night. My own particular addiction tends to leave me rather vulnerable to this kind of humiliation and leaves me painfully aware of my physical imperfections.

So 2011 will see me once again pledging to get my backside into gear to lose several dozen pounds and working on my stage image and presence. After all Antonio Bandaris, Bono and Adam Clayton are all slightly older me at 50 years…and being honest, they all still pretty cool.

So that’s my goal….again!

“Oh Lord, won’t you buy me…..a mince pie and a large glass of scotch!”

‘Driving along in my automobile’

2010-11-05T07:21:00.000-07:00

I have a terrible confession to make, and it causes me great stress to have to admit to it.

During my three weeks of travel state side the sound track of my whole trip was laid down by a digital radio station called ‘Prime Country’.

Now before you turn off your computer in disgust never to return let me at least try to defend myself……..at least try.

Forgive me if you are reading this in the USA, as I know that Country & Western is very much the back bone of music for a large proportion of the populace, but bear with me.

Also in regards to my American friends, I know that there are a fair few of you, but I have always endeavoured to be honest with you and I have to state this as fact, American television is dreadful!! I don’t mean the programmes themselves, to be fair we get most of them over here a month or so later anyway, what I am referring to is the amazing amount of commercial breaks the programmes get.

In the UK, during an hour long episode of a programme such as ‘House’ we get four ad breaks each lasting approximately 4 minutes each.

On one occasion during a wet evening in Boston, whilst endeavouring to watch said Hugh Laurie in his medical Sherlock Holmes interpretation I counted 10 breaks. And to ad insult to injury the commercials themselves were even worse than the bilge we get over here……mainly aimed at 4 x 4 drivers and the best place to get barbequed ribs.

Having had this experience of the television I assumed that radio would also be an unbearable experience. However; this could not have been further from the truth. In fact I would go as far as to say the quality of the programmes our car’s Bose system picked up wiped the floor with UK radio programming (there you go friends over the pond, we have the TV, you have radio).

Far from loads of ads they had none and very little chat, just pure music, Chris Evans please take note. Also as you flicked through the dial you’ll discover that they have stations dedicated to pure genres, the 40’s 50’s 60’s 70’s, 80’s, rock, blues, blue grass, swing, jazz and of course….country.

Now we managed to negotiate our way through the back end of Brooklyn towards Boston listening to the 50’s rock & roll station, and believe me there is no more suitable and exhilarating song with which to start an adventure like this than Chuck Berry singing ‘Driving along in my automobile’ and that is what we got as we negotiated our first freeway.

Now in any relationship you have to have a modicum of compromise and on long journeys the choosing of the right music to travel to always involves a huge dollop of give and take.

You see whilst I can tolerate and even enjoy my wife’s choice of driving music (she is HUGE Bon Jovi fan), she dislikes my favoured tunes immensely… 11 hours of bands like ‘The Living End’, ‘Span’ and ‘Greenday’ would probably have caused marital disharmony right at the very beginning of our tour.

So with this in mind we flicked through the DAB channels until we settled upon a station that was neither offensive nor plain dull to both our senses. And as I said, I am ashamed to admit it but we settled on ‘Prime Country’ which basically played the top country music from the 90’s.

One thing you need to bear in mind before you think I have drifted to the dark side of ‘good ol boy’ straw chewing moonshine supping hillbilly is that during the 90’s country appeared to have enjoyed some what of a renaissance and become more in line with the rock of bands like said Bon Jovi and Robert Plant than singers like John Denver and Jim Reeves.

Singers like Shania Twain (great country name) turned her back on the gentler expressions of singers like Tammy Wynette and Dolly Parton and gave the whole genre a bit more rock & roll (her husband/producer Mutt Lang did produce Def Leppard and Bryan Adams after all) and gave the thing a lot more ‘bottle’

You can still find the traditional stuff all over the airwaves, but for British cynics like myself who had cut there teeth on music that was the antithesis of C & W ‘Prime Country’ did help paint a positive pallet for the weary driver as he drove along the never ending Interstate.

However; lest I lulled myself into too much of a country luvin stupor as we were winding our way through the beautiful countryside that is Vermont in the fall following three gorgeous Harley Davidson motorcycles, a song arrived that reminded me not to get too complacent. “My girlfriend thinks my tractor’s sexy and it really turns her on”.

In the UK during the 70’s we had a bunch of local lads (to those of us from the West Country) called the Wurzels who sang a cider fuelled rendition of a song called “I’ve got a brand new combine harvester I’ll give you the key” . However; it was universally accepted that this song was a parody and a bit of a laugh. The guy whose girlfriend thought his tractor was a bit of an aphrodisiac sounded like he was being serious.

As the trees got thicker I thought I could hear the gentle plucking of banjos and smell the sweet sickly aroma of moonshine……..we quickened our pace.

More from our journey on the far side of the pond to follow.

Fly me to the moon!

2010-11-02T08:52:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

I'm back from my trip to the mighty US of A, which thankfully gave me fuel for things to write you about. It was a trip rich with experience and music....sort of!

If you could bear with me as I have four CD reviews I need to write and I am also at the tail end of a Jet Lag like I have never experience before and as such I am struggling to find my own feet of a day time.

Just to keep you enticed.......I discovered the lyric "My girlfriend thinks my tractor is sexy and it really turns her on" on the prime Country channel.......not even the Wurzels could have come up with that particular line.

I will start writing shortly I promise.

Paul

" Hello Springfield, are you ready to Roooccckkk"

2010-10-01T06:07:00.000-07:00

I am going to be off of the radar for a few weeks on my American tour. I say tour what I actually mean is that I am going to throw myself off of the Niagara Falls in the despair of having hit the ancient age of 50 years old.

To me this is a matter of depression; however as my son often points out to me, I may generally be the oldest thing on the bill normally by a good 20 to 30 years but I can normally rock all my opponents off of the stage any day of the week. So I should rejoice that I am still in the game and I am still rattling a few cages.

My plan had been to find myself a platform somewhere in the States in order to sing just one song. This would then give me the right to proclaim myself an ‘International’ singer.

I’ve sung in far flung European places such as Romania, but as yet not out of the European Union.

I did in fact sing a stupid song I had written 10 minutes previous all about ‘messing about in boats’ whilst on a cruise down the Nile in Egypt, but to be truthful, that didn’t really count.

However once again, my plans to visit the Colonial shores guitar in hand have once again been thwarted…this time purely by the hands of lady time.

I had been offered the opportunity to perform in Philadelphia but common sense and the need to get some sleep at some point on the trip dictated that the Philly connection be set adrift in favour of a dash across the border into the Canadian Territories.

However; if you hear tell of a Brit who has been arrested endeavouring to sing “I fought the Law” on the steps of the Whitehouse whilst his wife accompanied him on the rice paper and comb then there may be a very good chance that it was me.

Oh, incidentally, if any of my readers are those of the ‘scan social sites in order to find whose away in order to burgle their property’ types, then forget it…….the Loader junior clan are taking up residence in our abode and we are praying Lord that we have a house to come home to.

So be warned…all trespassers will not only be tortured by being made to listen to loud and offensive music, but made to clean and tidy.

The Toilet Circuit

2010-09-17T04:14:00.000-07:00

I was having a shufty through some old articles and having a bit of a clean out. I came across a short story that I had written a few years back when this incarnation of the band was still performing for 60 quid in the corner of the 3 Sugar Loaves. These were thankless gigs and hard work all round.
The Story made me chuckle and brought back a few memories so I thought I would share it with you again.
So pour yourself a beer, make your self a cup of coffee, sit back and share the experince of being on the road once again.

The Toilet Circuit

Sid pushed himself back into the upholstery of Bernie's car and yawned. He didn't know why, but he always had this feeling of fatigue on the way to a gig. Sid wondered if this was nerves although he had never suffered from stage fright. When other band members had been bringing up their lunch in the porcelain shrines, Sid didn't feel a flutter of fear. Perhaps he did. Perhaps this was his way of dealing with the panic that saturated many performers before they walked on to the stage. Instead of feeling as if the world was about to end and that he was going to evacuate every last meal he had ever eaten one way or another, Sid just wanted to climb under a duvet somewhere and go sound asleep.

He wound down the passenger window and sucked in a deep breath of ice cold February air and tried to focus on what was going to happen this evening. He ran through the mental check list that he always held in his head before a gig like this. PA, had all the leads been packed? He could remember when somebody had taken some out of the case once before and then forgot to put them back. A right royal bunch of plonkers they had felt on the night. All revved up and nowhere to go. Especially when they had to rush off and find replacements, leaving Reg to put the PA up on his own, a major gamble in itself as Reg preferred the company of a pint of Guinness to graft any day of the week.

Guitars, check. Stands, check, set list. Ah the set list. Sid had left that sitting on the printer tray on several occasions and had to phone home and get his wife to read it out to him. You try and find a pen that works and a dry piece of paper behind any bar in this country. Not possible.

The first game of chance of the evening now came into play. Would they be able to find anywhere to park the car? Or would they end up doing that strange perverse ballet of emptying the car in the road, whilst being shouted at by a myriad of impatient taxi drivers, then navigating the gear through a pub crowded with after work office drinkers whilst Bernie endeavoured to stow the car somewhere that wouldn’t result in him being towed away.
Tonight, Lady luck was with them. There was a single space at the rear of the pub. Sid offered a grateful prayer of thanks to the patron saint whose sole responsibility it was to guarantee parking spaces to weary travellers and musicians.
As Sid wearily uncoiled himself from the car the all so familiar perfume of the rear of a city pub hit in full in the face. This particular establishment had it’s own particular heady aroma, that of rotting fish (next to the pub was a particularly good fish and chip shop) and urine. Sid could never fully understand why the human male, having consumed several pints of the amber nectar, felt the need to piss up the side of wheelie bins, especially when they had passed perfectly good bathroom facilities only a few feet away inside the very same establishment they had just vacated. Perhaps it was all part of the ritual. Like offering a flame to a glass of Sambuca, or nosing the bouquet of a fine wine or even swilling expensive vintage Brandy around the side of a crystal glass, the experience of eight pints of lager could only be enhanced, tackle out, swaying slightly, singing 'Danny Boy' or something suitably Irish whilst splashing your shoes.

Everybody slotted into their own particular roles of responsibility at this point. Years of touring these venues had shown them that everybody had a job to do, and Sid's was to make sure that the pub hadn't double booked. More than once they had arrived to find some spotty punk rocker or slightly suicidal folkie lamenting the death of the fairies in the band's place simply because the landlord couldn’t be bothered to buy a new diary. Of course the pub couldn’t care less who turned up as long as the punters were 'entertained'.
Tonight was going well, the crew of the Fox & Turnip were expecting them, and due to a particularly depressing set the night before from a singer whose wife had dumped him for somebody slightly less morbid, were actually pleased to see them.

Sid’s other job was to clear the space where they were going to set up of drinkers. By drinkers I mean suits and skirts that knew that they really ought to go home, but had already fallen over their own safety limited, and were by now under the false illusion that their partners were not going to flay them alive when they staggered home, 'as the newt' a full four or five hours late.
Sid engaged in the usual banter with the drinkers. 'Yes he was in the band', 'no they couldn't join in as it sounded bad enough as it was', 'No they did not play any flamin Bob Dylan'. Why did these people always want to hear Bob Dylan? Sid bet that not one of them owned a Bob Dylan record, he suspected they couldn’t even name a Bob Dylan song let alone recognise one if they heard it. Yet still the call went up every time.
He thought he'd been clever one night when some drunk had yelled 'Got any Donovan'. Sid had replied 'What! Jason Donovan?' Thankfully the drunk was a lousy pitcher and the glass was empty. However; Sid had learnt a lesson, don't take the Mick out of drunks, they don't like it!

As Sid cleared the space, the acrid air full of smoky promise bit into the back of his throat. Now Sid didn't object to people who smoked in pubs, far from it. In the day he used to smoke those foul smelling French things himself, that was until his wife gave him the ultimatum. 'Smoke those things, and sleep on the sofa!' It was just every time he performed in a smoky pub his mother's voice would ring in his ear 'Remember what happened to Roy Castle'. Sid did, and yet he kidded himself that Roy had another chance, he would have done it all over again. Of course Sid didn't have the first hand experience of feeling your lungs implode as the cancer ate its own body. But hey! Sid always thought, live fast die young!!! which by now wasn’t strictly true in his case. Even so, when in doubt, delude yourself that it will never happen to you. That was Sid's philosophy and he was sticking to it.

By now, the rest of the band had appeared including Nev who was acting as roadie for the evening. They staggered under the weight of the guitars and the small PA that would hopefully give Sid and the boys at least a fighting chance of being heard over the din of the pub.
No matter how many times they had put the gear together, the boys never seemed to tune into one another and always ended up tangled in leads and straps and tripping over cases.
As Bernie was putting together a small drum kit that required neither leads, mics nor tuning he was invariably finished before anybody else and was generally first at the bar.
Signalling towards Sid, he made the universal sign of 'Do you want a beer?' this involved a mime of an individual lifting an imaginary glass to his lips.
Choosing the right beer had become quite an issue for Sid. A life time lager drinker he had been devastated to learn that his favourite brew, far from being simply ‘reassuringly expensive’ was in fact nicknamed by almost everybody as ‘wife beater’. Sid always thought himself to be a man of peace, kind to animals and children. And yet to discover that his favourite beverage was the fuel that leathered up the more Neanderthal nutter in order to give them the courage required to go home and beat seven bells out of their old lady made Sid think seriously about what he was drinking. Sid, who could never associate himself with this kind of behaviour, switched immediately to another leading brand of the yellow stuff. However, he soon began to realise that European beer makers really do like to fill their beers with chemicals. Sid had no idea what those chemicals were, only that awakening from a night of gigging and Dutch lager usually left him feeling like he had imbibe a small child's chemistry set. And to make matters worse the small child in question would be clattering around in his head trying to get the chemistry set back.
Reg and Bernie were both fanatical 'Real ale' drinkers and so saw this as the opportunity to introduce Sid to the glories and joys that is 'Black Bishops togger' and 'Bullocks old scrotum'.

Sid soon found out that drinking real ale was akin to playing Russian roulette, you never knew when the next one was going to kill you. Sid also discovered that the brewers like to 'add' things to give their beer to give it more body. Lengths of rusty chain, rats, the foreskin of the original brewer. All these added extras went to give the beer more taste and an added 'surprise'. If you were really unlucky, that 'surprise' would be delivered with full force about three o'clock the following morning. On more than one occasion, whilst clutching frantically to the sides of the toilet bowl and at the same time biting chips out of the sink, Sid had wished that he could say 'to hell with my principles' and go back to the wife beater.
Tonight Sid thought he would play it safe, 'A Guinness please Bernie', millions of Irish drinkers couldn't be that wrong. At least Sid knew that he would get through tonight with his bowels intact.

Sid then went through the most important ritual of the evening, he loving opened his guitar case, and gently, ever so gently, as if he was raising a new born baby out of it’s crib, Sid lifted the guitar from it's case and took a few moments to drink in it's beauty. He allowed his senses to float over the curves and edges, the colours and shades. The sliminess and subtlety of the neck, the fullness of the body, the depth of the shine. It wasn't an erotic experience, but damn it was close.
Sid knew that he wasn't odd, he knew that he wasn't even alone, hundreds, if not thousands of guitarists before him had had the same reverential love and respect for their guitars. Hell, Ian Hunter from Mott the Hoople went all the way to Memphis to reclaim his mislaid 'instrument of fame'. Sid looked down upon his old friend a look of proud recognition in his eyes.
They say that a bad workman blames his tools. Sid, however knew, that if he loused it up on an evening, it wasn’t the fault of the guitar, not this guitar. It had been made by a craftsman, using the best materials, not hurried or rushed, but crafted until every aspect of the neck and body were perfect, and Sid loved it.
Sid wasn't materialistic, he had quite a few other guitars, some even more expensive and beautifully made than this one. Sid however, was as loyal to his guitars as he was to his friends and family, and tonight he was with his 'best girl'.
Having slipped the strap around his neck he took a few moments to tune the guitar. It didn’t take long, it generally stayed in tune pretty much all of the time. Sid smiled. He remembered in his youth guitars that he could not even get in tune let alone stay in tune. He reminded himself how fortunate he was that he now had instruments that at least went some way to helping him sound good.
The boys were ready to check the sound. Sid left all the technical details to Reg. He had never really been interested in that side of things himself and was more than happy to leave getting the sound right to somebody younger who hadn't already totally shot their hearing. Mind you, Sid didn’t think that Reg was all that far behind him in the hearing stakes.

The sound checks never really took all that long, at least not in the pubs. There was no need really, not when eighty five percent of the punters would not have known the difference if they had been playing Kylie or Kurt.
Sid then retrieved the set lists from his case and handed them around. He placed his copy on the floor before him. He stared at it for a few moments. Could this be another moment of reverence? Was Sid soaking up the subtleties and nuances of the words as if studying scripture? Was he simply composing himself for the show that was to follow? All these were possible to the casual observer. Ask Sid yourself and you will receive a different answer. 'Hardly, I can't see a flamin thing once I have taken my glasses off, which isn't vanity incidentally, if I don't take them off, they fall off. I'm just trying to memories the first few songs. After that Reg and Bernie have to feed me the order'.

Then the band is off. Ebbing and flowing as if they were the tide rising and falling upon rock pools. Sid expertly teases the crowd as a priest calling the faithful to pray. Trying with all his heart and soul to win converts from among the disinterested. Bernie totally lost in concentration, oblivious to the drinkers, the din, even those that have been captivated. Reg, at one with his guitar, always one verse ahead, always chastising himself for imperfection, always pushing to improve, better, more. He spies a group of old college friends, he had somebody to perform to, his eyes turn to greet theirs and his face ignites into a Cheshire cat grin.

Almost as if time had stood still, it was over. Sid hears over the music, through the banter across the general milieu the cry that all good things must come to an end 'time ladies and gentleman please'. The band knew that this was their cue to wind down, slow up, call it a day and bid the crowd adieu.

If, and I really do mean IF, they are really lucky, they might get an encore, but not tonight. Tonight, it was as if they were not there. As if they did not exist. Despite having given of their best, of themselves for over two hours, it was if they were mere musical wallpaper. The occasional punter would tip them a nod of approval as they left the pub, but not many.

They dismantled the equipment virtually in silence. Not for any other reason than they were exhausted. Sid had sung his heart out, but most of his throat had gone out with it. Bernie rubbed his wrists and winced, knowing that he would pay dearly for his labours in the morning. Reg was deep in thought as he coiled away the leads, his mind on another day, another concert.

Past the connoisseur of fine wines leaking his night’s entertainment into the street. Past the couple shouting and screaming their undying love for one another through an alcohol fuelled haze of obscenities and spiteful name-calling. Past the drunken, middle aged promenade lothorio undeniably convinced of his animal magnetism as he endeavours to seduce the teenage temptress by leering at her indiscreetly and making crude suggestions that his wife would never have allowed. Back to the waiting car, and then home.

'Another night, another date, another SM58'

As Sid walked up the steps into the foyer of the hotel, Nev turned to him and spoke. 'Sid, mate, I have been your tour manager for nearly twenty years, right?' Sid nodded his head, nearly too tired to respond verbally. 'Tomorrow night', said Nev 'You and the boys are playing the Millennium stadium. There isn't a single ticket left available. In fact the whole European leg of the tour sold out within twenty four hours of going on sell'. Nev was beginning to get hot under the collar. 'With this in mind', Sid had by now stopped walking and was giving his old friend and tour buddy his undivided attention. 'Why the hell do we need to play these 'toilets' like tonight? Surely it's a complete waste of time. You worked hard enough all those years ago to get out of the toilet circuit and now you are deliberately putting yourself back into them. What the heck is that all about'.

Sid smiled and gently shook his head. 'You're right Nev' he said, responding patiently and graciously to his old friend. He could see that Nev too was tired; Nev certainly had more important things to do on the night before a mammoth three month world tour than play nurse maid to these three idiots. 'You're right, tomorrow night is sold out as are the forty two nights after that. That stadium will be packed out with punters expecting to be entertained, expecting us to give of our best. They will be expecting enthusiasm, passion and not just a little sweat, blood and rock and roll. They don't want to see a bunch of ageing rock stars that have done it so many times before that they are simply going through the motions.
Because of what we did tonight, because of the hassle and the total lack of response from the punters in the pub, when I go out on that stage tomorrow night I am going out with passion, enthusiasm and not just a little gratitude. I'm free of it, I escaped. How many poor sods are still stuck every night, playing their hearts out for nothing in those places? When I take to the stage tomorrow, I will be fully reminded just how damned lucky I really am, and that keeps me sharp'.
'Besides' said Sid with just the touch of a wry smile on his lips 'whilst we were playing tonight, slogging our guts out for nothing. This joker was stood at the bar with his mates, holding court. He was explaining proudly how had had managed to snap up two last minute tickets on the Internet for our concert tomorrow night, and they had only cost him two hundred quid for the pair. Whilst he was rambling on about this, the very band he had just paid a fortune to be going to see was playing just ten feet away from him and he was ignoring them for free!! Now that's comedy!'

The long hazy days of summer!

2010-09-09T06:13:00.000-07:00

It certainly has been one long wet summer in terms of the lack of live music for myself and the band and certainly in respect of interesting dilemmas to enthuse ones readership with (the promised wedding went as sweetly as you like so no stories there I’m afraid)

In days past it would have been far different as I would have been involved in performing at some of the many summer festivals that were around at that time, sadly many long gone. I’ve played in fields, on race courses, in football grounds, on the back of trailers, in parks, tents, bandstands, double decker buses and even on top of portable radio stations. I’ve done it all.

My initial enthusiasm for the great outdoors began when I managed to blag myself onto the bill of a small festival on the south coast called ‘Kingston Festival’. It was based originally in the National Trust’s ‘Kingston Lacey House and had a great atmosphere about the place.

I managed to get 3pm on the main stage, however it was the Sunday grave yard slot and it was lashing it down. All in all though it wetted (no pun intended) my appetite for more and I vowed to get myself onto the coveted 9pm slot on the Friday night just as the sun was setting.

This I managed with my band Mudheads Monkey. About three thousand happy revellers rocking their socks off to our tunes. Sadly it was to be our very last gig as a band as the ties that were holding us and ‘it’ together were fast beginning to unravel by then.

We had performed at the Brixton Academy only the month before. We were getting known, this was the break we had worked towards. But there was pain and tension and that was never what we were all about and on the day we had returned from Kingston I sadly phoned each band member and pulled the plug. A sad moment indeed.

However; on the whole my memories of festivals has always been happy ones.

As a band MHM had the cheek of the Irish and we would blag, cajole and con our way onto any stage or situation.

If this meant taking up residence out side of the promoters caravan and ‘busking’ until 2am in the morning then we did it. We were cheeky yes, but on the whole the promoters and organisers appreciated our sense of unquestionable enthusiasm and 9 times out of 10 we got our break.

At every festival we then promoted our socks off. This meant handing out flyers on mass. Busking to the queue’s waiting to see other more major acts, buzzing the on site radio stations and refusing to leave until they let us play a song, we even ran onto the stage during other people’s acts (they were always friends of ours and generally joined in the lunacy and gave us a name check and plug).

The camping that always went with these events was a major pain mind you as we rarely got much sleep and we all looked and smelt like refugees from The Somme for the entire weekend.

At one festival we decided to pack up the tent before we went on stage as we were planning to leave directly after the event. A particular enthusiastic fan generously tried to help us and ended up stabbing me the face with a tent pole cutting my cheek just below the eye.

By the time we took to the stage I looked like I had been in a bar brawl…and of course after a weekend with no discernable wash facilities smelt like I had been sleeping in a cow shed. Not a great look and feel for a budding rock god I can tell you. Camping was fast becoming my least favourite thing of all time.

Our guitarist Matt didn’t fair much better in the pain department as in the same year he had managed to bang himself up on his motorbike quite badly. Although he was on crutches throughout most of the summer he had completely overlooked this fact during a particularly exciting main stage set. He completely forgot himself and in a blind moment of guitar heroship leapt from the stage into the crowd.

His silent scream was audible only to dogs and those of us in the band who were fully aware of the damage he had already inflicted upon himself as tendons and muscles ripped and tore. God bless him, he still finished the set, but with perhaps just a little less running around.

Thankfully CJ was solely a car driver and apart from rolling his mini on several occasions at speed appeared to have avoided the summer pain of that year.

By the end of our festival days we had allotted to wave our fee in return for a comfortable bed and soft pillows (apart from CJ who for a reason known only unto himself absolutely loved camping and along with the entourage of family and friends that would travel with him to these events would set up a city all of his own…….he’s the only bloke I know that could camp at these things, have a decent wash AND still keep the beer cold….a talent Aaron & I have grown to love appreciate since those days).

The kit generally didn’t fair much better as we were often unloading onto a stage or into a marquee through rain and mud and I was invariably picking straw out of my bass for weeks afterwards.

We always made great friends at all the festivals we played at, most now have slipped into the distant past but I hope they sometimes reminisce fondly about a bunch of nutters they stumbled across all dressed in military jackets and tie die shirts (it was the 90’s) while they themselves looked like they would have failed the audition for a Wurzel Gummidge audition. Fond Memories indeed.

Those days have long gone and the nearest we get to performing at a festival is the British Mountain Bike festival and as we are the only band on the menu it isn’t quite the same.

Would I play at them again? Probably, but the same rules apply. Soft comfy beds or share a tent with CJ, his portable bathroom and beer fridge.

I'm stil here

2010-08-26T02:15:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

I trust that everybody is enjoying their summer holidays, albeit the wettest August since goodness knows when if you happen to reside in the UK.

As previously mentioned we have musically closed down for a few months and so there is very little to report, apart from an impending wedding tomorrow evening. As this is in a tiny Devonshire village and down a country lane that you would be hard pushed to ride a bike down I think I might have some interesting tales to tell come Saturday.

However; I just wanted to assure all of you who kindly read my scribblings that I have not given up, but that I was giving my brain a bit of a rest (and at my age I need that from time to time).

We will speak again VERY soon

Paul

Is it loud enough for you?

2010-08-05T06:20:00.001-07:00

Our guitarist, Aaron, suffers from noisy neighbours.

For years it has been the connoisseurs of Rock that have been tarred with the brush of excessive volume when in reality it is those that like the more commercial drum & bass, R&B and dare I say it ‘pop’ that tend to create the most consternation late at night.

It would appear that if your taste is of a more ‘youth’ orientated persuasion then it is not only acceptable but almost obligatory to shake the street with abnormal levels of hi fidelity bass at 3am in the morning and damn those that have to get up for work in the morning.

Now I am not one to criticise volume, after all when my girlfriend (now my wife) would arrive at my parent’s house to meet me she would have to wait until a song I was listening to ended before hammering for all she was worth on the front door to get my attention. However; it was only ever during day light hours and the thought of getting Rhianna or Beyonce rattling my fillings and frightening the cat at some ungodly hour does annoy me somewhat (mind you, it could just be that I am getting old and grumpy)

Sadly Aaron is learning an extremely valuable lesson about life……some people are just plain selfish.

That being said I have probably got to hold my hands up to being involved in permanently damaging many ear drums over the years.

I have been playing in bands since my teens and several of them have been unnaturally loud. My first professional band, Amaziah, was so loud that I would be unable to hear anything above a high pitched whistle (tinnitus) until the following morning, and we were BEHIND the PA. The sight of teenagers actually sticking their heads in the PA’s bass speakers haunts me to this day.

To be fair, I have rarely had any control on how loud we have been as this is normally always the job of the sound man and I swear that several of them in the bands employ have been totally deaf to begin with.

For sure, at several well known venues in my home town of Bristol the in-house engineers are famously as deaf as a barn door and any complaints regarding sound quality or level quite literally falls on deaf ears. The band being presented at any one time can only pray that the engineer hasn’t killed any sense of vibration with ale that night and that they might at least end up being distinguishable as a band as opposed to an airliner taking off in a hurricane through a mountain of empty coke cans.

My family accuse me of acquired deafness, something my mother states I inherited from my father (probably as a strategy for tuning out unwanted nagging I suspect); however it is probably more likely that I have blown the top end of my hearing clean away with years of excessive volume.

So a few years back inspired by my failing eye sight due to the advancement of years, I determined not to go the same way as many famous rockers who rendered themselves in need of hearing aids before their time was due as being short sighted is pain enough without adding ‘deaf as a stick’ to it for laughs.

So I went out and invested in a set of acoustic ear plugs.

The idea is that it reduces the level of the volume without actually filtering out the quality of the sound. This is of course total bunkum as the sound you are left with is that of having stuffed a pair of old socks into your ear holes.

The draw back is that I nearly always forget to put them in during the sound check and as the gig kicks off I suddenly find that my finely crafted on stage mix is being ‘sock filtered’.

The only other thing sadly is having lost the volume you also lose much of the oomph that makes up a good rock & roll set. Many is a night when our sound to me has been flat and lacking spark, when in fact it has been crisp and soundly smacking the audience around their chops like an audible slap in the face.

However; years have taught me that lying in bed on the night of a gig with that high pitched whistle keeping me awake far more affectively than any drum & bass obsessed neighbour is not something I want to continue, especially long after I have become too old to play.

Bono suffers badly for this very reason as does Pete Townsend and he states that it is threatening to finish his career .

So for now I shall continue stuffing the socks (sorry I mean the acoustic ear plugs) into my lug holes and continue to yell….”Is it loud enough?” because sadly for me, it’s not.
.

A gig in the life

2010-07-21T00:57:00.000-07:00

People will often say to me “cor, I wish I could play in a rock & roll band like what you does”. Sometimes they even say it a little bit more eloquently than that. And for the most part they would be right, playing in a band can be one of the greatest honours there is and it is why so many of us are so utterly addicted to it.

However; life on the road is not always rock, roll, Guinness and groupies, far from it.

Let me relate to you a night in the life of The Mudheads, Bristol’s hardest working bunch of misfits.

The night is a Thursday and we have been invited to perform at our guitarists local.

It’s a great little venue and we always leave feeling appreciated and without fail get an invite back, for which we are both honoured and grateful.

We had originally been booked to play in June, however; the England football team were having some sort of soirée down in South Africa. I not sure what it was all about but we were assured that as the stage at the venue was slap in front of the video screen where the great event was being broadcast live our lives would most probably be put at significant risk if we attempted to continue regardless.

So we bumped the gig up to July, rather foolishly forgetting our own rule of never playing during the two hottest months of summer as nobody shows up.

The day approached and CJ our drummer groaned to discover that he had been given an all expenses paid ticket for an evening at the Savoy in London with his company, leading politicians and celebrities. This did nothing to improve his outlook of the gig that he was now obligated to perform at instead of wining and dining with the most influential suits in his companies employ.

Add to this the unfortunate consequence of missing the meal meant that he would have to be in Reading (that’s about 80 miles from where he lives in Bristol) at 7:30am the following morning and he was fast beginning to lose his normal sunny and cheery disposition.

As it was local to Aaron he said that he would meet CJ and I down there. What this actually means is that he would arrive a full half an hour later than us and after we had completely emptied the trailer into the venue on our own and put most of it into place ready for cabling up.

I have previously mentioned that July and August are Britain’s two hottest months. This of course is fanciful tosh and they are normally wetter than a rather rainy day in the Brazilian rain forest and tonight was to be no exception.

We were also delighted to find that the council had dug up the road directly outside of the pub and we had to park on the opposite side of the road and run the gauntlet of motorist skidding along the fast moving river that was beginning to take the place of the road.

It also had to be noted that expensive musical equipment does not go well with running water and so we both had the enviable task of getting approximately two tonne of kit out of the trailer, across the road (river) and into the pub before they got too wet creating the very real threat of electrocution.

This we did at considerable risk to our personal health & safety, aching backs and good humour.

Once in we then had to navigate two guys that were deep in the throws of an earnest darts tournament and were most disconcerted that their game was going to be brought to a sudden close by two dripping wet herbets lugging a mountain of speakers and amplifiers.

We then noticed a silence that was not a normal fixture of this particular venue. This was caused by it being particularly and horribly empty.

Normally we are sweet talking dozens of punters to move out of the stage area in order for us to set up and we are fielding requests from the hordes before we have barely entered the building. Tonight however; we were serenaded on our entrance to the chirp of crickets, the soft rustle of tumbleweed and the gentle swish and thud of dart leaving hand and making its merry way to the board.

CJ’s normal positive mood was finding nothing with which to elevate itself and was singer faster than the Titanic.

With all the kit in place and the trailer locked safely up, my son and heir and our esteemed guitarist bounded into the pup trailed by his girlfriend who looked as drowned as we felt and cheerily announced that it was time to “Rock & Roll”.

Ten minutes in to his time with us he announced “My we are all in bad moods this evening aren’t we”. The sound of CJ splintering heavy duty drum sticks with his teeth was generally the only response that we could muster at that point.

Anyway the kit was assembled and plugged in and it was time for a sound check. It was then that we became hideously aware of a major problem we had not had to encounter at this favourite of venues before………as it was empty the sound took one quick fling around the bar and shot straight out of the main door.

Normally our healthy volume is soaked up by the myriad of bodies standing in front of us. Tonight, whilst we sound checked, we played into a void and subsequently the band could be heard as clearly by those living in the local neighbourhood as the staff standing at the bar.

We reduced the sound down and down till in the end we might have been better off playing off acoustically for all the oomph we had left. However; we are not stubborn musos who don’t give a damn about anyone we are nice accommodating individuals who recognise that the Landlords would have to live with their neighbours long after we had offended everybody in a 20 miles radius of the pub. So we determined to give it our best and keep it as low as we possibly could as we launched into our first set

Even then, the landlord presented himself in front of the band with a hand full of cards, and doing his best Bob Dylan impersonation proceeded to spell out the phrase “Can…you….please….turn…it….down”.

It was funny and very much in keeping with the good humour that we always experience at this place and so to try and accommodate even further I almost flat lined my bass guitar volume.

Then nature or the council threw us a curve ball, all the power went out. Not for very long, but long enough to change all the digital settings on Aaron’s equipment and nearly killing his amp.

Also it left us with the extremely uneasy feeling that we were responsible for this disaster (we found out the following day that in fact the whole of south Bristol had experienced this power outage, and that despite the fact we have more equipment than sense, we weren’t responsible).

We tried not to let ourselves be distracted by this turn of events and ploughed on with Aaron taking every opportunity he could to reset everything to where it was supposed to be.

Of course, half an hour later it went and happened again didn’t it.

By half time I think all three of us were mentally calculating how fast we could pack up and get out of there to our beds on the conclusion.

Thankfully, the pub began to fill as we sipped our cokes wondering what we had done wrong. I was in a bit of a daze to be honest and at one point Aaron grabbed me and made me sit down as I looked quite lost as I wondered around the stage looking…..well, lost.

We tanked into the second set with a few more bodies to soak up the volume and joy of all joys a handful of Aaron’s mates (we like to call them the Mudheads Mob) arrived, which always guarantees an enthusiastic response.

However; I could tell by the expression on CJ’s face and also the tired lines under his eyes that this really had been a very long week for him and he needed to be in bed and soon!

This wasn’t to happen as soon as he would have liked though as come the last song, the Mudheads Mob awoke to a man, women and boy.

Bringing the rest of the now assembled pub with them they lined the space in front of us and demanded song after song after song for the encore.

I was re-invigorated and at that point could have gone through the whole set again. However; CJ now had the look of a man who would shortly be carried from his drum kit on a stretcher if we didn’t finish any time soon. We played one more mental rendition of ‘Land Down Under’ and we were off, pulling all the main plugs with us as we went.

I know that we had to decamp back into the trailer in the rain; I know it was late, and I know that poor old CJ had a VERY long day the following day, but come the end I felt that it was worthwhile. The venue enjoyed us, the punters enjoyed us, the Mudheads Mob were superb as always…and it is at the end of the day bread and water to us. And to be fair, this was a normal night out for a jobbing band on the circuit.

Maybe next time we will stick to our guns and not take a gig until September. It will probably be a whole lot dryer than a British summer that’s for sure.

The summer beckons

2010-07-07T08:29:00.000-07:00

I am sorry that it has been a week or two since my last entry; however I felt that readers of this blog deserved my best work and not what ever comes straight into my head (I can hear the howls of derision from around the south west of England as I write this line).

It is the summer months and this year we kind of are endeavouring to fulfil a promise to ourselves as a band and that is to have a few months off.

Of course this is always a great idea, but never really pans out as planned…we have three full on gigs in that time and most bands would look at us in bemusement to enquire as to how this constitutes a ‘break’, but for The Mudheads, three performances in two months is a break believe me.

One of those gigs is a wedding, which I suspect might make a joyful (or not) entry to the blog following the event.

We normally avoid weddings like the plague as ‘requests’ for dreadful 70’s ballads are aplenty and we have visions of the bride’s mother thundering towards the stage, handbag in hand, because ‘the drummer’ is WAY too loud and he is frightening Great Aunt Matilda.

However; in this case, the groom-to-be assures me that his entire family are ‘cool’ with the idea. However; we shall see.

So, please bear with me, do not wander off, and keep on checking the site. As soon as something worthy of recording passes our way (which should be a few days knowing my world) then you good readers will be the first to know.

Now all I have to do is figure out how to keep CJ away from the mic’s at the wedding, some of his marital jokes are a little, shall we say, ‘colourful’ and I have promised the couple faithfully that we are family friendly……I can see the handbag swinging in our direction as we speak.

Good Fortune Favours....

2010-06-25T06:46:00.000-07:00

I promise you that I am not going to turn this blog into a review site as I do enough of those for the web magazines that I write for. However; I must share with you the events of an amazing gig that I went to at London’s O2 Arena this last weekend.

Now Mrs Rock God has been a bit of a Bon Jovi fan since she bought me a ticket to see them at Wembley Stadium in 95, being supported by the outstanding Van Halen and decided to go along as well.

Things went a bit quiet on the BJ front until they made an appearance at the Bristol City Football ground a couple of years ago. With tickets in hand we made our way down to the ground and join the rest of the throng in what turned out to be a bit of a disappointing evening.

The highlight for me was getting a cup of Bovril (it’s a kind of meaty soup like substance for those that have been fortunate enough never to have heard of the stuff…however; it is said that you need to imbibe this black substance if you are attending football matches, so I did).

We had managed to get seats right at the back of the stadium, which meant that we couldn’t really see anything. This was not aided by the wind that was whipping through the stadium like a blowy whipping thing, lashing dust into the faces of the expectant crowd. It also took the sound and threw if as far away from where we were sitting as it could get it.

So as you could imagine this was not the best way to start and evening. It was also not helped by some plonker of an announcer declaring that the band would be taking to the stage in 5 minutes, JUST as BJ were launching into their first number. All in all it took about 20 minutes before the confusion subsided and anybody could figure out what the hell was going on.

It wasn’t until it began to get dark that we could see the screens and the sound began to improve as the wind died down. With that they were off!

In transpired later that the council had placed a serious time clause on the gig and the band had to get off before they got a fairly hefty fine.

We read later that not only were the audience left disappointed and feeling not a little cheated, but so had the band. I suspect we won’t be seeing the Bouffant One in the West Country any time soon.

Time moved on as it does and the band recorded a new album called ‘The Circle’ and set about organising a tour to promote it.

However; these boys aint young anymore, in fact the drummer is a clear 9 years older than me, and the prospect of spending their lives back on the road clearly did not appeal to them and so they booked themselves a residency at the O2 in London.

Twelve nights in one of Britain’s premier venues was too good an opportunity to miss and Mrs RG hit the internet with enthusiasm, only to discover that all the good seats had gone within the first 30 seconds and all that remained were the naff seats OR would cost us the equivalent of the national debt of a small European nation. So we opted for the cheap seats.

I was a little concerned as knowing my good ladies enthusiasm for all things Jovi and off of the back of the last disappointing gig being stuffed at the top of the arena, slightly behind the stage, was beginning to suggest that we wouldn’t be able to see a flamin thing.

Anyway, after months of anticipation the weekend arrived and we duly made our way to London and The O2.

The first thing you notice about the venue is that is enormous. The second is that it is extremely high….nose bleed, in need of Oxygen high. My hopes of being able to see anything were dwindling faster than the hope of an England World Cup victory.

We worked our way to the back end of the venue (and it seemed the universe) and then began to traverse the escalators up into the clouds. I began to feel like we had somehow died on route and were in fact on our way to the ‘here after’. But no, we were still climbing towards our seats.

Having reached the summit further wandering to an even more excluded entrance followed. My heart sank.

Then, we were met by an eager O2 official who asked is he could see our tickets.

He then announced that we were being up graded and asked to take the lift back to the first floor and he dispatched the Sherpa, removed our climbing equipment and led the mountain goats away.

As well as enormous excitement I felt a sick feeling of ‘what if we have just been conned’ in my stomach.

Anyway, the lift doors opened to reveal the seating where we would be spending the evening and the view was amazing. And I mean amazing. We were so close to the stage we would be able to see the boy himself flashing his white smile and even the small superman tattoo on his arm.

Just to set our minds at rest around us sat a group of people who had just suffered the same good fortune as us and we all chatted excitedly about our good luck.

That was all apart from one couple who sat silently and with a slight scowl on their faces. It was my estimation that they had actually forked out the 200 quid face value for those particular seats, only to be surrounded by a bunch of lucky nare-do-wells who were giggling in excitement and boasting of their good fortune at having been handed the musical offer of a life time.

At the end of the day the concert was a blinder. If you ever get the chance, and can afford it, go and see Bon Jovi, treat yourself, they really are as good as it says on the tin.

Right I’m off to watch the video footage that I took with my phone as I still can’t believe my luck.

He’s behind you!

2010-06-16T05:48:00.000-07:00

I have been watching with interest a series of programmes called ‘I’m in a rock & roll band’, and have been both amused and bemused as to what constitutes a really good rock & roll band.

What has made it interesting is the variety of rock celeb’s both past and present that were wheeled out to pontificate at length on who was the best singer, best drummer, best guitarist etc (I was totalled offended that as a bass player I got listed as ‘the other one’ and was unceremoniously lumped in with the keyboard player, saxophonist and ‘Bez’ from the Happy Mondays…however; the bass players lot is generally a lonely unappreciated one).

It did amuse me to discover what they considered to be the greatest of the great.

I was totally baffled for instance that in the final programme they rated ‘Slash’ from Guns & Roses over say, Eddie Van Halen. But there you go, it’s was only a TV programme and lives were never going to be changed or saved.

One iconic rocker that made me chuckle every time he proffered an opinion was Gene Simmonds from Kiss.

Here is a man that made a career, and a very successful one at that, by taking the absurd and making it even more ludicrous.

Bottom line is if you have had the chance to witness a Kiss concert you have been a participant in a rock & roll pantomime, which remains in your memory for ever.

Now I have been to some iconic concerts, I mean I even saw Queen before they were massive and had just got to number one with Bo Rap. I have seen some of the best that rock has got to offer, but I have NEVER again seen anything like Kiss.

Friend and partner in crime Bassbin had obtained tickets to see Kiss at the Stafford Bingley hall somewhere in the vicinity of Birmingham.

It was to be a rock & roll week for me as only a few days before I had been to the very first ‘Monsters of Rock’ gig at Castle Donnington and had seen Rainbow, Judas Priest, Saxon, the Scorpions and a load of American bands I had never heard of.

This was August 1980 and was the signal for a new resurgence of British Rock Music.
An amazing day ruined only by the leaving of car lights on and being stuck in the car park with a flat battery half the night (they didn’t have those warning buzzer things back then…and there were four large blokes crammed into a Mini Cooper).

Anyway, I was in the mood for ROCK and Bassbin and I set of for Stafford Bingley to witness the major spectacle.

We stood patiently in line with the hundreds of other punters trying to make the one packet of cigarettes we possessed between us last the distance (one every hour I think was the ration….thank goodness I gave that one up as a stupid habit to have).

Anyway, we eventually got in and hustled our way down to the front and waited for the festivities to commence.

The opening act were a great little band that I had seen several times before called ‘Girl’ who featured guitarist Phil Collen who went on to play for Def Leppard. We thoroughly enjoyed their set but were really in the mood for ‘larger than life’

And boy did we get it.

With explosions so intense it nearly burnt our eyebrows off Kiss took to the stage.

To say that they were wonderfully over the top would be an understatement and a half. You had a bass player (Simmonds) dressed as a massive demon with a huge gothic costume and with makeup something akin to a clowns face gone mad, staggering around with a pair of demonesque platform boots spitting stage blood every where. A singer again with the face paint and high heeled boots. and the guitarist and drummer being pretty much similarly attired and the stage was set for a good night of ‘Wow’.

I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what the band sounded like as all I could manage was a mouth open catching flies expression as rockets flew out of the guitars resulting in massive explosions high in the rafters. Gene Simmonds suddenly taking flight and careering high over the heads of the audience spitting blood over everybody and the drummer suddenly rolling towards us as his drum riser turned in to the kind of gun turrets that you only find on a battle ship.

By the time we stumbled from the arena our senses had been well and truly pulverised. Now that is what I call a rock & roll band.

Oh, just as aside, as if some cosmic prankster was having a joke on our behalf, we went and left the lights of the car on again, so once again we spend half the night sat in the car park. However; this time it was a Ford Capri and there were only two of us.

No matter what the hassle though, you could not remove the stupid grin off of either of our faces.

The loneliness of the rock god

2010-06-09T03:37:00.000-07:00

Being a wandering troubadour is a lonely existence, fraught with pitfalls, heartache and disappointment.

In days past, the minstrel would pass from village to village entertaining the local populace for the price of a roof over his head and a crust, with perhaps a pitcher of ale to dampen his dry and dusty throat.

Nowadays you would be flippin lucky to get a pint of something wet condemned by the third world as unfit for human consumption and a packet of pork scratchings that were past their sell by date when Wellington gave Boney a hammering on the playing fields of Belgium.

The only thing that keeps the beleaguered performer moving forwards, albeit in the blind optimism that is the jobbing muso’s only solace, is the applause of an appreciative audience.

If that audience is made up of his (or her) proud and loving family then the satisfaction could ward off starvation for months to come.

This was the prospect that was to face my partner in crime and son and heir Aaron and I last night as part of an acoustic evening when all the acts were supposed to be related in someway.

Now bear in mind that I am not as young as once I was, my mother and father have not witnessed me perform out side of a church setting or funerals since I was 18 years old, and thus has never seen their grandson Aaron play.

I suppose that bearing in mind the level of volume that I have tended to play at over the years and also taking into account that my mother weaned me on Jim Reeves and Burl Ives, their reluctance to have the wax summarily blasted out of their ears is somewhat understandable.

However; neither of my two sisters, who are both younger than me, have also seen me perform in any capacity since I was a young man whose dreams of international stardom still remained intact.

On this occasion they could not pluck the usual argument from the ether that is normally bandied about….”I heard you play a few weeks ago, “I heard all your songs before”.

When my family last heard me play I was still listening to the original line up of the Jam and the Undertones. Put it like this, Paul Weller was still considered and angry YOUNG man as opposed to the grumpy old git he is now.

So you can imagine when the opportunity to pull my family together in order that Aaron and I could proudly demonstrate our musical prowess to adoring grandparents, Uncles and Aunts that I jumped at it.

Of course they would all come they exclaimed, they would love to see us play it would be a golden opportunity.

With the amount of promises I had both from my own kith & kin and my wife’s family we should be able to pack the place on our own, thus extending us a longer length of time to play.

Need I go on???

Of course not??

Not one single relative graced us with their presence.

Now to be fair, my mother had just had a major operation on her knee and was going nowhere, and my father was required to be hovering in her presence for any required whim that could be bestowed on him from her sick bed and was knackered.

Also, and to be totally magnanimous, it was tipping down with rain and had I not been committed to performing myself I think I might too have sought sanctuary in the warm and safety of my sofa and watched a film instead.

However; all good reasons aside, we were once again stood solitary, friendless and on this occasion orphaned to entertain an appreciative audience of office workers and bar staff.

In that this was the first family wide invite to an event in the last 20 years or so, I am going to be a very old man indeed before I pass out invitations once more.

The life of a wandering troubadour is indeed a lonely existence

The fragility of the singer

2010-06-01T04:10:00.000-07:00

All change

The Soap opera continues to unfold; however in a whole new positive direction.

I can reveal that the voice of dissent in the whole Amaziah project was in fact the lead singer.

I don’t mention this in order to grumble or to cast affront, but to demonstrate that I can fully understand where he was coming from and did in fact have the deepest empathy for his concerns.

Unbeknown to me he had been very unhappy with the quality of his over vocal on the record. And I’m not surprised. The musicians had been given the lion’s share of the allotted recording time and poor old Derek got given what was left at the end. He had next to no time at all to belt out as best he could nine very lyrically intensive songs, with no chance really to go back and do it again if he wasn’t happy with what he had produced!

Now if any of the Brits reading this have been following the TV series ‘I’m in a rock & roll band’ you will be able to attest to the belief that all lead singers are Narcissistic egotistical dictators whose one aim in life is to be the centre of attention.

In reality most of us are insecure and terrified of finding ourselves stood stark bullock naked (musically speaking) in front of an audience baying for a sacrificial lamb.

You see, unlike all other band members we generally have nothing to hide behind and all we are able to offer is the natural un-processed sound of our vocal chords. As Roger Daltrey of The Who stated, you could have a multi million concert watched by hundreds of thousands people, tonnes and tonnes of high tech musical equipment all standing or falling on two small muscles that reside in the back of the singers throat.

For us there is no Marshall Amplification 23 foot high and coloured by a bank of Boss talent boosting affects pedals so wide that it covers two separate time zones.

There is no drum kit so vast that it has snow on the peak, or keyboard set up that required the largest furniture removal company in the western hemisphere to transport it.

The ‘band’ has one articulated truck after another to transport their mountains of ‘security blanket’ to and from the venue, allowing then the protection of ‘kit’ to hide behind.

For us singers, all we have to protect our dignity, apart from a cricket box, is an SM58 and those two small muscles that I mentioned.

One slight English head cold and the singer can be transported from virtuoso to train wreck in just a few short moments.

Have you any wonder I always play an instrument, I aint that brave.

So you see, when the singers performance isn’t ‘all that’, we can’t blame a bad batch of strings, or the incorrect temperature retuning the drums skins, or even just throw our hands up into the air and claim that we just had ‘an off night’..

When the singer is off key, the whole band falls off of the stage with him and it isn’t a pretty sight.

So having our insecure moments pressed into vinyl for all eternity to hear is not a happy place to be. And the horror of the prospect of having said moment re-mastered and distributed world wide is something I can fully understand and that feeling deep in the pit of your gut screams “Oh know, not again”.

However; following much discussion we all came to the conclusion that no matter how imperfect ‘Straight talker’ was, that it was a snapshot of a point in time. Not one of us wouldn’t like to go back and improve on something we had done or not done (I seriously had to have played the most boring box like bass lines ever written); however at the end of the day it was what it was.

Also, strange as it may seem, people have genuinely loved that album and it has brought pleasure to many.

So, if a new copy on CD can bring pleasure to a few more, then who are we to deny them this.

So once again, the whole project is back on and God willing steaming along like a locomotive.

One small snaggeto! The tapes and contracts appear to have disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic.

Now that could slow things down a bit.

"In this weeks exciting episode"

2010-05-26T03:59:00.000-07:00

Just a quick update to keep you in the frame of the Soap Opera that is the proposed re-release of the Amaziah album.

Can I say right from the outset, and sadly somewhat negatively, is that it was probably easier to get Nelson Mandela released from prison than it is trying to get this record put back out.

Bottom line, it’s all come to a grinding halt.

One of the band members who played a significant role on the album (I’m not going to say who as I am not writing for the tabloids and not into using these columns for personal gripes…..well, I am obviously….that’s what makes them interesting to read. But I don’t think it would be fair to name and shame when that person doesn’t have a voice within these pages to defend themselves….besides….I don’t want to get sued, beaten or both), went and made a rather major objection.

Well, quite a few actually.

What I had originally seen as a rather pleasant limited edition re-launch of a rather rare classic album (i.e. nobody had ever heard of it) has turned into a potential wrangle over publishing rights, royalties, artistic approval and contractual obligations going as far back as the Battle of Hastings.

The former guitarist is devastated. He was intending to retire on the proceeds off of the reunion world tour….now we are all filling in application forms for Tesco in order to work out our frail dotage working behind the fish counter.

It isn’t all over yet but it does bring into question the issue of integrity. If I had kept my gob shut and just signed the contract nobody would have been any the wiser. However; doing the honourable thing has probably shot the project out of the sky.

On a positive note, I did give both my current band mates a huge hug and told them how much I appreciated them.

Sometimes it does take a disaster to help you appreciate what you already have.

Now, if this were an Eastenders moment we would be getting a ‘duff; duff, duff ending right here (apologies to all of you out side the UK, that was a really bad British Television in-joke).

Until the next episode viewers

Just call me Poirot!

2010-05-19T06:25:00.000-07:00

It has been a long week since my last post fraught with the deep pit holes of ‘keeping everybody happy’.

When I last wrote I had received confirmation from my two former band mates regarding the re-release of our old album Straight Talker. However; following a restless night one of them returned to me with his concerns that ALL those that had been involved in making the album should be informed and their blessing sought.

Deep joy!!

Now bear in mind that I touch the big ’five oh’ this year and the last time I had seen at least two of the original recording artistes was when I was 19 years old you can get a sense of the mountain that lay before me.

However; the little grey cells kicked into action and I attacked the internet with the enthusiasm of a starving urban fox in a restaurant’s rubbish bin.

I e-mailed old acquaintances that I still had valid addresses for just in case they might hold vital information, I Googled names and businesses acting upon last known whereabouts, I tracked through old websites and God bless em! Facebook.

By Monday evening I had managed to track down all bar one, a girl that had sung backing vocals on two tracks of the album.

As I said, bless Facebook. I stuck on a standard “does anybody remember Amaziah?” on my profile wall and waited for something to appear.

Last night I received a response from a guy who claimed that he had been to that very same recording of Straight Talker, albeit in his mother’ womb. She had of course been expecting her first child at the time.

Gottum all!!!

With the initial blessing of the whole bunch, including the drummer who I managed to track down in Doncaster, North England, I contacted the Record Company and gave them permission to go ahead and as I speak I am firing the contracts back to them, albeit before somebody has the opportunity to change their minds.

So, we wait to see what happens.

And what of a reunion gig?? Well we face several problems and major hurdles that would need to be traversed before anything as concrete as a venue is booked.

The biggy is what I like to call the Genesis Conundrum (that’s the band incidentally not Darwin’s least favourite read).

When the band Genesis split a few years ago there were calls from all the fans to reunite for a single gig. This was when the conundrum began.

Half the fans called for the original singer Peter Gabriel to take the vocal duties, the other half wanted the most prolific singer Phil Collins to take centre stage.

This is our problem. I was only singer for a short 12 months, previously to that the great Derek Elliott held vocal duties for over 7 years. He is the voice on the album.

However; many who refer to Amaziah came to knowledge of the band in its latter stage and I of course was the tonsil jockey.

Now it could be argued that I was the bass player for a year before I became the singer and shouldn’t I gracefully bow down and take a step to the back? This of course would be the right thing to do.

However;

Like most things of significance you normally find that there is an individual at the back of it all pulling all the strings together and making it happen and I know that all eyes would probably look to me to make it happen. Will my ego, fragile as it is allow me to put all the work to get the band together, source the venue, promote significantly, then to take a stand at the back and give my lead instrument to somebody else?

Like as heck it will, I don’t think I could do it as graciously as I would like to think I would.

Perhaps my options are thus. Let somebody else organise it and do as I am told, and of course enjoy the experience. Or, be a bit of an egotist and say, “right, if I have to do all the work we play it my way or I take my ball home”.

Normally I keep these frail human thoughts and failings to myself and certainly would not voice them to anyone. However; I did promise I would keep you in the loop with all developments, so here it is.

Mind you, it was hard enough getting everybody’s blessing to get the album re-released, trying to get the band back together might just be a nightmare that somebody else might like the honour of taking on.

I don’t do stress!!

There and back again!

2010-05-12T03:31:00.000-07:00

I can tell by the number of responses to my last blog that you are all beside yourselves with impatience in anticipation as to what the ‘American Record contract’ is all about. Actually, to be fair, I do have a very strong visual image of tumble weed and the sound of crickets chirping that accompany the very real lack of interest that has greeted me.

Still, as they say, why change the habit of a life time. Chuckle!!

Regular followers of this blog will remember that back in the long distant past in the days of my youth I used to play in a rock band called Amaziah.

This year is actually the 30th anniversary of Amaziah’s demise and September this year will mark the moment when we all went our separate ways in disgust at having royally dropped the ball and not having achieved anywhere near what we had hoped we would. Such is life.

The memory of Amaziah began to slowly dim, rekindled only when our one and only album suddenly re-emerged as a collector’s item and began reaching sums of 1500 dollars on the open market.

Inwardly groaning at the fact that I had given several boxes of said record away as I couldn’t sell them once the band had gone I content myself that I had performed on a recording that the discerning collector would seek out. People actually wanted it and were prepared to pay good money for it.

I ignored the fact that what was on the record was immaterial; it was it’s rarity that people coveted. Whatever the reason, I was a collectible. Well, not just me, but Amaziah as a whole.

As the clouds of time thickened I moved on and I thought no more of it.

That was until my good friends Quick Sketch and Bassbin persuaded me to pick up the quill and begin to pen my memoirs in the form of this blog.

My burgeoning talent for the written word (cough) was soon recognised and I was commissioned by several websites to write columns and music reviews.

Within this I began to write for an international site called ‘Cross Rhythms’ and in a moment of unbridled sentimentality I wrote a brief history of ‘Amaziah’ from my perspective. The article was well received and it even allowed me the pleasure of catching up with several former Amaziah members that I had not had contact with since the bands demise.

Time, as always, moved on.

Until last week when Cross Rhythms asked me to contact the director of an American Record label that had stumbled across my article and desperately wanted to talk to me.

It would seem that many years ago he had managed to get his hands on the American release of the album, and rather enjoyed it. Suddenly he now had the opportunity to contact one of the band and set about realising an ambition to re-master and re-release ‘Straight Talker’ as a ‘classic album.

Suddenly, I found myself on behalf of my former band mates in a position to be signing a five year contract with a large American Record company who have a world wide distribution network 30 years after the band has ceased to be. Now that is what they call irony.

Three things excite me about the project;

Firstly, the company will re-master the whole album and my experience already from when one of the tracts was re-jigged last year, is that the album will take on a whole new life and be much fuller and have more depth.

The second is that the company are interested in putting some of the demos we later made, but never saw the light of day, onto the album as bonus tracks.

The third and perhaps the most exciting is that the company would be extremely keen for Amaziah, the band, to explore the possibility of a reunion.

That in itself would be fraught with hurdles and difficulties, but non the less if it could come off I personally would jump at the chance.

My main motivation has to be that I am a far more accomplished singer and musician than I was at 19 years old (despite the comments made by my current band mates). Listening to recordings of Amaziah and my bass playing on ‘Straight Talker’ only highlights my youthful lack of ability and confidence. I have often day dreamed on the notion ‘what if I could go back, knowing what I know now?’ Well, here is the opportunity to do just that.

Anyway readers, you will be the first to know of any new developments.

It’s just that knowing how successful several ‘re-reformed’ acts have become second time around…it could be an interesting ride. However; I wouldn’t hold my breath that it would be in the same league as ‘Take That’….but it might be just as big a larf!!

The Rock Goes goes global!

2010-05-07T03:43:00.000-07:00

This will be the shortest blog to date.

I just thought that this piece of info is so interesting that I would fling it at you, let you chew on it for a few days and then explain what on earth it’s all about when your curiosity can stand it no more.

Yes I’m flogging it!!

Right!

Your very own rock scribe, over the next few weeks will be signing a five year deal with an American Record label with distribution throughout the world.

Has that got your attention?

Continued shortly……chuckle!!!

The Green Green Grass

2010-04-27T01:54:00.000-07:00

They do say that the ‘grass is always greener on the other side’; mind you, people who make this kind of comment often say a lot of things, especially at times when you wish they would keep their particular self important brand of philosophy to themselves just once in a while.

However; at times sayings like these do contain a modicum of truth.

When I was in my teems I dreamt of being a ‘Rock God’, and I mean a proper one, not one that borrowed this moniker in way of ironic self effacement.

Like Jimmy Rabbit from the film The Commitments I would lie on my bed of an evening day dreaming of television interviews I would have with Michael Parkinson explaining why I was not like one of the typical brand of ego inflated rock casualties and that I intended to give so much more back to society and the world (thank the Lord, Bono beat me to that one and proved how irritating that kind of self righteous attitude can be despite the extremely honourable intentions).

Sadly my dreams of interview supremacy was not to pass, at least not with Parky anyway as he has now long retired from the chat show game, and I find myself reflecting more in these pages than I would have to an adoring national TV audience.

As much as it would have been fun to have been a giant in the world of men I think that perhaps I have done okay…at least to some extent.

The more I see and hear I come to realise that no matter how far we travel as troubadours we will never be satisfied with our lot.

The sight of Jon Bon Jovi moaning about how lonely and bored he sometimes gets all alone in his hotel room after a gig makes me feel like screaming “then buy a book or a pack of cards you ungrateful Muppet”.

However; in all seriousness the serious number of rock & roll casualties in terms of drink, drugs, relationships and mental health issues seems to suggest that the good ship fame and fortune is not all that its cracked up to be.

When you hear multi million selling record artists claiming that they tire of performing to hundreds of thousands in the worlds stadiums and would prefer to be reliving the intimacy of the pub/club circuit you are left feeling that it really is that tough at the top either that or they have very short memories, or, and this just a suggestion, they’re talking crap!

I would love to be there when some 80’s poodle perm turned musical colossus decides to truly relive that artistic intimacy of his early days and cart his own kit into the Frog & Hamstring (having dumped his van 3 miles away due to the lack of parking in the vicinity), set up in a space no bigger than a picnic table, having moved a rowdy crowd of inebriated office workers first, to perform to a totally indifferent crowd of chav teenagers and aging cider heads and then pack up the van in the rain. Oh, and barely cover the petrol back home for his troubles. Then perhaps they might be grateful for what they have got and trundle off to chat to the concierge or something instead of complaining at their lot in life.

All in all though, despite the lack of a road crew, despite the serious lack of cash that gets bandied about at the end of gigs and especially despite the hit and miss size and appreciation of audiences, it is still better to be performing in a rock & roll band that still has the ability to entertain than not. This is a cause for some kind of contentment.

Hey and at least I get to go home most evenings after the show to my large glass of post gig scotch and a pot noodle. I wouldn’t say that this is exactly living the dream, but it’s my home and it’s my Pot Noodle and generally at 1:30am in the morning I have ‘Mock The Week’ for company.

A face for radio

2010-04-21T06:53:00.001-07:00

Well we did it, we actually set foot into the bright sun light and had our photos taken.

Bottom line….I think we may have to go back out and do it again. A comment about me closely resembling American actor John Lithgow has seriously dented my rock & roll ego and has resulted in my hiding my head inside a paper bag ever since.

Aaron was so self conscious about this rock & roll photo lark that you could hear the tension creaking from every limb of his body. Every photo resulted in him standing stock still with a fixed grimace of embarrassment on his face. Mind you this was not helped by his sister the photographer biting his head off every time his hands went near his pockets, which is sad really as my hands never left my pockets.

Mind you we have learnt a couple of valuable lessons about back ground, colour and not rolling out in a t-shirt when it’s freezing cold, you tend to look it.

Out of about four hundred pics these are probably the least embarrassing and even then they have stretched my photo shop ability to its maximum.

Bruce Willis Vs The Oscars

2010-04-12T07:10:00.000-07:00

I think I may have mused this one before, but if you compared what we do as musicians to Hollywood movie stars, who would I be?

It’s a pretty stupid thought I know, but when you are sat in a corner of a pub listening to the many fine musicians that come through Bristol as part of an acoustic showcase your mind does tend to wander into uncharted territory.

I think part of this thinking was born out of the look of sheer horror that accompanied the faces of those ‘serious’ musicians that had to follow us during one of these showcases.

It’s not a gripe, just an observation, but if you have a party, or a celebration or an event that is designed to raise money then The Mudheads or The Loaders are your boys. However; if the event is more ‘high brow’ and with the intention of impressing people then we are the last bunch that ever seems to get invited.

I think this was no more appropriately illustrated than when Aaron & I performed at a local competition (for the full story go here). My memory of the event was that we received the biggest and most enthusiastic applause of the evening and yet we weren’t even short listed. Could it be that as entertaining as we might be, we lacked that certain credibility that is required to be taken seriously by the music community. (Perhaps my Mr Blobby costume was an ill advised idea after all).

I have long compared the live music scene with the Oscars in what the general public find credible and what they do not.

You might for instance have an absolute blockbuster that everybody wants to see like Avatar or Pirates or even Harry Potter and you know full well that none of the cast are ever going to walk away with an academy award. And yet it is obvious by the box office receipts that these are the kind of films that the majority of people really want to go and watch.

The films that do win the awards and receive plenty of in-house back slapping and kudos the majority of your cinema loving public have never heard of.

I know it’s a bit of a generalisation, but I wonder how many of you out there got to see Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart? because he got the best actor award this year. Sam Worthington was the lead in the most successful film of all time and he got nada, zip, diddly squat. That would be Avatar in case you were wondering and most of you did see it and perhaps more than once.

And I think this kind of attitude does tend to translate into the music world.

You have only got to listen to a room full of academics or bored musos talk about their music tastes and what you get is an apparent fondness for hard to reach indie, world or art house music that is as inaccessible as a French film noir.

They might make some reference to early Cold Play or some Leonard Cohan but apart from that it’s generally some tortured genius from 1968 who “blew his mind” in a frenzy of psychedelic self pleasuring.

I admit that we all like to be a little ‘snobbish’ when it comes to our record collections and I suspect that majority of us would rather die than let an acquaintance have a good rummage through our old vinyl, tapes and CD’s, only to rise holding aloft a hidden gem with the words “bloody hell, the Wombles” on their lips.

So perhaps we all claim a sensitive, well considered and academic leaning to our music taste when we are in company and yet air guitar to our hearts content when “Cum on Feel the Noise” by Slade comes onto the radio.

I have to confess to this artistic hypocrisy as much as the next person when somebody wanders into my office at work and are amazed at how fast my I tunes can be flicked from Hits of the 70’s to Nick Cave or Norah Jones.

However; to my original point, if what I do could translate into Hollywood, who would I be?

I suppose if I am honest I would be a bit of a Bruce Willis, and I don’t mean the lack of hair connotation either.

Old Bruce just keeps going and going and yes, going. Nobody EVER admits to liking him or rating him as an actor, but we will all sit down of a late evening with a can of something and a big bag of crisps and enjoy Die Hard for the umpteenth time. It’s just like admitting you had a bit of a soft spot for Duran Duran after all.

I suppose that if I had to be anybody though I would prefer to be Clint Eastwood, he just keeps on getting better and better and more and more popular the older he gets. And where as it used to be a bit of an embarrassment for the elite to admit that they watched Clint Eastwood films, now the guy wins Oscars.

Maybe rock & roll will once again become ‘cool’ and even Robbie Williams despite being a complete prat at times can claim his place as a good all round musical entertainer. I mean come on, 30 years ago, who would have predicted that Tom Jones would headline at a festival like Glastonbury and be seen as the coolest of the cool.

Every Picture Tells a Story

2010-04-06T05:26:00.000-07:00

I HATE having my photograph taken, I really do, which as you might imagine being an earnest rock god eager for public attention can create quite a dilemma.

The problem is purely and without apology ego and nothing much else.

I look in the mirror of a morning and wince. The older I get the bigger the groan as I peer half heartedly at my own reflection and ask for the billionth time why I don’t possess the rugged good looks of some Hollywood heart throb or rock superstar.

As the lines on my face begin to resemble a google map and my hair recedes faster than the tide at sunset I reluctantly contemplate that I possess a face and physique for radio.

Over the years I of course have had to endure said photo shoots for the sake of publicity and generally I have got away with it. At least I think I have.

My first proper and serious photo session in a studio was for the cover of the first album I was ever involved with. I was all green flight suit, long blond hair and sultry 19 year old glare and I think I managed to pull it off. Besides, my friend and comrade took all eyes off me by sitting on a piano stool. By the time the photo had been processed the moody shadow that framed us made it look like that he was only four foot tall. He was NOT happy.

Over the years I have had to endure the indignity of having a camera thrust in my face in order to get THAT shot that would sum up the rocker that was within.

This was all very well and good until I hit the dreaded 40’s and my waist line began to indicate that this particular rock star was going the way of Elvis and enjoying perhaps one too many beefburgers.

The last serious shoot I had to face was for the cover of the Mudheads Monkey album, Shout!!

The trouble with this album photography session was that it was actually a freezing cold day and the photo that we used turned out to be one of the very last shot. My gormless expression has rather more to do with my chops being frozen stiff than actually an endeavour to project any particular kind of mood.

I was also beginning to show the tale tale signs of middle age and several of my closest friends took great delight in pointing this out as the CD was sent all over the globe.

I kind of lost my confidence after that and have avoided the camera like the plague ever since.

With my current incarnation in The Mudheads I have managed to avoid this particular humiliation for the past seven years. That was until the current depression in live music in the south west has forced our hand to repackage ourselves as a serious bet and put together a highly polished highly professional promotion pack.

My excuses have finally run out especially as my daughter is a photography degree student, and as a band we are going to be getting out and about during the next weekend and trying to get just one decent shot of the band.

You’ll know me, I’ll will be the one hiding behind the younger and slimmer guitarist.

Emma has promised me that she is a whiz with photoshop; however even then it will be such a huge piece of software manipulation that should she pull it off she will be able to submit it as part of her course work…..she ought to be able to get a first out of this.

If you are interested, I have marked out some of my photo history on Face book. I will be adding new photos when we have done them.

Grab & Smash

2010-03-24T07:34:00.000-07:00

Like most people, the musician has processions that are precious to them. However; none are more precious than their instrument of choice, in my case my guitars.

Every guitar I have ever owned demands a place of affection in my heart, with the possible exception of the two twelve string acoustics I owned as a teenager, which were subsequently the only two guitars I ever got shot of.

I still have the 20 quid classical acoustic guitar that my parents bought me for my failed guitar lessons at school (my teacher did not like rock music, considering them to be sub level musicians and rock was the whole point of learning as far as I was concerned).

It may be battered, cracked to be exact, when a teenage girl I had been teasing took acceptation at one of my stupid adolescent remarks and endeavoured to kick me in the shin sadly putting a thumping great hole in my guitar instead. It wouldn’t be the last time a guitar would get between me and a girl that’s for sure. It is also pretty grubby and now lives in the loft, but I still own it. And strum it from time to time.

I have my first electric guitar, purchased for me with great love and affection by my then girlfriend, now wife. Boy has she learnt to regret that decision as she became a ‘band widow’ at a very early age and to add insult to injury Aaron, our son and Mudheads guitarist cranked out his first power chords on that thing. It now lives in his living room and it is this that he drives his fiancée nuts with as he strums away of an evening.

Each guitar for me has a story, a history a special place in my memory and heart. I would no sooner get rid of one of them than I would one of my own children.

So it was with great empathy that I stood beside Aaron at our last acoustic gig when in a fit of haste he dropped the lid of his acoustic case down onto the body of his pristine and much loved acoustic guitar and catching the body with the lids catch leaving a four inch scratch right across the front. It will be a constant reminder to him that these things apart from being extremely expensive are also fragile.

It brought memories flooding back of the two occasions (other than the kicked classical) I managed to damage guitars and that sick feeling you are left with in your gut.

The first occasion was not my fault and I had to fight the urge to separate somebody’s breath from their bodies when they knocked my bass guitar over and snapped the head stock clean off on a drum riser.

The next time was doubly sickening as in a fit of ill humour brought about by having to perform at a gig I REALLY did not want to do I snatched up my acoustic guitar not realising that I had not put the catches down on the case.

It was with that slow motion look of horror that is brought about by the inevitable disaster that is unravelling before you that painted my face as my acoustic flew out of the case, sailed across the living room and came into sharp contact with the corner of the dining table leaving a hole the size of a 50 pence piece in it. It did nothing to improve my mood that was for sure.

I have always marvelled and perhaps envied those rock guitarists that can lift their hallowed axes aloft and then smash the living daylights out of them for the edification of their audiences without bursting into tears or falling to their knees in sickening realisation of the heinous act they have just committed.

I always remember a public school boy of mine pontificating at length about how Jimi Hendrix would pour light fuel over his guitar and set fire to it out of frustration that he could not extract that perfection he so desired and sought from it.

I think probably more cynically that he realised early on that the audience were mad for it, knowledge that has forged the need for guitarists like Ritchie Blackmore taking a dedicated guitar tech on the road with him in order to reassemble the guitar he would smash every night.

However; I think I am definitely too sentimental to take such drastic action upon any of my beloved guitars and will, along with my son and heir, observe a two minute silence in recognition of the terrible scarring his guitar suffered for the sake of rock & roll.

“For those about to be scratched, we salute you”.

Size Does Matter

2010-03-18T08:24:00.000-07:00

Back in the day, Bassbin and I hammered the final nail into the coffin that was our formal education by bunking off of the sixth form to decant to his mothers house in order to sample the forbidden pleasures of her drinks cabinet and air guitar to our spotty little hearts content to the new musical passion of our lives; New Wave.

It was 1978 and the new sound of the suburbs was being thrust at us by bands such as The Jam, The Undertones, Blondie, Eddie & the Hot Rods, The Stranglers and the Sex Pistols and we day dreamed that one day we would be producing our own two minute offerings of rock & roll paradise as with heads bowed in mock concentration and sincerity we crashed around the living room believing that we truly were, Paul Weller, Hugh Cornwall or Fergal Sharkey.

For us the much hallowed 8 minute anthems of Stairway to Heaven, Child in Time and Freebird were still held in kind regard but now much more in the vein that you esteem an elderly grandparent (“yes I know you fought in the war, but do you really have to go on about it EVEY time I see you”) and had been relegated to the song that signalled the end of the slow dances with our girlfriends during the Tuesday night Rock Shows at Tiffany’s.

In terms of our musical growth a song should now last no longer that 2 ½ minutes, 3 at the most and contain nothing that could be considered pretentious, educated or fantastic (14 minute epics about hobbits was totally out).

Now, our heads were full of the real poetry of youth; “Gordon is a Moron”; “He got an ice pick, that made his ears burn”; “Read the graffiti of a slashed seat affair”; “Teenage kicks are so hard to beat”; and of course this new found poetry had to bow to our teenage attention span and be nothing if not short!

This is something that has stuck with me and I have taken the philosophy of ‘Keep it real and keep it short’ with me into adulthood and my continued privilege to be able to perform in front of a live audience.

This very much came into play and certainly to our advantage a couple of nights ago at a popular Bristol venue called The Louisiana.

Now with most dedicated music venues these days it is policy to cram as many bands onto the night’s entertainment as you possibly can in order that you might generate a crowd.

The Louis is one of the more generous venues and only tends to put three bands on at once in the hope that each band brings at least 20 people, giving the business at least 60 paying customers through the door and about 15 band related members on top of that supping the local brew at 3 quid a pint.

Because of the number of people playing your actual performance time is restricted to strictly 30 minutes each (unless you are the headline, although we avoid that as we have noticed that the largest audience are to be found at the crossroads of the acts slap bang in the middle).

30 minutes does not give you a lot of time, especially for most of the bands we have witnessed in our 7 year history.

Normally the bands like a decent bit of ego worshipping during a song in the form of long lead guitar solos and then they like to pass the time of day by discussing the weather, cricket or who fancies who in between each number.

We have seen bands gets away with about 5 songs in total because they have spent too much time mucking about in between numbers.

I have a different philosophy. You can cram one heck of a lot of songs into 30 minutes if you keep them short and you don’t stop…..at all.

We went for it big time. No stops, no chance to sip water to refresh a frazzled larynx. No chance to mop perspiration soaked brows, no introductions or passing the time with the crowd.

No chance….1, 2, 3, 4 and we were off.

As I mentioned most bands manage 5 or if they are lucky 7 songs in their allotted time. We make 13, yup 13 songs and we didn’t go a minute over time.

The poor kids that had come to watch the headlining band of Artic Monkey Wanabies stood no chance. We frightened one poor girl to death with our ear splitting opening crash chord and then the onslaught.

Suddenly this group of 17 somethings were introduced to the experience their parents had had in their youths as the Punk Rock/New Wave has hit the scene and blew away the cobwebs of ‘disco’ and ‘middle of the road’.

And do you know what, they loved it.

Perhaps they felt some of the raw excitement I had felt as I pogo’d around Bassbins living room, or the sheer thrill of my very first live concert.

Maybe I did a little bit to introduce these kids to a new energy of music that is felt and lived every bit as much as it is heard.

Who knows, all I can say is that it is three days later I am still buzzing.

Incidentally, as an aside. The only member of our childhood Rock Stardom seeking triumvirate to make it through education and even onto university was Quick Sketch. He of course had to be the one that wrote a hit selling no 1 record, got the highest singles sales of the decade and he won TWO Ivor Novello awards. Somehow I think Bassbin and I might have got off at the wrong stop.

Just a thought!

Cider House Rules

2010-03-12T04:02:00.001-08:00

Every so often a gig comes along that makes you wonder why you bother……..I’m sorry, I think I may have written this line before…on several occasions.

Anyway, Aaron & I were booked to perform at a new venue in Bristol, and by new I am referring for the promoter (a thoroughly decent guy who is committed to keeping music live in this fair city of ours) as opposed the building itself, which quite frankly looked like it had last seen a lick of paint during the Crimea War in celebration of the safe return of our brave troops.

Anyway, it was one of those gigs where the filthy lukka was waved seductively under one’s rather impoverished nose (those few months directly after Christmas are always a bit of a lean time) and so myself and the boy got ourselves booked.

I sadly had to abandon the significant birthday of an old and trusted friend in London to scream back down the motorway in order to get home in time to grab the PA and guitars and get to the venue.

I had done the obligatory promotion of the gig, sadly with no success as not one single person that we have ever met attended the session, and we set off for the venue itself.

Now I don’t know what pubs are like in other parts of the country or even the world but the West Country does seem to have its own particular brand of bar, which can only be affectionately known as ‘Cider Houses’.

This is generally a bar that is frequented by groups of men (or women) who have a rather dangerous fondness for the juice of the apple.

And when I am talking ‘Cider’ I am not referring to that nice clear fizzy stuff that is especially imported from Ireland to be consumed by groups of gay young people (and I by that I mean the traditional happy variety) in tall glasses with plenty of ice.

No, what I am referring to is ‘Scrumpy’.

It has been said that if you can see clear through a glass of cider then it isn’t scrumpy. I would say that after four pints if you can still see (or feel) your feet, then again it isn’t scrumpy.

Scrumpy is traditionally brewed in hidden places by farmers of dubious morals and reputation and includes anything they can find to lob into the mixture to give it ‘body’.

Now my father-in-law before retirement was an accountant and he once did the accounts for a rather famous West County Cider maker and was there when they emptied one of the massive vats. From within its murky depths was hoisted copious amounts of dead rats, cats, a dog and even a bicycle and this was from a reputable company with Health & Hygiene certificates and large contracts with major supermarket chains.

The scrumpy I am referring to does not fit into this category. The bodies of rats and the occasional sheep are considered to be a vital ingredient in this concoction. In fact if you are extremely lucky and you are drinking a particularly good vintage you might even find the foreskin of the original brewer in it.

It was into the domain of drinkers of this fine beverage that Aaron and I stumbled.
Every head turned to glare at us as we entered the room and the full weight of ‘cider breath’ slapped us firmly between the eyes. We had arrived, the afternoon’s entertainment, fresh meat.

As we struggled to carry our equipment down the full length of the narrow bar we were heartily jeered and heckled.

As we gingerly put together the PA the body of somebody looking, and walking, like the scarecrow in the wizard of Oz stumbled past us towards the bathroom facilities tripped over his feet and said…….”oh, tripped over your stuff I’d better make a claim”. He then collapsed into a hacking fit of laughter and smokers cough highly amused at the hilarity of his own humour.

That was irritating enough but he went through the whole routine on the return from the toilet to his seat.

Once the PA had been assembled and guitars had been tuned we set to get ourselves ready to roll.

I asked Aaron if he would like a glass of something local. His “hell no!” left me in little doubt that a couple of pints of lime and soda might be the safest option for the occasion.

We then launched into a two hour set performing to a wall.

The only people we saw were those performing the swaying dance of the sailor in rough seas as they fought their unsteady way toward the toilet and then back again. With each passage muttering some nonsensical rubbish that only they found to be in the height of good humour.

We were delighted when a group of students appeared about three songs from the end, however; we were just as quickly crestfallen as they marched as one out into the beer garden for a cigarette and to presumably converse with those already in the open air toilet.

It was a pleasant delight to get out of there with our bodies if not our egos in tacked.

I’m sure this wont be the last time I will be uttering the immortal words “Why do we bother”

Banged to rights

2010-03-05T05:24:00.000-08:00

With all the sentimental ‘’awing’ and expressions like ‘bless’ at the end of my last blog I thought I ought to write something a little more………mean and rock & roll.

So here it is.

Over the years of touring with bands and as a solo singer it has been my lot to perform in a variety of prisons.

The first time I had this experience was in a maximum security prison in Holland. Amongst the inmates that were to be watching us were a group of Molaccan highjackers that had perpetrated a two week long siege on a Dutch railway train that ended with the deaths of 2 hostages and six highjackers. The story had gripped the world and now we were to meet its stars face to face.

It was this group of young guys (most no older than us…and we were all teenagers) that greeted us as we clunked our way through one locked door after another into the heart of the Dutch prison.

When celebrities of this magnitude (and reputation) offer to help carry your speakers you don’t tend to refuse. Mind you, they couldn’t carry them very far as they would have to traverse about a dozen high security and very much ‘locked’ doors to get back out to our truck. However; all in all they appeared to enjoy our set and they let us live.

My next prison experience was in a high security prison in Bristol. This in itself would have been fairly uneventful apart from having cast an eye over the audience I clapped eyes on an old friend from school. Sadly I couldn’t stop my brain from persuading my mouth to blurt out “What the hell are you doing here?” ‘Not an awful lot’ would have been a pertinent reply. Either way, it was a bit blunt and NOT the done thing to do.

Mind you this paled into insignificance when the warder who ushered me into the main gates stopped me and encouraged me to ‘look up’ As I stared upwards towards an old trap door I enquired if this was the entrance way to a clock tower or something “Not exactly” was the reply. It was then that I realised that I was staring at the ‘Long Drop’……around the time of my birth the last of those condemned men fell through that same door to dance their final waltz…….it didn’t put me in the mood for a rock & roll session I can tell you.

The most frightening experience was playing at a remand centre in Norfolk. This place had a reputation for being where they incarcerated the particularly nasty whilst they awaited trial for their heinous crimes.

As I was led quaking in my boots to the stage, alone I might add, no band mates were stupid enough to accompany me on this particular gig and I was doing this one on my own, I was informed, again by a warder (I was beginning to see why they were affectionately called ‘screws’ by the cliental as this what they do with your mind) that the group of prisoners I was about to play to were on a final warning. They had rioted during the concert the week before and if they did it again this was the end of their concert nights and I would be their last concert.

I do not have to remind any of you that fear has its own brand of smell…..and the smell was strong in this one I can tell you. I think the whole stage smelt like a freshly opened packet of dry roasted peanuts.

Anyway, they let me live on that occasion and a good time was had by all.

I played in many more ‘lock ups’ on many occasions over the years, and they all became rather common place after a while. However; the one that still makes me chuckle was one of my last gigs at an open prison in Gloucestershire.

Firstly on arrival we discovered a cart load of prisoners eager to help, and who were….shall we say ‘as the newt’ and secondly the man that was to be our liaison for the event was a convicted murderer who kept asking me for my telephone number for future events.

The answer to the mystery of the ‘half cut’ enlisted roadies was that being an open prison they had been allowed to help at a Christmas party at an old people’s home. I’m not sure how much Christmas cheer the elderly party goers had got to drink as this lot had really had a skin full. Not what we were expecting.

However; my lasting memory came from the fact that our guitarist had nearly taken one of his fingers off with a Stanley knife a few days before and as he began playing the stitches gave way spraying his bright orange guitar with blood. With that he launched into ‘Jailhouse rock’ by Elvis (bearing in mind we were in a prison it perhaps was in bad taste).

The men went mad…in a very good way.

Talk about rock & roll…..a guitarist drench in blood and sweat, the whole band ‘giving it some’ to Jailhouse rock and the prisoners rocking and rolling like the embodiment of the song itself….”I went to a party at the County Jail…”.

I felt like I was in the final moments of the Blue’s Brothers.

If you ever get the chance to play in a prison just go for it…just don’t ask the guys what they are in for….it’s rude, and they might take offence….…Doh!

"Pride in the name of love"

2010-02-24T05:04:00.000-08:00

Again I have to apologise for the dearth of written word of late, it certainly isn’t due to the lack of things to write about I can assure you, I have heaps. It is that I have been struggling to find the time to metaphorical put pen to paper.

Not that I am complaining I promise you.

A decade ago I thought that my opportunity for creativity and especially for music was over. However, ten years on I am almost overwhelmed with articles that need writing and gigs that need playing. And for this I am eternally grateful.

So please do not give up on me just yet and if like this entry, the writing is rushed and the spelling and grammar a little, shall we say, off, then accept my apologies and trust that I am not getting sloppy, I just want to give you something to read on a more regular basis than of late.

Last night, at The Louisianna, a popular venue in Bristol, I was reminded why I got into rock & roll in the first place.

The gig was always going to be a little weird as we had been booked as a band to be sandwiched between two heavy metal bands. Real rock if you like. They actually wanted us to headline but we prefer the middle spot for a variety of very good reasons too long and boring to go into here. However, our drummer CJ found himself sent on an important course at the last minute and Aaron and I found ourselves in the position of playing acoustically.

This isn’t a problem as we have done this before and already have a reputation for being a couple of ‘nutters’. So we should fit in.

However, it had been a long week, and it was only Tuesday and to be honest I really had lost interest in the gig, which isn’t what I am normally like at all.

We had got out of work late and got a phone call from the venue asking where we were as we were late for the sound check. I thought at first that this was a little pushy as we were only two acoustic players, they could sound check us at the drop of a hat. However; the reason for the panic was revealed when we got there…the headline act had pulled out.

“You’re going to have to headline lads” was the opening response from the Californian sound engineer. Actually that’s not quite true, his first words were to apologies for us having been put in this position. That position was to be following a hard core heavy rock band……I don’t think so!

“Look pal, we can play for three hours if you want us to, but there is not way in this world or the next that we are following a band sporting that many tattoos”

However; as is often the case in these situations, they turned out to be the nicest bunch of blokes and as they had brought along a large crowd, and not one single person had come to see us they were more that happy to take the hallowed spot.

We were given a nice large chunck of time to perform and bang on 9pm we hit the stage and rocked our socks off!!

The thing about The Loaders (that’s our acoustic name in case you were wondering), we are on a mission to prove that it is not only doom laden, cheese cloth wearing, patuli oil smelling folkies that get to play the acoustic guitar. No it’s dyed in the wool punks and rockers that get to create mayhem on a Tuesday night to an audience of heavy metal heads that look like they would eat us if they didn’t like what we were playing.

We worked hard, we sweated buckets, I tore the back of my throat clean out, strings were snapped, guitars were hammered and nothing was safe as we tore through every punk orientated song we knew….and the crowd loved it.

Talk about a positive response.

I think that people are genuinely surprised by the passion that can come out of a) acoustic guitars, and b) a bloke in his near 50’s performing with his son.

As we swapped places with the headline much back slapping and words of encouragement was to be had “That was f***** awesome man…you rock”

Mind you the best was to come. As the band took to the stage and having pinned my ears back against the back wall the guitarist using his best Anglo Saxon expletives thanked The Loaders for our set and then said “I wish he was my dad”.

Aaron was choked. I missed what he said due to the newly acquired state deafness that had rendered me in a state of total confusion and I thought he had said that he wished that somebody had been his ‘lad’.

Anyway, on the long walk to the car in the rain, Aaron patted the old man affectionately on the back and mutter “proud of you dad”.

Now that to me is what rock and roll is all about.

The Roadie

2010-01-26T08:54:00.001-08:00

Friday night’s gig reminded me once again why I would like to be a successful rock star.

Not for me the trappings of fame and fortune. Not the glory of being idolised by the masses. Not even the recognition of my industry peers, although that would be very nice.

No for me, the one thing I have always dreamed of in the context of being a world class rock star is that I would be entitled to a world class road crew.

The manager at Fridays venue pointed out, as it has been pointed out many times before, that we have considerably more equipment than any other band that he has playing there.

It is not particularly an ego thing. It is not necessarily that our guitarist has access to lots of kit at great prices and it not really that we are now in a position financially to be able to afford this kind of stuff. We need this amount in order to create the HUGE sound we are becoming known for (at least that is our excuse and we are sticking to it.)

However, this mountain of wood and wire comes with a price and on Friday it was a VERY heavy price.

We had to cart the lot up two flights of stairs across the whole length of the venue, nearly two hours set up (it was a tight space). Perform for two hours, Take it all back down again (that takes about an hour) and then lump the whole lot back across the venue, down two flights of steps to the truck where CJ was having to negotiate his way through a fleet of taxi’s that had taken up residence out side the venue in order that he could get close enough to the front doors (I think he would have still be there now had not a friendly bouncer taken pity on our man and threatened to rearrange the face of a driver who had point blank refused to get out of CJ’s way). Finally we had to pack the whole lot back into the truck, which is a feat of alchemy in itself that only CJ holds the secret to. I have never known any man or women pack so much stuff into such a tight space. Even my wife who is a genius at packing the holiday suitcases into the boot of a car would fail to compete with the wonder of CJ’s magic. You can, at a push, squash a suitcase or bag to get it to fit, you can’t do that with a Marshall 4 x 12 guitar speaker.

This was Friday. Saturday morning I felt like I had been driven over by the full length of a British Rail train. A long train that had been hauling coal, lots of coal.

It was as I gingerly hobbled around the house aching from every part of my body that was capable of aching that I longed for the days when I could have a crew of ‘Roadies’ that relieved this burden from my aching shoulders allowing me the luxury of the heaviest thing I would have to lift of a gig being the pre gig beer and of course my bass guitar.

I marvel at those live gig DVD’s of super groups like, say U2, when the band all appear to the rear of the stage in separate limos, go through their pre gig ritual and get on. Then as soon as the gig is finished they climb back into their limos and bog off leaving the road crew to de rig the lot.

I watched an interview with Jon Bon Jovi stating that he often gets very lonely after a gig sat in his hotel room with nobody to talk to. I thought, count yourself lucky pal, you could be risking your back as well as life and limb trying to haul your kit through a crowded pub into the awaiting disdainful embrace of a load of non English speaking taxi drivers….in the rain!

This is not to say that I have not had personal experience of roadies before, it is just that they were invariably as mad and unstable as the band and created no end of entertainment and chaos as opposed to the slick rigging and de rigging of equipment.

My first experience of the mystic roadie was when I was in a band called Amaziah. We all took a pay cut (we were playing full time by then) to employ our drummer’s best mate who was sick of working for the post office.

His first gig, in Belfast resulted in him falling off of the stage even before the gig had begun and breaking his ankle. So for the rest of the tour not only did we have to lug our own equipment we had to carry him.

He did alright though. Following the demise of Amaziah he went to work for Malcolm Hill a massive PA company and went on tour with Robert Palmer and AC/DC. I don’t think he finished the AC/DC tour though as his accident prone nature caught up with him and he fell of his motor bike (again) and smashed his fingers up.

He must have recovered as I last heard he is the front of house sound engineer for Status Quo and you may scoff but they always have a crystal clear PA mix so fair play to him I say.

Other roadie’s have been equally memorable damaging more equipment than we owned (I remember one guy leaping up and down on top of a venues extremely fragile stage rack mount, which would have bankrupt us had he have gone through the case…….it was the look of sheer blank non understanding that painted his face as the in-house sound guy screamed at him that said it all.

We have had roadies that have killed the vans, dropped guitars, wired all the equipment up back to front, got into fights, eaten all the food laid on for the band, nearly been murdered by band members, the lot.

And through this whole experience I have invariably and without exception had to carry my own flippin equipment. Where did I go wrong?

So the next time I listen to some ageing rock star moaning about a lack of things to do before or after gigs the DVD will be going in the bin.

A Bass Player by any other name

2010-01-19T08:06:00.000-08:00

The big day arrived and the re-mixed version of the old Amaziah track, ‘Slowly’ landed on my doormat in the form of a vinyl 10” single and as a compilation track on a CD. All nice, remixed and full of life.

The best thing was; for the first time since I was 18 years old I could hear the bass guitar that I had played.

Sadly the original album had been so poorly mixed that the bass guitar was practically non existent and so for the first time in over 30 years (cough) the sound of my bass guitar playing shook the speakers of my car…..’like a good un’!

The only down side to this was that I was faced with the reality that as an 18 year old bass player I would have made a good brick layer.

To the trained ear you could tell that I was a) a complete novice and b) terrified.

I have always found the process of ‘recording’ really boring, however; I also find it an extremely stressful experience and when the sound engineer points towards you and mouths something like ‘rolling’, my buttock cheeks clench to the point where an ‘unclenching’ might possibly require surgery, my heart pounds fit to leave my chest and my whole body becomes as rigid as a garden hoe.

The problem was that this particular track ‘Slowly’ was supposed to have that funky kind of loose groove to it, the kind that bass players are supposed to love. However; to be brutally honest with myself my playing was as stiff as a McDonalds milkshake and quite frankly …….boring!

This whole experience has reminded me that despite having played the bass guitar in one form or another for the whole of my musical life, since I blagged my way into Amaziah at any rate, I have never acknowledged myself as a ‘bass player’.

I have always just been ‘standing in’ for a bass player that had quit or until a proper one could be found.

Even now with The Mudheads, with my limited edition Fender Bass guitar and a Marshall stack so large that it has snow on the peak and requires the services of a Sherpa to traverse the climb in order to ‘twiddle’ with the tone controls, I still would not consider myself a Bass Guitarist.

I have always, and I mean ALWAYS considered myself to be a Rhythm guitarist, despite the fact that the number of years I have performed in bands with said instrument could be counted in dog years.

Besides, my son and heir often remarks that as a guitarist I make a great bass player and as I have said…as bass player I make a great brickie!!

However; if you do not include all my acoustic guitar playing, I have spent the last seven years firmly planted in four string territory with no signs of change on the horizon.

Mind you, a real moment of pride for me, with a bit of a sting in the tail, was when Dave & Kev Steel from Amaziah came to see The Mudheads last year for the first time and remarked “Blimey it’s a shame you didn’t play the bass that well back in Amaziah days.

I think they meant it as a compliment…….but one can never be sure!

Black Plastic Gold

2010-01-08T01:58:00.001-08:00

A very Happy New year to you all, I trust that it will be a blinder for you what ever happens.

Now that Christmas has sadly passed into a distant memory I must reflect upon the totally appropriate Christmas gift the present Mrs Rock God purchased for me. This was a record deck, a hi-fi turntable, something on which I can play my vast collection of Vinyl albums once more.

You may think that in this day and age of the CD or better still the MP3 player where I store my entire record collection from nearly forty years of musical fanaticism onto a machine the size of credit card, and it’s only half full, that the purchase of something as archaic as a ‘record player’ is a bit of a case of buying something for the sake of it.

However, there is method in my madness and the inspiration was very timely.

As I have mentioned several times in these pages, I used to perform in a band called ‘Amaziah’ and we recorded an album which has since become highly collectible.

Back in the summer I received an e-mail from a chap who being a DJ of note had with his colleagues been reflecting on the songs that had been the soundtrack of their youth. Blow me down but the guy has picked a song off of the Amaziah album and was requesting that he take the song, re-master it and then turn it into a 10” dance remix.

This has now been done and I eagerly awaited the finished result. I have never had the honour of having been ‘re-mixed’ before, let alone to become a dance track (talk about getting down with the kids).

The trouble of course was, like so many now, the 10” re-mix would be on vinyl and I would have had nothing to play it on. Problem solved, my wife had no idea what to buy me for Crimbo and a quick trip to Richer Sounds solved the problem in one go.

Of course, now I can play my old vinyls again I have been embarking upon a massive trip down memory lane, a journey which very much maps out my growth as a person and as a performer.

The very first album I purchased was ‘Alan Freeman’s a History of Pop’, which featured songs from both the 50’s and the 60’s. I have always maintained that I was grounded in good old fashion rock & roll and this record proved it.

My first ’45 single’ purchase (remember those seven inches of wonder which usually meant the investment of a couple of weeks pocket money and driving your parents crazy playing the same song over and OVER again) was not quite so auspicious. It was ‘Do you want to touch’ by Gary Glitter. Now in the light of recent years events the answer to that question would be a resounding ‘Absolutely NOT’, however; you have to remember that this was the 70’s and Glam was very much the thing and GG was the king of glam.

I hope that I redeemed myself with my second single purchase, which was ‘Part of the Union’ featuring an amazing honkey tonk piano solo by a then unknown keyboard player ‘Rick Wakeman (I was actually asked to tour with him as a support many years later, shame it didn’t actually happen in the end).

My album purchases started off being, shall we say, a tad embarrassing to say the least, however; I look back now with great fondness and pride. ‘Mud Rock Vol 1’, it cost me £1.99 and took me weeks to save up for. Listening to it now it sadly isn’t that great, but then it was the bees knees.

Does anybody remember ‘Top of the Poppers’? My copy was from 1972 and featured artists covering the hits of the day such as ‘Long Haired Lover from Liverpool’ by little Jimmy Osmond. ‘I’d like to teach the world to sing’ by the New Seekers and a song by a band I hadn’t heard of before but who blew my socks off, ‘Gud By T’Jane’ by a band called Slade.

From that point on I stopped buying pop records and purchased stuff that had more of a rock element to them. Of course anything and everything by Slade, I became and remained a HUGE fan (more of them at a later date), Status Quo, Deep Purple, Mott the Hoople and then a massive find deep in the middle of 1973 by an unknown band of the time ‘Queen’.

All these records I still keep and I intend to play them all again faithfully and religiously despite having virtually all of them on my Ipod (except ‘Top of the Poppers’ maybe). The thing is, as much as I adore the medium of digital music and downloads you just can’t recreate the sheer joy of cradling the album sleeve whilst you listen to your knew purchase that it has taken you weeks to save for and track down and purchase.

You also can’t recreate that gut wrenching moment when the damn thing sticks and then scratches right across the full length of the record leaving a pure white groove as it goes. Now that I don’t miss!!!!

Suffering for your art!!

2009-12-21T05:31:00.000-08:00

Today is proof that miracles still happen at Christmas.

We have a new UK no 1 single, which due to sheer bullheaded promotion by the British public themselves isn’t a record from the X-Factor…..my joy is complete.

Add to this that my view from my office window is of a winter wonderland and it has to be said that I feeling slightly festive.

However; I didn’t feel quite so festive at the end of last week when we were called upon to perform our last gig of the year at Aaron’s local.

It’s a great place as they are always so friendly and enthusiastic towards us.

However, tonight there was a slight problem. My microphone kept on giving me electric shocks throughout the whole evening.

Despite swapping mics and leads throughout the set I maintained a steady stream of electrical jolts through my lips. Now not being one of those children that risked getting a stroke by licking the end of live batteries I have never been overly keen of getting electrical surges thrust unwillingly into my face.

My son and heir offered his usual hand of support and sensitivity to my painful plight and just rolled his eyes at his old mans obvious girl like behaviour in the face of unwelcome pain.

This gig was supposed to be a celebration in honour of the Christmas season; instead I was beginning to be in danger of looking like Beetlejuise at a Halloween party. Also, the prospect that one of these shocks could suddenly amp up the surprise a little and send me crashing back through the drum kit and CJ’s waiting embrace did not fill me with confidence. Remember people have died from being fried by their own Microphones (Suzie Quatro was rather dramatically electrocuted on an episode of Midsomer Murder…and yes, before you say it, I know that this particular scenario is ‘made up’). It was noted on several occasions that as I sang I was backing further and further away from my microphone with a look of uneasy concern written all across my face.

Anyway the result for me was that as opposed to rocking the night away full of Christmas vigour and rock & rill excitement I spent the night as the condemned prisoner on death row awaiting the throwing of the switch.

Talk about suffering for your art.

"So this is Christmas"

2009-12-11T08:30:00.000-08:00

If I were a gambling man, which I’m not incidentally, I would lay good money on the fact that this years number one Christmas record will again come from the Simon Cowell, X-Factor school of music.

It wouldn’t be so much a gamble as a sound investment. However as the chance of said record reaching number one is a ‘dead cert’ then the odds would be pretty low and I would probably just get my money back with no interest.

I am not having another one of my monumental moans about X-Factor incidentally, I am just lamenting the disappearance of yet another British tradition of weeks of wonder culminating in everybody huddled around their transistor radios on the Sunday before Christmas to listen to the chart run down and to find who had made that hallowed spot that year.

When it’s already been set in stone by a 13 week promotional junket on national television and the press, it kind of loses its excitement.

I am in fact a big fan of Christmas music as well as Christmas itself and every year I hang on and fight the temptation to fling on a few Crimbo tracks before the end of November (this year I crashed and burned when feeling particularly stressed I stuck on a Christmas album by an American band called ‘Mercy Me’ about a week before December. Their rendition of ‘Rocking around the Christmas tree’ is second to none and it really cheers me up).

However, have you noticed that the majority of Christmas albums that are released every year are full of ‘Rat pack’ songs from the 50’s, with the 70’s as a stop gap and that is pretty much it (if you allow the timeless classic ‘A fairytale of New York, which came from the 80’s of course).

Is it that we have lost the vision for Christmas songs? That no matter how hard we sing ‘Let it snow, let snow’ it won’t. That the very mention of ‘A long time ago in Bethlehem’ will send councils across the nation into a state of sheer panic. That ‘Peace on earth, good will to men’ is but a fairy tale that we give to children and that most adults cynically no longer believe in. That ‘Last Christmas’ is likely to be as expensive as this one is turning out to be.

It is a sad fact that we do not seem to be producing the ‘Christmas Records’ that once we did (I know that I ought to mention the all time classic ‘A Millennium Prayer’ co written by our good friend and sparring partner Quick Sketch. However, as it is not strictly a Christmas record I will let that one slide…although it’s addition to any new Christmas compilation does help the Quick Sketch family eat during the dog days and long may it continue).

However, I refuse to give up on my favourite Christmas tunes no matter how cynical we become. The mere happening across a few notes of certain tunes can send me hammering back into the mists of time and memories of happier occasions.

‘So this is Christmas’ by John and Yoko never fails to transport me back to a school, disco in Hartcliffe school and the memory that all was well, and that these girl things, although not to be understood, were actually rather nice and that whenever I got close to one my heart rate would increase….strange that.

‘Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’ takes me to a party at the Railway Club at Templemeads Station in Bristol, where myself and good friend Bassbin had weekend jobs when were kids (we sold newspapers and the like on the platform…..ah, heady days). I remember bobbing my backside off at the party….and believe you me, this boy don’t dance (normally)

And I am not ashamed to admit that listening to Country Christmas songs by John Denver will always put me immediately into a very good Christmas mood indeed. You see my father was, and is, a huge John Denver fan and so Christmas in our house was not only a happy affair but had that county festive stuff as it’s sound track.

As I type this my Itunes on my PC is playing yet another version of ‘White Christmas’. I mean, it’s been covered more times than a hospital bed during a Norvo virus outbreak, but hey, this is nice gentle version by some Celtic women and so I am feeling relaxed and festive.

Long may it reign.

I wonder for those that are reading this, what Christmas songs ring a certain note with you and would you be brave enough to share it.

Wild Horses

2009-12-02T05:38:00.000-08:00

I was traversing the terrors that are the early morning rush hour on the way to work a few weeks back, relieving my growing stress levels by partaking of some breakfast radio when Sir Terry (that’s Wogan for those of you not in the know) played a song that was beautiful.

The song was originally written and sung by the Rolling Stones and was called ‘Wild Horses’. This time the song was stripped back and simply sung by what I assumed was some young Celtic princess from the school of Enya or Clannad.

To be honest it was so moving that it almost brought a tear to my eye. I certainly had a lump in my throat that’s for sure.

I nearly crashed the car when Sir Tel sited that this was the new single from Susan Boyle.

If you have been living in a cave for the past twelve months, on either side of the great Atlantic pond, then you would be forgiven for not knowing who Susan Boyle is.

However for the rest of she has become somewhat of a legend and has been entered for ever into the hall of fame for the greatest televisual moments.

The show was another one of those awful talent shows, Britain’s Got Talent, where the unsuspecting, pre-prepped wannabies are wheeled onto the national stage in order to make utter fools of themselves for the nations delight.

Susan Boyle was a wannabie that guaranteed to bring the television nation to its knees in a fit of collective hilarity.

She certainly had the look of somebody that had been ‘cared for’ for most of her life.

Nobody had told her that you are supposed to have two eye brows and not one. They had also failed to mention that white shoes definitely do not go with light grey dresses and black tights.

I spend 10 months working in a community care home. I had several clients who would have been dead ringers for Susan. And yet some friend of humanity thought it would be highly entertaining to present this vulnerable lady in front of a blood thirsty Simon Cowell for our pleasure and out she came.

The audience and judges in unison collapsed in mirth.

Simon politely, yet patronisingly asked what she would like to achieve from being on the show. She replied that she wanted to be a professional singer. By now, people were wetting themselves and were visibly having difficulty breathing.

She had opted to sing a song from Les Miserable’s. The nation thanked the Lord that she was not going to murder ‘Feelings’ or there could be a couple of fatalities in the audience.

Then she opened her mouth and sang.

I was sent the clip on Youtube, which was where I first saw it, and my reaction was pretty much the same as everybody else. Mouth wide open and staring in wonder.

This ‘special case’ had the voice of an Angel.

Immediately the laughter ceased and was replaced by a gentle sobbing. Many moved by the beauty of this ladies voice. Other’s moved to tears by the weight of their own guilt. They, like us all had judged this book by its cover and now we all felt collectively ashamed.

She didn’t go on to win the competition. Then again, it was almost guaranteed that she wouldn’t with the way these things work.

However, she has become stellar in her fame, especially in America.

Her debut album is the fasting selling début album of ALL time. She is now a house hold name.

Surprisingly the album is made up of mainly hymns and gospel classics including ‘How Great Thou Art’ made by famous by Evangelist’s Billy Graham's resident singer, George Beverly Shea. Not the sort of thing that the great British public would normally rush out to buy.

I wonder, could it be true as sited by comedian Russell Howard that everybody has rushed out to buy the album to ease their guilt and that every mother in the land will discover it in their Christmas stocking this year. I suppose the second album will prove or disproof this theory.

All I can say is ‘fair play’. Susan Boyle took the nations love of humiliating the under dog and she rammed it down their throats.

I don’t know what the future holds for her. The media alone would love nothing more than for her to have a massive meltdown, and if they can help make it happen they will.

I don’t know if she really is nothing more than a novelty act. I hope not.

Either way, her version of ‘Wild Horses’ is testament to substance over style and I for one salute her for it.

"Just because you are indespensible......."

2009-11-25T06:40:00.000-08:00

I am not sure this necessarily has anything to do with the music industry, but I suspect that it has. They also say that getting some of your annoyances out into paper can be quite cathartic.

I have often heard the phrase “Good guys come last”, which normally goes hand in hand with “Nice guys like you make great second husbands.

If you will forgive my Anglo Saxon reference Eddie Izzard did a complete skit on this theory based on his time at school. The nice guys that would hold a door open for a girl would generally receive nothing, not even a smile or a nod of appreciation. However; if they were a bit of a “Bastard……..shagging a plenty”.

I am beginning to think that this could be right. Not the last bit I hasten to add, happily married for 26 years, but the former. Mind you the amount of women I have heard commenting that their husband was “A bit of a lad when I met him, but that was what attracted me to him”, but then complaining bitterly that he remained “A bit of a lad”. You can generally here me grinding my teeth and muttering comments like “bed”, and “lying in it”.

As I work for the British National Health Service I have to suffer the indignity of appraisals. This normally results in a person sitting in a room with their line manager being told that they have either done, or not done a good job during the previous 12 months.

This was the case for me just a few weeks ago.

I received a right royal slap on the back and was informed that I had done a damn fine job and that the service could not function as efficiently without me. Not only that I was popular with my colleagues, service users and other professional alike.

Well done Loader, ego suitably stroked.

However, then came the rub. I am grade wise the bottom of the pile. Many of my clinician colleagues earn considerably more than I do. And many of the more, shall we say, aggressive ones, have recently been re-graded and are earning nearly four times what I am.

I was in an appraisal and so I thought it would be a good time to broker the subject and suggest that if I am doing such a sterling piece of work for the sake of child mental health, that it may be a good time for my boss to fight my cause and ensure that my paupers bowl be just a little fuller at the end of the month.

Now I have faced rejection before in many guises, but none were quite so direct and to the point “You won’t get any more money here, you’ll have to go and work somewhere else if you want that”.

Suddenly the words of my dear friend and comrade in arms Bassbin came flooding back.

“Just because you are indispensable does not mean that you are important”

Now does this relate to the life of the Rock God? I believe at times it does.

My band The Mudheads have a reputation as being “A nice bunch of guys” and for that I am grateful and just a little proud. We also have a reputation that if you are in shtuck or you are fighting for a good cause The Mudheads are the ones to go to.

We find ourselves constantly being asked to perform at benefit gigs or help out in different situations, and we are generally happy and honoured to do so.

However, I have begun to notice that the amount of benefit gigs we have been asked to ‘help out at’ has grown, whilst the number of really healthy ‘paying gigs’ is beginning to decrease.

I have also noticed that some of our colleagues in the industry, who perhaps would fit Eddie Izzards description of being a “bit of a Bastard”, are raking in the paid work.

Perhaps it is time to be a little less accommodating and a little more demanding.

However; I am what I am, and I will not change. Although, I am just hoping that when I stand before my maker he doesn’t announce “Sorry Paul, I don’t have that big a budget for heaven and the charismatic church** will give me hell if I don’t let all of them in so I am going to have to let you go, you don’t mind do you?”

** substitute what ever denomination of religion you like in there, being a nice guy I wouldn’t want to offend anybody

The Rock God ego can cause him to stumble

2009-11-18T03:25:00.000-08:00

On those rare occasions when you have a night off a favourite thing to do is kick back, break open a bottle of wine and to watch a film on DVD. Now living in a house that is now weighted in favour of the women in my life (wife and daughter), this usually involves a lengthy debate around what everybody wants to watch.

In this particular instance the film of agreed choice was Tom Cruise’s 'Top Gun'. Eye candy for the ladies and testosterone fuelled jet aircraft for me.

Now I am one of those saddos that enjoy watching the DVD extras once everybody has slopped off to bed. In the Top Gun extras there was an interview with Terri Nunn the lead singer of Berlin who sang the Oscar winning theme, 'Take my breath away' for the film.

Terri Nunn talked about her shame of succumbing to her 23 year old ego when she turned down the opportunity to perform the song at the Oscars as they would not let them play the WHOLE song,
She talked about regretting it ever since, especially in light of her mother’s bitter disappointment that her daughter was not part of such a spectacular event.

This resonated with me as I can remember back into my youth doing something equally as arrogant and stupid.

I was 19 years old and playing in Amaziah. We were a professional band and were hoping to be part of the New Wave of British heavy metal.

We had been invited to perform at the 1980 Greenbelt Christian music and arts festival in Bedford. The festival was at the height of its powers then in that it attracted some 25,000 people from all walks of life and at this point in time this was place to play.

This was the year that bands like U2 had ripped up the main stage and the world’s music media turned its hungry eye towards it.

However, as I said, young, arrogant and stupid.

We were offered the ‘big top’.

We hit the roof. I mean, we were well on our way to being superstars, how dare they offer us a boy scout tent in a back field somewhere. We were indignant; it was the main stage or nothing.

However, as I said, this was the year of bands like U2, there simply was no room for a bunch of relatively unknown upstarts.

Our manager was sent to instruct them unceremoniously that they could bog right off.
However, as with all such tales of arrogance and stupidity there was a sting in the tail.

The ‘scout tent’ in fact was massive. It was capable of hosting many thousands of people and unbeknown to us we had been booked to perform as the headline on the Saturday night. We would have been the festivals main alternative attraction of the night.

We were featured as the centre page spread in the weekend’s program (it’s the only time I’ve been a centre fold I can tell you).

The band that took our place at the very last minute (yup, we pulled out at the 11th hour such was our ego busting arrogance) got a record deal out of the occasion and they informed us with glee that the lively appreciative audience has been standing room only and had been queuing outside the tent. They had all come to see us.

I think I can only leave the final word on the subject to the Western world’s foremost philosopher, Homer Simpson

“Doh!”

Dreams can come true

2009-11-09T03:49:00.001-08:00

On a recent visit to Lundinium with Bassbin to visit our old and dear friend Quicksketch I had my backside soundly roasted by the pair of them for the lack of blog entries.

I naturally protested my innocence and claimed that it had been merely but few weeks. On closer inspection it was determined that it had been in fact two months come Wednesday. Suitably chastised I sought to make my excuses.

I have mentioned before that I am getting very much in the groove and that each gig is getting, perhaps dare I say it, mundane. I have been feeling that there hasn’t been a whole lot that would be worthy of interest on this particular column.

Then Quicksketch wisely pointed out that the very fact that I have got to a point in my musical journey that is mundane is worthy of celebration, and he should know.

You see, both and Bassbin were there at the very beginning.

We were all about fourteen years old and dreamt of performing in front of an audience, any audience. We would practice till our ears burnt and our fingers dropped off in Quicksketch’s mother’s front room. Her sofa doubling up as a drum kit and what we lacked in talent and ability (which was vast) we made up for in enthusiasm and pure and simple day dreaming.

Three of four years later Bassbin and I would trawl the city of Bristol on our motorbikes seeking out live music that acted as a sound track and inspiration for our lives.

We would sit back and let the music wash over us dreaming that one day…that would be us up on that stage.

It has been a long old journey and that is indeed now us, well me anyway. Bassbin retains his passion for live music but freely admits that his priorities have changed. Although, one day when I have time and I can get into the editing facilities in the school where I work, there is video footage of both the boy and I playing on a large festival stage somewhere on the south coast. It would make a worthy edition to Youtube.

However, Quicksketch’s sage words echoed in my ears as I rocked my socks off in a tiny Bristol pub with my old friend Matt yesterday as part of an acoustic afternoon.

Yes the venue was tiny. No, money did not chance hands and we weren’t likely to sign THAT record deal shortly following this particular gig. And yet, 30 odd years ago I used to dream of gigs like this. I would lie in bed at night and rehearse the entire set in my head, and long for the days when it might, and I mean MIGHT come true.

And there I was doing it.

It was a new and refreshing appreciation and I worked up a sweat.

All I can say to Quicksketch and Bassbin, thanks guys for a HUGE dollop of inspiration and I promise I will be more consistent in my contributions from now on.

"The Worlds Loudest Skiffle Group"

2009-09-11T05:48:00.001-07:00

My apologies for the lack of penned material of late. I haven’t given up it is just that we have kind of got into a groove with our performing and as such nothing of remarkable interest has happened that would ensure inclusion in this hallowed blog.

That being said, I was head hunted by another band. In fact not just any band, it was a group of some of the most accomplished musicians in Bristol. Now believe me, that is good for the old ego.

They didn’t intend to take me permanently away from my beloved Mudheads. They just wanted to ‘borrow’ me from time to time.

It all sounded rather good until I enquired as to what time commitment being ‘borrowed’ actually meant. It would have in reality resulted in a gig a month and with a rehearsal every other week.

Now anybody who knows me will lament that I will moan, at length about the lack of hours in the day. Aaron has completely banned me from uttering the statement “I didn’t have the time”.

So it would have been sheer stupidity to take on another commitment, no matter how tempting. So I had to sadly and somewhat reluctantly decline the offer. I hope that the other two Mudheads appreciate the sacrifice I have made for them.

On a different note, having had my ego suitably crushed by the lack of numbers at our last ‘serious’ gig I have gone and put my head well and truly in the lions mouth again.

One of my favourite bands of the last couple of decades was ‘The Gutter Brothers’. Described by Bruce Dickinson from Iron Maiden as “The loudest skiffle group in history”, the GB’s started life successfully busking in Covent Garden.

When I say successfully, they could clear up to £1,000 on a Saturday performing to the tourists in the London market. Now that is not small change.

They later moved from pure skiffle to a more rock based sound, and replaced their Tea chest bass with an electric bass.

They were signed to Elvis Costello’s Demon Records where they went on to record the sound track to ‘Gone to the Dogs’ with Harry Enfield, Warren Clarke, Alison Steadman and the now internationally famous Jim Broadbent.

They also recorded the sound track and theme song for the ‘Only Fools & Horses’ Christmas Special ‘Miami Twice’

They toured with the likes of Blondie and Dr Feelgood among many others and they general wrote and produced catchy and exciting songs.

I first got to know them through their Bass player Steve Turner and their producer Jez Coad (who was my best man when I got married).

Any way they had a real influence on me and I was inspired by (stole) many of their songs whilst I was writing for Mudheads Monkey.

I was gutted when they closed that chapter on their lives back in 1998.

However, they are back and we are playing with them….how cool is that!

So of course, the Rock God goes and opens his mouth when he hears that they are on a short tour and states…”If you come to Bristol and we support you, I will promote the gig”.

And that is what is happening…and talk about hard work.

I have written to every radio and TV station in the southwest. Magazines, newspapers and websites. You name it I have stuck a flyer on it and I will continue to do so right up until the date itself.

However, if this gig bombs…then my guitar goes off of the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

We shall se what we shall see.

Please be there!!!! I love my guitar and I don’t want to see if falling away from Brunel’s finest piece of work.

"To be or not to be"

2009-08-14T01:31:00.000-07:00

To be, or not to be? Whether it be nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortunes…….or just knock it on the head and go and learn to play golf instead.

There has to be fewer and sadder sights than to see the disappointed look on a publicans face when the much hyped band has promised so much, and yet delivered so little. Sadder still, the final debate over the agreed fee, the honoring of which would have resulted in a significant loss for the landlord on that evening.

Why the mentioning of such sad states of affairs??? We went and had another monumental flop that’s why.

The Mudheads had been booked to play in a Bristol venue that has been growing in status and respect and we wanted to play there. It has a proper stage, PA, lights and even a changing room (granted a cleverly placed curtain drapes over the urinals and even as a three piece we were tripping over each other, but at least this toilet had a carpet and a television)

Perhaps common sense rather foolishly took a back seat when you consider that the gig was in the middle of Factory Fortnight and on the same weekend as the Bristol Harbor festival.

However, undeterred we accepted the offer of a whole night to ourselves without a support act and set about promoting the dickens out of said event.

My promoting I mean e-mailing everybody we have ever met. Saturation in media coverage from magazines, newspapers, the radio and even television stations. Then adding the event to every music website in existence, even those in other countries.

After that we went back to e-mailing friends and not withstanding crimes of blackmail, extortion and downright threats of violence for non-attendance.

There probably wasn’t a person in the western hemisphere that was not aware of the gig.

Of course days before the gig the excuses would be forwarded to us. Family members that claimed to be in Africa, mothers dying, that sort of thing. Even one honest statement…”Nah, I can’t be bothered”…..sharp but truthful none the less, at least we knew where we stood.

Even so, we were confident of a crowd big enough to impress the venue and guarantee a return visit.

The music scene is oiled, well oiled on optimism. It has to be, why else would any one of us put ourselves through the constant embarrassment of a ‘lousy turnout’ night after night.

Yes, you’ve guessed it. The turn out although enthusiastic and supportive was by any scale ‘tiny’. In a venue that could accommodate 150 people, swigging beer and sipping wine. I think we made about 30.

That was after selling our souls to the Gods of rock & roll…..30 people, and a good 10 of those were regular drinkers in the venue and would have been there who ever was playing.

As I have already mentioned, the conversation with the Landlord at the end of the evening was to say the least embarrassing, He loved what we did; he thought we were a great band; but that did not deflect from the fact that by booking us he had lost money.

Can you see now why so many pubs and clubs are ditching live music altogether and putting in giant video screens to watch the footy.

My only solace was in fellow musicians that had suffered the same indignity over that weekend.

Friends from Vienna in Austria had flown to London (at their own expense) to perform two gigs.

The first night they played to three people. The second night, flanked by a band from Australia and a band from Japan, they got six.

Do you start to think, that as a country we deserve the likes of X-Factor and Pop Idol because that is what we are going to be left with when there are no venues left to play in and no artistes left to perform any how.

Right…….it’s tee not tea! When they say club I don’t have to hit people with it (no matter how tempting it may be), and a handicap refers to my standing next to the professional and not to the fact that I am retarded in any way.

DUCK!! sorry….. FOUR!!....

"He could sell sand to the Eygptians"

2009-07-28T03:18:00.000-07:00

I have got myself back into the world of promotion, and I have to confess I am enjoying it.

With a lot of the venues we as a band are playing in these days we are there strictly to entertain the punters already provided. This Saturday we are performing at a well respected venue where the responsibility is down to us to get people there......and unfortunately we are going head to head with the Bristol Harbor Festival. I'm praying for rain. Not very charitable I know but I have a band to promote don't you know.

Of course with gigs like this it becomes a bit like trying to sell life assurance. Your first targets are friends and family. They have of course become wise to my persuasive ways and have already begun to make excuses. "I'm in South Africa Uncle Paul". I tell you, the lack of loyalty in my family is outstanding.

As the days pass the excuses for non attendance become almost biblical in their imagination "I would love to be there but I have just bought a field and I have to inspect it".

"I have just purchased a team of Oxen and I must go and plough my field"

"My father is about to be married and I must attend the wedding".

I of course have already gone out into the highways and byways to invite people in the stead of my disloyal following. The only recourse left open to me is equally as biblical in that they all be cast from the light into the darkness where there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Naturally if you have no teeth, as charitable as I can be...teeth will be provided.

Obviously my loyal blog readers will want to rush to see this blessed author take to the stage in solidarity with the man himself.

So, with that in mind...if you are anywhere near Bristol, England on;

Saturday 1st August 09

then get yourselves along to The Thunderbolt in Totterdown by about 9:30pm.

I promise you, it will be worth it.

Right, promotion over.....now......are you adequately covered in terms of your life assurance??

The Rock God must occasionally audition

2009-07-07T13:00:00.000-07:00

Something that I have never understood is people’s earnest desire to go on TV shows like the ‘X-Factor’ and by way of an audition make complete and utter pratts of themselves in front of cynical and critical panellists such as Simon Cowell and Dannii Minogue, as well as millions of television viewers.

I appreciate that ‘public humiliation’ has been part of our culture since we pelted offenders with rotten fruit whilst they languished in the stocks. On a more vicious level the more well to do used to while away an amusing hour or two and pay and laugh at the ‘lunatics’ in mental asylums.

Even though we now firmly believe that as a society we are above such things we in fact take the same bewildered individuals and put the them on national television to have their earnest delusions ‘howled’ in mirth at by countless armchair voyeurs.

Don’t believe me, then answer me this. Why does the opening stages of shows like the aforementioned ‘X-Factor’, ‘Pop Idol’ and ‘Britain’s got talent’ always have the highest viewing figures.

Shows crammed with the deluded and sometimes even the down right scary, making utter fools of themselves in the absolute belief (because one of the producers before the show has already told them that they have every right to have that belief) that they are indeed ‘Mariah Carey incarnate.

Oh what joy is had when they actually sound more like Homer Simpson with a head cold. It’s even better when they stand there and hotly debate with a bored looking Simon Cowell the error of his decision and that he ‘Doesn’t know what he is talking about’.

As I mentioned, I have it on very good authority by somebody who ran one of the mass auditions for the ‘X-Factor’ that many auditonees are set up to fail in a spectacular and humiliating way….for our entertainment.

If we are going down that route, we should have taken Susan Boyle, go all Roman and lobbed a lion onto the stage with her…that would have given her something to sing about…bless her!

So why am I so against this kind of entertainment? Well, it could be that it reminds me of the few times that I had to audition for things and these are memories that I would prefer to forget.

My very first audition was for one of the roles in the school production of ‘West Side Story’. The good news was that I had probably had the best singing voice in the potential cast. The blow that reduced a 16 year old boy, who had virtually no self esteem to rubble was that the producer felt that I was not a good looking boy and certainly not good looking enough to play the lead role of ‘Tony’.

My first lesson in show business was ‘its all about the look’ and not necessarily the talent.

I had my own moments of quiet satisfaction when my very good friend, also one who was unnaturally popular with the girls, got given the lead role and missed the high notes by miles nearly every performance.

You could hear the producers butt cheeks clenching from the back of the theatre, nearly every night. “Shouldn’t have been so shallow then should you pal”. Revenge was a dish best served VERY cold.

My next audition was for my first serious band.

I had created an illusion to get me to the audition in the first place; I had given the impression that I was a virtuoso on the bass guitar. The fact that I knew what one looked like was in reality the only thing I could honestly claim.

So when I arrived with my borrowed kit to a garage in Westbury on Trym, Bristol, I was flying by the seat of my pants.

Unfortunately, the odds were stacked firmly against me. Not only in terms of my inability to actually play the instrument that I was auditioning for but in the fact that the keyboard player had already heard my name before.

Well, not my name exactly, my father’s.

My father was well known and much respected ‘Evangelist’ that is a preacher of the Christian message in case you were wondering. Dave had this vision of Loader junior arriving with greased down hair, a tank, sensible trousers, sandals and socks.

He was so adamant that this ‘oik’ wasn’t going anywhere near his beloved band, that he would quit should I even be considered to join.

I of course turned up with long blond hair, and ripped jeans and jean jacket.

As far as Dave was concerned….I was in…it didn’t matter how well I could play (just as well really, I don’t think I would have ever passed a ‘fair’ audition….I found out later that the younger members of the band were after my singing talents anyway).

Strangely enough, the outcome was exactly the same as my West Side Story experience, only in reverse. I got the gig because of what I looked like and NOT because of any talent. That was the first, and believe, me the LAST time that EVER happened. I’m afraid the ugly stick was used viscously and often when I was being carried in my mothers womb.

I had two more auditions later on from that. One was for local rock Gods ‘Stormtrooper’.

That was embarrassing as they tried to audition me with songs by ‘Rush’. I knew one line from ‘Bastille Day’ and that was it. I kept on singing it over and over again…what a dork.

I was packed off with a cassette and a pile of lyrics with the instructions to learn the songs for another audition. This I did.

My rejection phone call stated that I wasn’t quite what they were looking for; although the bass guitarist’s girlfriend thought I had good ‘diction’.

That was a wonderfully sugar coated way of saying “you were crap, but we heard every word’.

My final audition was for a band that appeared to not have a clue as to what they were going to do. They wanted to put a band together to wander over to Europe and tour around military bases.

I had a crack at the old rhythm guitar for that, but I wasn’t very good. I could tell that as they wanted to hear what I sang like and when an acompanying friend of mine who plays extremely good guitar played for me whilst I sang, they then asked him to audition. I think it was probably a good indication that I had not made a particularly good impression.

My only satisfaction was when Kev was asked he tersely replied “I don’t think so”.

I was generally very embarrassed though.

So the thought of putting myself through that experience on national television and have Mr waist band himself tear my dignity apart does not fill be with enthusiasm.

This could be why I am not famous….or more likely it’s because as I have been told many times…”You have a face for radio my boy”.

A band must have a van

2009-06-24T05:35:00.000-07:00

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”.

What a pleasant day for a cycle!

2009-06-09T04:42:00.000-07:00

You may need to make yourself a cup of coffee, or grab a cold one before you start to read this; it’s bound to be a long one.

The Mudheads had been invited to perform at the Bristol Mountain Bike festival being held the Ashton Court estate in Bristol and we were really looking forward to it.

They had been using the same band for the Saturday night knees up for years. However, the band had got completely wasted after the last gig and had kept the entire festival awake and being that there was a huge race the following day they were asked never to return.

We had been promised an audience of hundreds, a stage, and most importantly adequate power.

So, this Saturday, CJ and I arrived at the main entrance way to the site ‘over’ laden with practically every bit of kit we processed and all set to reverse the trailer directly into the marquee and unload onto the huge stage that had been provided.

WRONG!

The first obstacle was the track way down to the festival itself. In that it had been raining and was the victim of pot holes you could have drowned a cow in, getting down its mile or so length was like taking a gentle meander down the Somme during the winter of 1917.

One wrong move and we could have snapped the trailer clean off of the back of CJ’s company car.

CJ was so tense he was raised a full one inch in his seat and was in serious danger of needing his buttock cheeks unclenched with a crow bar before we would be able to do anything else.

I simply sat in the passenger’s seat as white knuckled as anything I had faced at Alton Towers.

Meeting cars coming in the opposite direction resulted in a Mexican stand off on more than one occasion, given that they didn’t want to reverse all the way back down to where they came from and we simply couldn’t.

We then met one of the promoters who appeared genuinely pleased to see us (as you might imagine this was new and pleasant experience for us).

She pointed us in the general direction of where we would be playing but looked a little confused when I asked if it would be possible to reverse the trailer directly into the tent.

“You won’t be able to drive anywhere near the marquee” she said. “The main cycle track runs right down the side of it in a huge circle and the main race is on until 9pm”.

With my heart sinking into my boots I tentatively asked how close we could expect to get.

“Oh it’s not that bad” she replied, “It’s probably only about three or four hundred yards”.

Bearing in mind the image I had previously given you of a world war one battled field resplendent with trenches, shell holes and copious amounts of mud then add to it two blokes with 1 ½ tonne of expensive musical equipment, one sack truck and unsuitable shoes and you get a picture of how we felt at that moment.

I think the phrase “here we go again” rose unbidden to my lips.

Anyway, we managed to creep through the rain sodden field until we were at least in the shadow of the tent where we were to perform.

If the film “All quiet on the Western front” had done something radical and preformed the whole thing on mountain bikes then I believe this is what it would have looked like.

Hundreds of men and women, both young and old all on bikes all splattered from head to foot in a thick layer of mud.

Also imagine if you will, this scenario teamed up with a Hong Kong high street on a rainy Monday rush hour morning with a busy motor way running right through the middle of it, and this was what CJ and I were going to have to negotiate with the kit.

However, before we put our lives in the hand of the God of all mountain bikers we though we ought to assess the venue in which we were to be performing.

Again my imagined scene of a cavernous arena, bare and silent awaiting our arrival sank glugging into the glutinous earth. The scene that actually did greet us was utter chaos as the Marquee was in fact the main reception for the 1,500 people who were attending the festival and racing.

The one thing no cyclist will ever do will leave their steeds unattended, so we were greeted by a herd of mud covered racers with their bikes all jockeying for position to find when their next heat was etc ‘inside’ the tent.

No stage, and as far as I could see nowhere to put the kit.

We met the main promoter, who was a friendly, cheerful and genuinely nice guy who waved us over to one end of the tent and told us to “set up where you like”, which strictly speaking meant in between a guy who was running a couple of turntables with loud thumping dance music, and the bar (a BBQ table piled high with cans of Stella and Red Bull.)

Again the friendliness of the disco and the couple running the bar was such that we knew that what ever we faced it would be overcomable and all done with the best possible good will.

Mind you I really didn’t believe my heart could sink any further than it had done until I found out where our power was coming from. One single four way plug that was being run off of a generator. “Don’t worry”, chirped the organiser “I got some extra petrol in, just in case” (I wasn’t really sure if he meant to power the generator or to finish off the job should we set the whole place on fire).

In cases such as this we always politely decline to use our lights as the resulting power draw would normally plunge the venue into silent darkness as we killed all the power. However, a further inspection revealed that the marquee didn’t in fact have any lights……at all!! We were going to have to chance it and plug everything including all our lights through the one four way plug and hope we didn’t overload the whole lot.

We set about unloading the trailer and must have resembled the Chuckle Brothers on parade (if you are not British or have never watched children’s television think Laurel & Hardy without the talent) as we teetered on the edge of the track’ flanked by muddy cyclists, looking for a space to literally leg it across the open space to the safety of the other side.

We were painfully aware of the embarrassment that flooring a winning competitor with the sharp end of a bass cabinet 20 yards from the finishing line would cause.

Anyway, by the grace of God, a good wind and the cheerful disposition of the riders we transferred the entire content of the trailer and the car across the field and track and into the tent. Literally within 30 seconds of us closing the doors of the trailer for the last time Aaron and our sound man Jim arrived (my son’s timing as always being impeccable). I thought if he grumbled just once about how hard his day had been, he would experience what the suffragette who threw herself under the hooves of the Kings horse at the turn of the last century felt. Except instead of hooves, they would have been mountain bike wheels.

Don’t ask me how we did it, but by the hour that we had been told we were to play arrived we were ready to rock & roll.

We had been told 9:30pm and so when it came, Jim cranked up the PA and we were off!!

That was until a panic stricken promoter ran in clutching a haul of medals….it would appear that they had in fact only just started the award ceremony just outside the tent and we had drowned the lot out…..oops!!

We kicked our heels for another 25 minutes whilst the brave individuals who had risked their lives for the sake of bicycle glory were showered with praise and we availed ourselves of some of the 10,000 cans of Red Bull that had been donated to the festival.

When the nod came to return to playing we were as jittery as a Politian who was having his expenses investigated.

What followed was probably one of the most enjoyable two hours of the bands history.

I couldn’t tell you exactly how many people were in that tent but it had to be hundreds and they were mad for it. Bodies flying everywhere, singing, dancing with the occasional reveller being hurled into us by his friends (I narrowly risked having my teeth removed by my own microphone on several occasions). However, the cheer that went up in between each song was adrenalin pumping and was a timely reminder of why we got into rock music in the first place.

Before we left the stage (area) following tumultuous applause, the promoter bounded up and shouted to the crowd that “we have our new resident festival band, for ever and ever”. The crowd roared their approval.

To say that egos had been well and truly tickled would be an understatement.

However, without adding a dour edge to the whole proceedings, the enormity of what was to come was already firmly placed in the back of our minds…the get out!!

The urgency of this whole operation was bolstered by the sound of the increasingly heavy rain bouncing off of the tent and the organiser pointing out that his additional fuel for the generator was almost depleted and at some point in the imminent future we were going to be plunged into the inky blackness of a large field, at midnight in the pouring rain.

The race was on.

I do not exaggerate when I say that Jim was carrying the very last mic stand to the trailer when the comforting chugging sound of the generator ceased and all went silent…and dark.

One more hurdle faced us. Getting back through the Somme in conditions that were fifty times worse then when we had arrived.

Every buttock was clenched as we slipped and slewed across the field towards the entrance way, praying every inch of the way that the wheels wouldn’t suddenly start spinning, because if they did…..we would be there for the night.

However, we made the main gate, which was locked. No worries we had been warned. The key was under a rock.

I unlocked the gate, rain pouring down my neck and waved the two vehicles through. I then locked the gate behind me and set about the risky task of climbing back over the slippery gate in the wet. At this point CJ thought it would be hilarious to switch out all his car lights. Oh how I laughed.

They laughed even harder when having climbed back over the gate, getting soaked in the process, I realised that I could have gone around it.

However, all in all, it’s the rock & roll life for me and I for one am really looking forward to an invite back next year. We had a great night, and as I have mentioned, you couldn’t have met a friendlier more enthusiastic bunch of people if you had tried.

It’s just that next year, I’m buying a pair of wellies.

Back to the blogg

2009-06-05T05:37:00.000-07:00

My apologies that I have not penned anything for nearly a month now, this is especially important as articles I write for you good folk are my source for a column that I now scribble for Bristol Rocks called “The Loader Lectures”.

Truth be known it is getting increasingly difficult to write witty observations on an industry that is becoming more and more depressing.

Venues we once loved are closing their doors.

Places that were once reliable and never any trouble are pulling fast ones on artistes and refusing to pay the agreed amount promised on the night.

Once great venues for a good night’s rock & roll are now crawling with underage drinkers, utterly gazebo’d on half a cider and black.

And even the most enthusiastic supporters of local music are generally giving up and moving on to other things.

It all sounds like doom and gloom, however this isn’t always the case. We have discovered that the good folks of Yeovil, Somerset REALLY know how to rock (despite making me look young) and we have the British Mountain Bike festival tomorrow, where we are being guaranteed a crowd of at least 1200 people.

With this is mind, I will keep my finely trained brain open for literary opportunities, which I can then share with you.

Mind you, I had better get in quick. I have just discovered why I keep getting hammering headaches on a Friday morning following our rehearsal nights (no it is not down to an over abundance of the falling down juice). It would appear that making a room sound proof can also make it air tight and as the singer I am consuming far more oxygen than is available to me….hence I am probably getting a regular does of Carbon Monoxide poisoning. No wonder I couldn’t find my feet this morning.

Watch this space as to how we are going to resolve this problem (on the cheap).

Speak soon.

Big, black and beautiful

2009-05-11T08:34:00.000-07:00

From time to time the old Rock God ego gets the better of him.

I know that I am supposed to have grown out of such things. I know that now I am in my forties I should be a beacon for sensible living and ‘doing the right thing’.

However, just once in a while something comes along that reminds you that inside you are still a 17 year old rocker at heart.

The time had come to purchase some new speakers for my Bass Guitar. The old ones were beginning to sound a little bit like a flatulent rat in a biscuit tin, which is a not a good sound for a bastion of entertainment.

So with credit card in hand (having blown everything I had on my red-mid-life-crisis-mobile I will not have ‘cash in hand’ for a good many more years to come), I trundled of down to Reverb, musical employer of number one son Aaron.

Reverb (formally known as Sound Control) have been endeavouring to get me to part with my money on a regular basis for many years now and hearing that I was ‘in the market’ I was met by a welcoming reception of senior staff all eager to sell me the very latest in high end bass technology speakers.

They did in fact have an extremely attractive (and expensive 8 x 10 Hartke…(.that’s 8 times 10 inch speakers in case you are wondering what on earth I am talking about) that looked like a heavy metal coffin….and it sounded awesome.

However, and this is where the ego comes in, next to the coffin sat a pair of Marshall 4 x 12 (yes that’s a speaker with 4 lots of 12 inch speakers in it, so 2 sets would give me 8 times 12 inch speakers…are you getting it?).

Now these things were, a) more expensive and b) flippin enormous.

However, they were Marshall’s and as anybody who has ever been to a classic rock concert will tell you are things of immense beauty in a rock & roll kind of way.

Visions of Iron Maiden at the Bristol Colson Hall came flooding back. Thin Lizzy, whitesnake, Motorhead, oh the list is endless. All these rock giants that I saw in my youth who were flanked by row upon roll of black and gold speaker cabinets with the legionary Marshall signature running through the middle of them.

Yes the Hartke was cheaper, yes the Hartke was smaller and yet, yes the Hartke sounded better. Hartke was a bass players dream.

Of course you know what I went for???? Of course you do.

Now all I have to do is break the news to CJ as I am not sure they are going to fit in the trailer.

A good workman is worthy of his hire

2009-05-06T01:22:00.000-07:00

I have noticed a disturbing new trend that has not reared its ugly head before until recently, at least not for me.

However, it happened to us again this Friday, and I know that it is happening to my peers in the musical community with a frightening regularity.

When we are booked for gigs a price is agreed with the promoter or landlord or whoever prior to accepting the booking. This is normally negotiable and not designed to take the mick out of the poor soul who is trying to hire us.

However, we pride ourselves on the level of professionalism and entertainment that we offer and so we would not say that we are ‘cheap’. However, we are also not extortionate (certainly better value that the teen moppets that get paid five thousand quid to turn up at a shopping mall and mime to their latest mind melting single that’s for sure).

However, you can imagine my surprise following an evening of unrestricted rock & roll enthusiasm that left the punters suitably appeased and like the viewers of Russell Crowe’s Gladiator “Entertained” by the spilling of West Country blood, when the Landlord pressed nearly half the agreed amount into my greasy outstretched palm.

Now I am a man of peace and love, I am not known for acts of savagery or wanton thugery. However, we have bills to pay.

“Ere! This aint what we agreed” was probably not the most eloquent phrase ever to leave uttered from my lips, but it did express my surprise at this lapse in his fiscal judgement.

“That’s all I pay mate” was definitely not the response I was hoping for.

However, as he was surrounded by a herd of his biggest (drunkest) mates I decided that diplomacy was going to result in less bone breakage for me than giving him a mouthful.

I gently, but firmly pointed out the error of his statement and that we were a good deal of money light at this present moment in time.

Have you ever heard the expression “The lights are on but nobody is at home”, well that was what I was greeted with.

Then he leaned over the bar and pulled out another 20 quid from the till and placed it in my hand and gave me one of those stares that suggested that I ought to cut my loses and run.

As I was making the best dignified retreat I could muster he called after me “Great night lads, we’ll have you again”.

This credit crunch has an awful lot to answer for I can tell you.

The Axe Factor

2009-04-22T08:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you have to ask yourself the question “Why do we do these things to ourselves”.

The ‘thing’ in question on this particular occasion was to be entered into one of the initial rounds of ‘The Axe Factor’ (yes it does what it says on the tin, a competition for guitarists, singers and bands).

Now I don’t normally ‘do’ competitions as I can’t face the stress that appears to go along with.

In our previous incarnation, Mudheads Monkey, we entered a competition put on my GWR (that’s a local radio station) and made it to the finals.

After our set one of the judges sidled up to us and whispered in our ear that the prize was ours (about 5,000 quid, a portable recording studio and studio time).

Having already rehearsed my acceptance speech in my head, we were suddenly whacked in the face by the announcement that the judges had in fact been ‘split’ and that in order to ‘un-stick’ them they added a new category…..commercial viability.

The other band who they were deliberating over were a bunch of ‘Oasis’ wannabies, and it was at that point that I realised that I had a face that was great for radio….as they were awarded the prize.

I believe the band, who promptly bogged off back to Cardiff split up within the month.

So I don’t do competitions.

However, the Axe Factor was being organised by our promoters and friends Mark Venus and Alfie Kingston, and so when they asked if we would perform it seemed churlish to refuse, so we accepted a place………for last night’s heat.

As CJ now point blank refuses to play acoustic gigs (unless there is an enormous pay cheque involved) citing that we wouldn’t expect to play with only one string (as I constantly remind him being a bass player…I am lucky to be able to cope with anything more than one string), and that is pretty much what we are expecting of him when we play unplugged, Aaron and I went to perform at this particular soirée as the Loaders (that’s our acoustic duo).

When we arrived at the venue we discovered that only six of this evening turns had arrived, which levelled the playing field just a tad, hopefully in our favour.

Then I got the shock that was to colour my whole evening.

There was a panel of four judges, looking very stern and fierce from behind a tartan clothed table, sat ready to dispense words of wisdom and hopefully not to crush any fledging ego beyond the point of resurrection.

Then one of the judges, a man who looked like he was presumably in his 50’s, pointed a finger at me and said……you were in Hartcliffe School Sixth Form.

I was incredulous “How the hell did you know that” I exclaimed. “I never forget a face” he replied.

Now bearing in mind that I was a gangly, spotty long haired youth of 17 when I was summarily asked to leave, and the same could not be said of me now, his feat of recollection was outstanding.

Then it was our turn to perform, three songs…….time to impress the judges.

We had missed the first act as we were in the green room (skittle ally) getting ready, so we had no idea as to how supportive or destructive the judges were going to be.

However, it didn’t matter. We knew that we were not going to be chosen for the next round as we are entertainers and not show winners, and we were there purely to entertain the crowd and get them into a good mood for the whole evening’s music.

However, if a miracle did happen, we wouldn’t complain and the fragile performer’s ego would be firmly ‘tickled’.

Then Mark Venus, who was the compare for the evening, introduced to judges to the contestants and the audience.

Horror of all horror, the man with the photographic memory who had a knack for taking middle aged faces and translating them into memories of younger acquaintances was introduced and I realised that he was in fact my sixth form tutor, the very same man that had told me that I was wasting my time and his and that perhaps it would be better if I was to leave that sainted world of education and seek a new life in the world of employment.

Suddenly, I was 17 years old again and was going to require surgery to have my buttocks unclenched.

We crashed into our three songs with an acceptable level of excitement and madness, whipping the crowd into a state of smiles and foot tapping.

However, this time, instead of performing with my usual level of over confidence, I was sweating like a teenager on a driving test.

I had not seen this man for 31 years. I have been successful in many things. I have made a positive contribution. I am happily married, I have co-raised two delightful children, and yet here I was reverting to that rattled teenager who was desperately trying to avoid a right rollicking from a member of the teaching staff.

Aaron could tell that I was nervous as I reverted to many of my old bad habits that has taken me years to get rid off.

I couldn’t stop talking between songs, even during the songs. I said “Thank you” as each song finished, and I was sweating profusely and my hands were so tense I could barely hold my plectrum.

How daft is that!! I am a seasoned performer with 35 years experience, and yet the sight of my old teacher reduced me to rubble. Isn’t it strange how they can still have that kind of hold over you.

Then came the judge’s comments.

I must have had a face locked into a grimace of fear as Aaron jabbed me in the ribs and growled…..”smile”.

True to form my old teacher liked what we did. We played together well; he thought I had a good voice…….BUT!

There’s always a BUT!

He felt that our middle song descended into cabaret.

Now we have attached the theme song to ‘Only Fools & Horses’ to the end of one our songs as quite frankly, the audience love it….and it’s our job to give the punters what they want.

However, this was probably seen as a bit of an anathema to the ‘serious’ music brigade. It certainly didn’t win us any favour with ‘sir’.

However, he said that on the whole he had enjoyed the set, and the other three judges absolutely loved it.

Isn’t it typical then that the only words that really stick in my mind was the fairly innocuous comment that we had turned into a sparkly suited cabaret act.

Bottom line, we didn’t make it through to the next round. But there again, we hadn’t thought for one minute that we really would.

I would be a liar if I professed that the old ego wasn’t dented just a tad. I mean I had about a 25 year head start on all the other performers, but as I have already said, mine is a face for radio and anyway it would have meant having to do it all over again, and I really, REALLY don’t want to be that 17 year old again.

Aaron did make a good comment. The powers that be may not have deem us serious and worthy contenders for the crown of musical credibility, but unlike most of our young peers at the competition we usual get paid for what we do, AND we are having to turn gigs down as we cannot fit them all in.

Also it was rather gratifying to be approached by a bunch of the younger musicians who had really enjoyed what we had done and asked us if we had any advice for them. (The student was now the master).

We may not have won that round, but we distinguished ourselves with honour and members of the audience approached us throughout the evening to say how much they had enjoyed us.

However, in that I would never want to be a teenager again, it was amazing how I felt with that particular judge.

Simon Cowell eat your heart out.

The Rock God is NOT having a mid life crisis

2009-04-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

Okay, sure, it is a convertible. I admit that it is rather sporty and fast. AND I concede that it is bright red (Babylon red to be exact), but this does not equate necessarily that the RG is in the throws of some middle aged tantrum regarding the refusal to grow old in some kind of graceful attitude towards ‘greydom’.

I am talking about a car in case you were wondering.

Why is it that when any man finally realises the toy of his dreams, a longing that has been nurtured steadily throughout youth, to marriage, mortgage, fatherhood and beyond, that he is immediately branded as having a ‘mid life’ crisis’.

There’s no flippin crisis about it. I wanted one…I always have….I have only just got to that position in life’s long journey that was beyond the demands for slots for child seats, sick bags and the ability to carry forty five primary school children or three sweat garnished teenagers with more piercings than Michael Caine in Zulu.

It should follow that as I play in a rock band I am automatically having a mid life crisis, and yet I have played in bands almost continuously (apart from the odd gap) since I was 14 years old. There’s no crisis about it.

When a man (or women) has managed to reach some sort of financial stability in their life, this is a cause for celebration not for finger poking and comments about ‘going off the deep end’. I would have brought a Harley Davidson had Mrs Rock God not wisely pointed out that I couldn’t get a guitar or two on a motor bike.

So I stand proud, and unrepentant. I am 48 years old and I have just bought a new car (Bassbin will testify to the state of my old one, which I just happened to own for over a decade).

It just happens to be bright red….and as the sun is shining, I shall drive home with the roof down.

It’s only a Peugeot 307 for pity sake.

Right now let me see………..sunglasses…check…….Nickelback CD….check……..seagull repellent….check…….!

If this is a mid life crisis…..I think I shall have mine in style thank you so very much.

"A whole lot of Rosie"

2009-04-15T07:51:00.000-07:00

They do say that old rockers never die, they just smell like they do. They also say that it is better to burn out than fade away….I’m beginning to think that this might be my destiny.

We have had a fair few gigs crammed into a short space of time, and I am quite frankly ‘knackered’.

It’s been a good year so far, and good offers are arriving frequently. However, as with Friday night, every so often a gig crashes into your consciousness, just to remind the budding Rock God that they should never rise above their station and go and get too big for their boots.

As always, I will refrain from actually naming the venue in question and shall simply call it the ‘Queens Bottom’.

We have played at the venue several times before and have always been met with a warm and enthusiastic audience who invariably refused to let us leave (in the good sense).

Tonight was not going to be quite so enthusiastic and yet they still did not want to let us leave….however, this time the reason was not quite so positive.

The whole tone of the evening met us on arrival and it resulted in one heck of a load in and set up.

A young lady had sadly lost her life in a senseless car accident quite close to the pub a week earlier and friends, family and neighbours all descended on the pub in order to raise cash in her memory.

They were dressed in the loudest and most outrageous costumes they could find…either that or they were bedecked in pyjama’s and dressing gowns. And there were dozen’s and dozen’s and dozen’s of them. Mainly young girls or children and they were all milling around the entrance ways to the pub.

This made getting our 1 ½ tonnes of kit into the building a tad difficult.

Crushing a 7 year old poppet who is dressed as a dayglo Disney princes with the sharp end of 4 x 12 guitar speaker would do nothing to enhance our reputation in the area I can tell you.

It also felt rather churlish to tell this bunch of well meaning enthusiasts to “get the hell out of the way as we are on in half an hour”, and so another route was sought and we found ourselves running the gauntlet of boys on bicycles and outdoor smokers huddled around the entrance way of the kitchens at the other end of the building, who made random comments like “that looks heavy” before collapsing into a fit of smoke induced hacking coughing brought on by the strength of their own hilarity.

One of the oddities of this whole spectacle was observing super charged Renault Clios and such careering around the pub car park driven by teenage mourners sending packs of young dayglo wearing children flying in all directions. There was a very real possibility that this event that had been called to celebrate the life of a woman that had been knocked down by a speeding car was going to end up with somebody getting knocked down…..by a speeding car.

Anyway, against all the odds, nobody was killed or hurt and we got all of our equipment into the building before it was time to kick off.

With that the hoards of brightly coloured revellers, as one departed, presumably in order to get their children to bed. However this did leave the place in the domain of a bunch of already plastered teenagers and young people. It was going to be a long night.

According to my two colleagues we were well received. However, from my short sighted perception we went down like Gareth Gates on an oil rig.

Then, much to my amazement, into this den of alcohol fuelled apathy strolled our church pastor and his wife.

Now you might not think that this is so amazing as it would be only natural for a man of the cloth to want to support members of his flock in their earnest endeavours. And this of course would be very much what he was doing. However, what you need to know is that although our pastor is a good man his taste in music is so….shall we say…twee….that it makes John Denver look like a death metal artiste.

For Dave to come to one of our gigs is, you will have to trust me in this, a sign of his love and commitments for those that he is responsible for…i.e. me and Aaron.

The horror of what was happening though was not lost on me. Dave and Elaine walked in just as we hammering through “Turning Japanese” by the ‘Vapours’, and as they took their seats just in front of the speakers, I was singing the immortal lines “No sex, no drugs, no wine, no women, no fun, no sin, no you know wonder it’s dark”……..oh joy.

Of course that particular song runs straight into “A whole lot of Rosie” by ‘AC/DC’, which without putting too fine a point on it is about a bloke having wild rampant sex with his 19 stone girlfriend.

Now, I am not one who advocates unsuitable lyrics in songs…I am now a parent after all. However, I maintain that at the volume we play you can’t hear the words anyway, and most people like these songs because of the music.

I had a bright idea to maintain my dignity. As the offending words came to their place in the song, I stood back from the microphone.

My son and heir sadly saw what I was doing and was not prepared to let me get away with this particular hypocrisy and stood up to his mic and bellowed out the offending lyrics in his loudest, clearest voice.

Thankfully, Dave’s ears had been so firmly pinned back behind his head by the volume that he didn’t pick any of that up at all.

Bless him, he made it to the end of the first half before retreating to the safety of his own home and some ‘good old ‘US of A’ gospel music from the deep south’.

It has to be said that my own parents haven’t heard me perform in a band since I was 19 years old so this was a point of honour indeed that was not lost on me.

Any roads we made it to the end of the evening, with dignity but very little enthusiasm left intact.

This was when the problem of getting back out of the building reared its drunken head.

The crowd of sozzled youths that crowded around the entrances had got to the point where they firmly believed that they were a) hard, b) funny and c) in the right to do anything they liked, including preventing the poor gits who had been from performing that night leaving.

Aaron however in a stroke of comedic genius draw himself up to his full 6 foot 3 inch height and whilst clutching his enormous flight cased guitar amp, looked straight into the face of the leading tattooed, baseball cap wearing Chav and quoted Douglas Adams at him (that would be from the Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy for those not in the know).

“Do you know how much damage I would do to this amp if I simply dropped it on your head”

“Na”

“None what so ever”.

Whether said drunken Chav understood the subtlety of the quote, indeed if he even knew of it’s origins (I sincerely doubt it), either way bowing to a superior intellect or because he truly believed that Aaron would drop a hundred weight of Marshall cap on him he took the better part of valour and got he and his mates out of the way.

We still took out a few back legs and shins with the rest of the gear, but that was their own stupid fault.

You do have to ask yourself why we do this sometimes.

For balance though. Aaron and I under our acoustic duo moniker ‘The Loaders’ performed to an audience so civilised and appreciative on Sunday that we sang the old hymn “When I survey the wondrous cross” in honour of Easter Sunday.

That was just in case you think I have really ditched the entire ‘God Bothering’ and gone instead for a preference for singing about carnal relations with women of a fuller figure.

Of course, the pastor wasn’t there to hear that one was he…typical!

The last temptation of The Mudheads

2009-03-27T06:46:00.000-07:00

We really are getting into the groove with this concert lark!

We arrived at the ‘Fight Club’ fully prepped and bang on time.
We set our gear up in record time and we were within the blink of an eye…..’Ready to Rock’.

We then eyed the enormous audience suspiciously. They eyed us back with equal suspicion and with just a hint of aggression.

Now on the face of it, this should be the ideal gig for us. Four hundred or so twenty somethings, all in town to ‘have a good time’. Herds of young women in remarkably high heels and ridiculously short skirts wandered around in packs and kept eyeing us discreetly with that look that suggested that we were not on their list of ‘things they really wanted anything to do with tonight thank you very much’.

This look of distaste was not subdued when we launched into our sound check…..we were loud, VERY loud (more of that later), leaving everybody in a half mile radius in no doubt that we were anything but a fully fledged, paid up, cranked up, heads up…rock band!

With that one of the herd broke pack and tottered up to Aaron and tugged on his shirt sleeve.

What! I hear you cry..had the boy pulled so early. Were offers of drinks and moonlit walks on the cards (his girlfriend might be reading this). Had his heady good looks, inherited from his father I might add, captivated this bright young thing as soon as she had clapped eyes upon him.

No!

She had been assigned by the pack as being the only one that could speak ‘bloke’ and sent on a mission to utter these immortal words;

“Do you play any disco?.....we want to dance”.

Despite the many posters and flyers that littered the venue and the especially large banner that adorned the main entrance way informing all that passed this way that tonight was truly a ‘rock & indie’ night, a large group of office workers had descended upon the place firm in their belief that they would be discoing the night away.

Our first set though left none of them in any doubt that we were about as far removed from said disco as it is possible to get.

That being said, at least two other delegates from the herd were dispatched and were to yell in my ear for requests for songs that are currently in the top of the charts….I can only assume that they must have been referring to songs from the latest hip hop, techno sensation. Either way it got to the point that I had to announce over the PA that “I’m sorry boys and girls, but we don’t do requests”.
At this the herd decided that they must try and make the best of a bad job and set about flinging sorties of about two or three girls at a time bang into the middle of the dance floor in front of the stage, where they would wriggle provocatively, sending their chesticles flying in all directions and waving their backsides at each other in some sort of primitive tribal mating ritual. Then they would fly back off into the relative safety of the herd only to be replaced by another sortie of wrigglers.

It has to be said, that if I had not been there with my son I would have enjoyed myself a whole lot more. Especially as I was trying out contact lenses for the first time and I could clearly see what was going on.

However, in case anybody feels that this resident God botherer has been succumbing to the temptations of the flesh, be assured that having been given a damn good thrashing with the ugly stick at birth, the whiley ways of the groupie have never been a problem for me. I can honestly say that throughout my 35 years of performing live I have only once ever had an adoring fan throw themselves upon me. However, I was already engaged to Aaron’s mother and so I dutifully fought her off, and respectfully declined the offer of a good ‘snog’.

At the ripe old age of……..well lets just say that I am not 21 anymore, I am not about to be so stupid as to throw everything away for the attentions of a cider fuelled Doris in an outfit that would have probably given her father a heart attack should he have clapped eyes upon it.

By the second half of the gig though things were getting a little tiring.

The sound was unbelievably loud as the sound man wanted the music to travel the length of the club to hit the back wall and the entrance way.

That level of noise can become very debilitating after a while and I eventually couldn’t make any notes out from amongst the wall of sound that was crashing into my head. This isn’t a great place to be when you are the singer and you are endeavouring to pitch your voice with the instruments.

I think I presented my self with honour…. However I will never know as all those that were actually listening to us (and there were several hundred taking an active interest) looked as shell shocked as I felt.

As soon as the last note was finished, the herd regrouped and swiftly vacated the building in search of a more ‘disco’ related club in which they could temp the metal of other men who to be honest….had a pulse!!

They want us back….Lord help us!

"Another Caviar nibble Mr Loader?"

2009-03-23T09:56:00.000-07:00

My apologies for the sporadic nature of my shambolic postings of late.

As a fledgling Rock God I dreamt of lengthy lie ins having performed at one of my many stadium type gigs the night before. This would of course be followed by a sumptuous brunch in my five star hotel room, with perhaps a manicure or some other suitably relaxing and decedent non activity to follow.

By the time I was in a fit state of mind to face my adoring world, my driver would have arrived to deliver me in style to one of the many radio interviews, album signings, or all factory star personal appearances that I would have to reluctantly fit in before being driven to the BBC for my exclusive interview with Michael Parkinson or Terry Wogan (if you are under 30 years old read that as Jonathan Ross or rather surprisingly, Paul O’Grady or Jay Leno if you are Stateside).

You would then find me consuming slap up cuisine in some 5 star pile in the centre of London being regally entertained by a Hollywood A list celebrity, and then back to my 5 star four poster bed for a good nights kip giving me the strength to do it all over again the next day.

The reality of the matter is (of course) somewhat different.

As young fledgling Rock God, I nearly starved to death in the backside end of some European kingdom, such as Holland (well, not perhaps starved to death, but certainly hungry enough to eat the horse meat we got served on one occasion….and no it doesn’t taste like chicken).

The dream of those 5 star hotels and interviews with the best chat show hosts in the land, died pretty much in the Netherlands really.

Now, like most mid life Rock stars…I have to work for a living to maintain my visions of fame and glory. Believe you me; bass guitar strings do not come cheap.

For my sins I work for the NHS….with children to be exact…..and it can be VERY hard work indeed.

Having somehow lost my way in life I now find myself as the administrator for the service in which I earn a crust.

Most days are spent bashing away at my criminally slow computer and wondering if I should have gone from Holland to Germany as opposed back to Blighty and the welcoming bosom of WH Smith & Sons (that’s a national chain of book and stationary retailers for you outside of the UK), where my desperate slide into ‘ordinary’ began to take it’s deathly grip.

I didn’t stay there incidentally, but that’s a story for another blog in another place.

All that being said, I was apologising for my tardiness in posting blogs, and the reason for that is of late….I’ve been too flippin busy!!

However, I am sorry and I will undertake to fill you in on just exactly what did (or didn’t) happen at the Fight Club as soon as I can find the bottom of my desk.

Please keep the faith and don’t wander off just yet!!

The Fight Club

2009-03-10T09:17:00.000-07:00

The Mudheads are busily preparing themselves for the “How many gigs can we cram into one year Tour 2009”, and judging my how difficult it has been to get the band together since Christmas simply to rehearse, I would say not many.

Actually, that’s not strictly true as we have already got 11 dates in the diary with plenty more chomping up behind.

Now one of these concerts in itself could be extremely interesting indeed. Officially it has an exciting rock & roll name, a little bit like ‘The Hard Rock Café’ but not (if you see what I mean).

I am reluctant to reveal its proper name as I am in no position financially to get sued for liable.

You see if might officially have a rather vogue name, locally however it is commonly known as ‘The Fight Club’.

We have been asked to perform at said venue by the promoters as part of a charity evening which is launching a Trust that is being set up by the mother of a teenager that was stabbed to death…out side said night club!

I have asked that all our biggest (and ugliest) mates attend this gig in order to protect our backsides.

CJ in light of getting this particular booking then went on to excel himself….he’s gone and got us booked to play in the largest Irish themed night club in Bristol.

The patrons of this establishment warm themselves of an evening by thumping lumps out of the more deranged element of ‘The Fight Club’.

We…are….going….to …….die!

But hey…whoever said that Rock & Roll was supposed to be safe….why do you think that I wear a bass guitar that is made of a particular thick piece of wood……..I’m armed me!

Anyway, first gig of the season sees us performing away from Bristol down in Yeovil…..I believe they eat their dead down there…..so we may not make it to the ‘Fight Club’ anyway.

I’ll let you know how we get on.

The Rock God MUST rehearse

2009-02-23T08:15:00.000-08:00

I have mentioned this before, but it would appear that too many years of TV programmes like ‘Fame’ and ‘High School Musical’ give the average person the unfaltering belief, especially when mixed with four pints of something dangerous, that songs can be plucked on a whim from the air and played like a digital recording even if the poor unfortunates performing that evening have never even heard of said tune.

I cannot count the times that some clown with alcohol breath that could fell a horse, swilling their beer (or gin & tonic, for such an affliction is not solely the pass time of men) and being unswayed by our protests that we do not know how to perform the theme song from ‘Titanic’ and probably never will, has insisted that we should just “go for it”.

We got to a point where we almost stuck up a backdrop that was not emblazoned with the Bands moniker, nor our website details, but with the statement “We do not do requests…..and we do not play the following”….which of course would have included such favourites as ‘Smoke on the water’, ‘Sweet Child of Mine’ and absolutely anything by ‘Robbie Williams’.

There may also have been some reference to abstaining from attempting anything that might have been recorded by an ‘X Factor’ contestant.

However, common sense eventually prevailed in that we only have ourselves to blame for putting ourselves in this kind of line of fire and that for the most part these Simon Cowell wannabies are mostly harmless.

You see, what these idiots (my apologies, I mean ‘music enthusiasts) do not realise, is that weeks of hard work goes into each and every song that we play…..well, that was until we jammed ‘Teenage kicks’ got it right first time, thought that it would be a scream for a bloke in his 40’s to sing it, and it was in. The whole process took under two minutes. However, on the whole the process takes a lot of time and hard work.

Now as a band we are not, for want of a better expression, ‘anal’ about rehearsing songs. We do not unpick each riff, expression, nuance and word. We do however, work hard at getting the ‘feel’ right.

We are also very proud of the reputation that we have been honoured with in that we as a band are extremely ‘tight’.

Now that does not mean that we get on well together (although it has to be said that we are a family…..in two thirds of our case, quite literally).

It also does not mean that we are permanently ‘plastered’ (the generous consumption of the falling down juice is discouraged at our gigs as we are being paid to do a job that quite frankly is hard enough stone cold sober let alone when you have trouble remembering where your feet are let alone what the opening line of the next song is).

What being ‘tight’ means is that we perform together well. The bass and drums become as one, and we sound as if we are as ‘on the same road’ as opposed to being all over the place.

This is extremely important to me as when I played bass in my very first serious band, the drummer and I had a hard time playing together in time. He being considerably more aggressive then I laid the blame firmly and squarely at my feet. The other members of the band went along with this.

Of course you get told something often enough you begin to believe it.

However, when a gig goes well, and it gets to a point where you couldn’t insert a piece of rice paper between CJ’s bass drum and my bass guitar I get a moment of immense pride.

It wasn’t me after all….yah boo suck to ya all!!

I put this totally down to lots and lots of practice.

As a band The Mudheads are extremely fortunate in that we own our own practice space (well CJ does).

Most bands have to load their kit into cars and vans, transport their equipment to a rehearsal studio, set it up, get the sound right…..play for a couple of hours…take it back down, drive home and unload…..oh, and pay about fifty quid for the privilege.

Our own little ADHD candidate got bored between bands and built himself a double garage into which he constructed a rehearsal room….totally sound proof and as we have since discovered totally air tight!

When we began rehearsing as a band we had two small practice amps, the drum kit and a vocal PA. We had plenty of room to move. We have since grown about 300 percent equipment wise and we now struggle to get in there let alone practice.

However, spurred on by the knowledge that most other bands have a really hard time with this particular process we gladly sit back, open a cold one from CJ’s beer fridge (for which he insists loudly and on a regular basis gives him an extra and thus deciding vote) and count our blessings.

It does mean however that it can make us rather lazy from time to time, and not all of our rehearsals are as productive as perhaps they ought to be, especially if CJ and Aaron have been in receipt of a good crop of jokes over the previous week. However on the whole we make good use of the time.

We also have the luxury of trying out news songs that perhaps don’t work, as we are not spending a small fortune week after week playing with things that are just not right for us as a band.

And most importantly it does mean that for us as a band, it is for the most part still a lot of fun.

In these desperate times when many bands are knocking it on the head due to poor audience attendance, we continue to look forward to Thursday nights as these are the ‘boys night in’.

And yes, occasionally…between beers, we do learn a new song or two.

The Joys of Twitter

2009-02-19T06:20:00.000-08:00

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Quicksketch has introduced me a new world wide phenomena called 'Twitter'....I have added a link to the left hand side of this blog, which will allow you updates of what I am doing throughout the day.

So, if you want to know what a Rock God has for lunch.....or how often he goes to the bathroom...check it out.

You can even get updates sent to your phone or e-mail.

Does this have a rather 'sad' element to this do you think??

Anyway, Stephen Fry is a big fan of Twitter so who am I to argue and I want to remain cutting edge............until I finally give up and buy myself a pipe and some slippers and the overwhelming urge to own a garden shed becomes to much to bear.

Guitar Mountain!

2009-02-16T07:22:00.000-08:00

This weekend saw a momentous occasion….well for The Loader household anyway……Rock God Junior (that’s The Mudheads guitarist and my son, Aaron) left home.

This wasn’t a tantrum based; let’s throw the guitar out of the pram “I hate all of you” kind of a moment. This was a planned “Oh good Lord how am I ever going to pay this mortgage off” type of occasion.

Aaron is now a home owner…..well ‘part’ owner. He shares it with his partner Sue and of course it’s actually owned by the Nat West bank….at least for the next 35 years……..Rock God senior (that’ll be me) will either be dead, dying or just VERY old by the time they can actually claim that pile as their very own.

With the big day upon us, The Mudheads tour bus (a very large black trailer lovingly rescued from farm yard oblivion by CJ) was emptied of all surplus musical equipment and conscripted into being a removal van.

The first thing we can say about a guitarist is that they own one heck of a lot of cack!........that’s total and utter rubbish to you and me.

I don’t think that my son and heir has had a good clear out (of the tidying up variety) since he was 3 years old. So there was 20 years of tat that had to be retrieved, checked and boxed (the thought of packing before hand had never really occurred to him).

CJ and I had a great afternoon discovering guitar plectrums in every nook and cranny around the room (I now have a pocket full of them).

Old comics, CD’s DVD’s even his first teddy bear (he hadn’t noticed that I had stuffed that in his suitcase to be discovered later), all covered in a thick layer of ‘man’ sized dust was rummaged through in order to pack.

Eventually, in order to get us all home before the end of the age, CJ chose to just wipe everything off of desks, cupboards and shelves on to the floor and we concentrated on the big stuff.

It was the look of sheer horror on Sue’s face that said it all as we unloaded the trailer into what had previously been her pristine new home.

What she hasn’t seen yet is the reason for Mrs Rock God’s joy……Aaron’s half of the 18 or so guitars that we own between us……all flight cased….all used. And Sue thinks she is going to have a spare room……hah!

I’m sure I saw just a glint of evil pleasure on my wife’s face when Sue made her statements of where everything was going to go.

You see what she hasn’t appreciated yet is that she is setting up home with a musician. Just one mind you, poor Mrs Rock God has had to tolerate the injustice of three (my daughter also plays……guitar, piano, clarinet……there’s even a keyboard in there somewhere).

As Sue surveyed her neatly tidied living room she appeared blissfully unaware that it would soon be knee deep in guitars, plectrums, broken strings, cases, music, guitar pedals, and amps…..and everything else that is required to inspire rock stardom to your average guitar hero.

Mrs Rock God hasn’t been able to use our front room for years. Mrs CJ would risk life and limb to get into their garage…..let alone our little studio.

Still……..as I sit here smuggling typing…..it’s no longer my problem it’s Sue’s.

Right…let’s see if the little so in so has left me any of my CD’s.

The Adventures of 'Wheelchair Man' and his trusty sidekicks 'The Preachers Kid'.& 'Bassbin'.

2009-02-10T04:22:00.000-08:00

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I wonder if you might allow me a small indulgence and let me write about something that has absolutely nothing to do with music.

I was inspired to begin writing this blog by a very good friend of mine, Stephen, who goes under the blog name of ‘Quicksketch’.

Now I know that there are a fair few of you that read my simple scribblings because they stumbled across Stephen’s blog “How to be an inspiration” first.

For those that don’t know Steve’s blog is about the day to day frustrations, joys and restrictions of suffering with a degenerative condition called Muscular Dystrophy.

However, Steve is by no means a ‘moaner’ (his wife Polly of course reserves the right to disagree with this entirely) and his blog is often down right hilarious and I would heartily recommend it to you.

However, my point for writing about Steve is this, the blog is essentially about his condition and the day to day struggle he has to endure. However for myself and my good buddy Bassbin (Darren) we still don’t see the wheel chair, and the hassle that Steve has to endure even eat and sleep these days.

We still see the child, teenager and young man that grew up with us. Dignified, funny, good natured, thoughtful and a good friend.

When I was 9 years old, my father upped the family, dragging us kicking and screaming away from friends, school and familiar surroundings and moved us to a house closer to the church where he was pastor.

In this my self and my siblings had to go to a new school and I was introduced to my new class mates. Two lads in particular were given the task of integrating the newbie. Darren and Steve.

Now I’m not quite sure why those two were particularly chosen for this task, maybe it was thought that they would be the least likely to make this new kid cry. Perhaps it was felt that they would be the least likely to lead me into ‘Disaster’.

Either way, but for a twist of fate, my new best friends could have been Ricky Hartee and Andrew Scully. I don’t know what my future would have held, but I certainly would have been in the company of more girls that was for sure.

However, at the same point in history, when Man first set foot on the moon, I made two new friends that would help to sculpt my life, and I believe they did it in a very positive way indeed.

As with all of us in those days, both boys, like me, were skinny and scruffy and full of life.

I can’t remember at what point it was mentioned that Steve has Muscular Dystrophy, but I believe it was almost immediately. No big deal was made, I didn’t have a clue what it was for Pete sake, and to be honest it didn’t really matter. I was now being initiated into the ‘Whitchurch Wanders’ and a total acceptance of the MD and Steve as a founding member of that tribe was a prerequisite to belonging and his condition was virtually never mentioned again until relatively recently.

It wasn’t that it was ignored, as if a shameful thing was being suppressed and buried, it just never factored.

Steve’s dad, Roger, held a place of power and place in our young lives. He was the leader of the local ‘Cub scout’ group, of which all three of us became members. He went under the moniker of ‘Arkala’ and he scared the crap out of myself and Darren. However, he held an immense amount of respect from both of us, and I believe, from what has been revealed to us later, he was rather fond of us.

The Cubs were and I suppose are, a great institution. Although it was a hell of a lot more fun back in the days before the oppression of health & safety had got a hold of us. We got taught to light fires, use knives, sleep in DIY shelters and got told stories in gory detail of what can happen if you do stupid things with your sheaf knife.

Roger, like two of his sons, also had the condition Muscular Dystrophy, so he probably knew more about was in store for his lads than perhaps they did. As far as I can remember though he didn’t do his oldest boy any special favours, Steve was treated like the rest of us, although I do remember more badges appearing on Steve’s uniform than Darren and I could both muster together. If I remember rightly there were a few grumblings of ‘fix’ being banded about. However, as with all of our dealings with Steve, the suggestion that he might have been given a break because of his MD didn’t even occur to us (the fact that he has always applied himself a bit more enthusiastically also didn’t occur to us either and that he had simply ‘earned’ more badges than us).

It was during these heady days of cubs that Steve’s condition did start to become more apparent and also evidence of its debilitating effects on him became more noticeable. It was during the ‘swimming badge’ that Steve was unable to perform all the tasks set for him (neither could I, so it didn’t really seem to matter). However for Steve, it wasn’t matter of ability, he physically couldn’t do.

But again, Darren’s and my attitude was ‘Hey ho…no worries’.

It was at this point Darren and I began to show early signs that we could make complete idiots of ourselves when the occasion required, usually with Steve standing behind us shaking his head in despair. We both nearly got sent home from a cub camp when we got ourselves into a full blown fist fight over…..a woggle!! (that’s the thing that you tied your neckerchief up with incidentally). Don’t ask me what it was about, but I remember that it was pretty heated.

These heady days continued until I was asked to leave on account that I was now the oldest cub in Bristol, and a full year older than I supposed to be. I didn’t last very long in scouts (I don’t think that Darren and Steve even got that far…the cubs were our moment of glory).

When we reached the heady age of 11 or 12 (I was a full 10 months older than the other two so I have always been considered ‘the old man’ of the out fit. Great when you are 12….pants when you are in your 40’s.) we were introduced to our new secondary school, Hartcliffe Comprehensive School, the most frightening institution on God’s green Earth.

Hartcliffe at that time was one of the biggest schools in the country and it certainly had one of the worst reputations for brutality…both from students and staff.

Steve’s ability to move had begun to slow somewhat, but it didn’t matter, we all walked slower in way of unmentioned, unsolicited compensation (some habits die hard I have discovered). His facial expressions also began to suggest that the muscles weren’t as strong as they used to be. However, we all looked liked train wrecks from Pizza hut in those days so it didn’t matter.

Steve’s recollection may be better than mine, but I don’t recollect him getting a particular hard time from the other kids, which is remarkable given the age of the kids that were repulsed by even the slightest of differences.

He may have been getting some stick but to be honest I was too busy wrapped up in my own misery. As I said, my father was pastor of the local church and he used to come into our school to take our assemblies. This was like manna from heaven for my class mates in terms of Mickey taking. I would be followed around by groups of kids, monk like in mock prayer as they trailed ‘The preacher’s kid’ around the play ground.

I cannot illustrate how painful and humiliating that was for me, which is daft considering as I look back on it now most of the kids were very fond of my dad, and I have since become extremely proud of the nickname ‘The preachers kid’. Strange how we grow.

As with all our journey together, Steve was not offered any special dispensation by his growing army of mates, although instinctive allowances were made for Steve’s reducing physical prowess, however, to draw attention to it would have been tantamount to an insult.

However, some of the staff weren’t quite so open minded when it came to being over protective of the ‘disabled boy’.

Mr Owen was a maths teacher, and I believe he was a ruddy psychopath. Even the staff were terrified of him.

I remember making the stupid mistake of treating Steve like any other kid in one of Owen’s lessons. I leant over a desk and cuffed Steve around the back of the head (that’s the sort of things mates do to each other ….it’s a male thing apparently).

I had not realised that my ‘torturous act upon this helpless young cripple’ had been observed by the Ogre of class 4B and with a roar of fury he launched himself across the classroom towards me. I was wrenched from seat by my jacket lapels, and had to suffer a torrent of venomous abuse on the subject of being unkind to those less fortunate than ourselves, and then unceremoniously I was flung across three or four desks to crash into a crumbled heap in the corner of the room.

Steve simply wet himself laughing.

Steve and I did suffer at the hands of a couple of Neanderthal thugs who managed to sit with us in our science class. However, our pleas for assistance to our form tutor (something they encourage children to do nowadays), was met with “You are bigger than then…..beat them up”. I was “The Preachers Kid” I didn’t do ‘beating up’, and even back then Steve was becoming a man of learning and not a boxer.

Still, I suppose the only satisfaction I can muster is the pair of them are probably due for parole at some point in the near future (not a very Christian day dream I grant you….but stuff it!).

For those of you who have been reading this blog regularly, you will already be aware of what happened when Steve, myself and Darren first began to dabble in music with my blog "My tone deaf mate”.

By the time we reached the sixth form (before, both Darren and I were asked to leave), Steve had begun to circulate in a more learned circle than that offered by Darren and myself (we only had ourselves to blame really, the draw of listening to the Sex Pistols at Darren’s house had a greater draw than attending English Literature lessons I can tell you).

So by 1979 we began to go our separate ways as Darren and I got our first jobs and I had the opportunity to travel a bit with a band, and Steve eventually went off to London to University, became a successful and talented playwright. Co-wrote a best selling no 1 record, got married and had kids.

We never really lost contact, however it has really been more in the last few years that we ‘picked up where we left off’.

The reason for my walk down memory lane is this. I have worked with disabled people from time to time during my working life, and I found this to be hard work, and often rewarding, I have even occasionally found it to be an honour.

However, I have never seen Steve in that light.

I can honestly say that as hard as it has become for him in recent years I still do not see the wheel chair.

To me he is a mate, pure and simple. A good mate who has helped put several huge dollops of paint onto the canvas of my life. A mate that has succeeded in life and has contributed to the arena that he travelled in.

He married a beautiful (and patient) women and they have two very lively, intelligent boys that do their parents proud.

Steve was and is far more than that ‘disabled boy’ that refused to get drawn into the ‘ah, bless him’ space (no matter how hard our mothers tried)

I suppose what I am trying to say is, the next time you run into somebody who is being pushed along in the wheelchair……don’t just see the chair…there is a history sat there. A history of a vibrant human being…that has mates…like me and Bassbin…..just try to resist the temptation to cuff him around the back of the head…Mr Owen could be near by.

It would appear that Cowboys do like the snow

2009-02-09T07:13:00.000-08:00

At least they do in the South of Bristol anyways.

The party that was described in my last blog was a great success, with a variety of friends of the birthday boy arriving all dressed in a variety of cowboy and red Indian costumes (apart from one chap who had clearly read his invite wrong and turned up as a Blues Brother….either that or he was proud of said costume and was determined to wear it regardless) and all cramped into a domestic kitchen until much jollity was had by all.

It was noted by the band that we have in fact played in smaller venues, and to much smaller crowds so we didn’t complain and ‘went for it’ with as much gusto as we could manage.

As I have mentioned previously, we are NOT a country & western band….although I do have to confess that having got hold of a C & W greatest hits album to get me ‘in the mood’ I found myself singing happily along to Dolly Parton’s ‘Jolie’ and ‘Coward of the County’.

However, we thought that in this case we really ought to make an effort to sing something that at least had a ‘Country’ feel to it, so that morning I managed to download and memorise ‘D.I.V.O.R.C.E as sung by Billy Connolly. If song doesn’t ring any bells then get yourself onto Youtube and have a look.

I also managed to remember the words to an old John Denver song called ‘Grandmother’s feather bed’.

I always remember that song fondly from my childhood and didn’t in my innocence see anything untoward about it at all.

Unfortunately, the crowd we were performing to tonight was made up largely of rugby players and their spouses.

They found great amusement in the concept of “having a lot of fun on grandmother’s feather bed”, especially as that ‘fun’ included “8 sheep, six hound dogs and a piggy we’d stolen from the shed”.

By the time I had sung the line about “wrestling with my cousin” I began to wish I had tried to remember the words to ‘Annie’s Song’ instead.

All in all it was fun evening, especially as they plied CJ and Aaron with free beer (muggings here had negotiate the snow and ice so stayed away from anything that might result in my skidding into the back of a snow plough).

By the time we had finished out two hour set the crowd were in good form and were in the mood to sing…roaring that immortal line to the birthday boy “Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all”. The rest is unprintable.
Leaving CJ to enjoy himself Aaron and I managed to discreetly slip away, with a few cans for later secreted in our pockets, and bought ourselves a curry on the way home.

Now, if that is what County and Western music is all about, I might be tempted to do some more.

Only ‘tempted’ mind you.

Do cowboys like the snow?

2009-02-06T03:17:00.001-08:00

“How do you know when the stage the drums are set on (drum riser) is level?.......when he begins to dribble out of both sides of his mouth!

You should never let the drummer organise the gigs, if you do then you will end up performing gigs like we have tonight….in somebody’s kitchen and dressed as cowboys.

My apologies to our American cousins, but I firmly believe that there are only two REAL evils in this world, ‘Country’ and ‘Western’.

So to be performing for a ‘surprise’ birthday party that has said Country & Western theme isn’t really considered to be a plus….although I am sure that I am going to cut a fine dash in my Stetson.

In all seriousness, we each do a ‘favour’ gig for each member of the band (co’s were good like that) and this on is for a friend of CJ’s, although the sting was taken out of this particular tail when CJ informed Aaron and I that we were in fact getting, fed, watered AND paid….top result then.

One big problem however. We are currently experiencing the heaviest snowfall in Bristol in over three decades, and it does not look as if there is any indication that it is going to let up. There is a very real possibility that we may not be able to get there.

Now, those American cousins that I mentioned may well scoff at the confusion that reigns when we get even the lightest dusting of snow. All over the radio we have heard accounts of smug American’s and Scandinavians who get to work despite three foot of snow EVERY night.

However, they get this climate every year, we haven’t had even close to this much snow since about 1986, and even then it was pretty much gone within 24 hours.

You have to admit that this particular ‘white adventure’ is pretty much a rarity for us Brits.

It was amazing to walk to work this morning to see the misery of a long line of lorries that had slewed to an embarrassing halt on the hill a short way from my house.

As they yelled insults and accusations regarding the ineffectual response of the Councils gritting Lorries, I had to fight an over whelming urge to wander up to them and say

“oh, innit pretty”.

I imagine there response would be swift and far from pretty.

So as I sit here in the deserted school where I have my NHS office and contemplate the long walk home, I ponder the question; do real cowboys like the snow.

I’ll let you know how we get on.

A moment in history.

2009-01-30T06:16:00.000-08:00

I write music reviews for a website called ‘Cross Rhythms’, which to be honest isn’t as exciting as it sounds. Sure I get sent loads of free CD’s, however the tendency is that if it is a good one I have to return it for the CR library.

The biggest drag with reviewing at this point in history is that Christian music on the whole tends to be going down the ‘Cold Play’, ‘Keane’ mellowed out, intellectual angst route. Whereas 20 years ago, if you were middle aged and middle class and wanting to show that you were ‘cool’ you listen to ‘Dire Straights’ (I know by which I speak, I used to run a Hi Fi shop and those persons that I described ALWAYS brought along their prized copy of ‘Brothers in Arms’ to demo their intended purchase.)

It got to the point that my staff began playing ‘The Wurzals’ over the shops music system as an act of rebellion.

Nowadays, it’s the day of the ‘Glastonbury’ headliners (stop me if you disagree).

The trouble is, the world and his wife are producing bands that sound just like they have finished having a full depressive breakdown. Hordes of corduroy wearing, unshaven, long haired college types, hammering away on their un distorted guitars and pub pianos about the bleakness of existence.

And I have to review it.

As somebody who absolutely refuses to slag off somebody else’s work, I try my very best to find something good and laudable to pen in each review. Believe you me I am getting very good at ‘creative’ writing. However, I am currently staring at two CD’s that without actually ‘lying’ could result in me hurting somebodies feelings.

So you can imagine my joy when a re-released classic fell on my doorstep and contained a bonus track recorded live at a gig I was actually at.

The album was ‘In another land’ and the artiste is ‘Larry Norman.

Now for those of you not in the know (which presumably are the majority of you) Larry Norman was the first Christian ‘Superstar’.

An American that started his career in the 60’s, Norman penned some classics that most church kids who owned a guitar in the 70’s cut their teeth on.

However, to that gig I mentioned.

Myself and my good friend ‘Bassbin’ travelled to a festival called Greenbelt in 1979 in Darren’s dark blue escort van (I only mention that van because I am sure it is going to feature in several other blogs in the future and so I thought I ought to take this opportunity to introduce it to you).

This was quite a moment for me as Bassbin has always declined to get involved in all things ‘God Bothering’ by nature and so to get him to come along with me to a ‘Christian Festival was a result.

Now it was a great festival and left a mark in history, and I promise I will give you a proper account of the weekend as there were some truly hilarious as well as revolting moments.

However, for this particular article there were two stand out moments. One was the realisation that when two blokes sleep in the back of a van, you need to keep the windows open just a tad….or you suffocate.

The other was the headline gig on the Saturday night.

The headliner was one Cliff Richard. Now I know that he has come in for a lot of stick over the years, but he is actually a very good performer and back in 1979 he was at his peak.

Half way through his set he introduced a singer from America and much to the delight of the 25,000 strong crowd, Larry Norman strolled onto stage, his long blond hair shining in the spot lights and blowing in the breeze.

They then launched into a song that Bassbin and I had been trying to perfect for years ‘The rock that doesn’t roll’…….pure rock & roll magic. The already over excited crowd went utterly bonkers, and it is a memory that stays with me today.

So as I said, I was delight at having to write a review for not only a classic album (his whole back catalogue is being re-released as Norman sadly died at an all too young age this time last year), but at finding that somebody had recorded that same song from 30 years ago, re-mastered it and here it was……..on my Hi fi.

Beats the heck out of ‘Dire Straights’ and ‘Cold Play’ I can tell you.

Altogether now!

“Well, it’s good for your body and it’s great for your soul, he’s the rock that doesn’t roll”.

An ambition

2009-01-28T08:44:00.000-08:00

This could be interesting.

One of the things that The Mudheads would like to do this year is go back into the studio and record something. This has been something I haven’t done since 1995 when Mudheads Monkey recorded Shout! an album that actually made money and sold surprisingly well in Norway.

Regular readers of this blog will recognise the producer of Shout! As Jez Coad, a long term friend of mine and now a well respected producer of named bands (he has just finished recording his second collaboration with Simple Minds).

As I thoroughly enjoy working with Jez and I firmly believe that he gets the best out of me, I approached him again to see if he could help The Mudheads record an EP (that’s an old fashioned term for you under 25’s meaning ‘extended play’…in English a CD with about four tracks on it).

Jez said that he would be delighted to work with us again and gave me some advice and suggestions to take back to the band.

The most exciting advice was that we should record the tracks at the Rockfield studio’s in Monmouth.

Now I am betting none of you have heard of that name before, however I am pretty sure that you would have heard of at least one song that was historically recorded there.

Does the name Bohemian Rhapsody mean any thing to any of you?

So there we go, excited or what!!

However, this is a big boy’s studio that charge big boy fees. Even with nice guy Jez pulling a few favours and strings, it could still cost a packet. More that three struggling gigging musicians from Bristol can afford that’s for pretty darn sure.

Or maybe not.

I shall keep you all up to date with developments.

Oh, incidentally, we have several other ambitions for the band this year….mine is to get Bassbin along to a gig……I however, I think that recording in one of Britain’s nay the worlds, most famous studios is going to be easier to pull off.

Where was Jeremy Clarkson when I needed him?

2009-01-26T14:46:00.000-08:00

Even Rock God’s get the odd ‘mid life’ crisis to deal with…providing they are of the age to have a mid life crisis of course.

This particular insult has been heaped upon me by the individuals I call my family over the incident of ‘a new car’.

I have always had a hankering for a two seater sports car that has the capacity to go from nought to death in about three and half seconds.

This longing was first brought about by a teenage friend who had a Triumph Spitfire, and then compounded by my musical colleague Matt from Mudheads Monkey who had a Toyota MR2.

Please don’t be mislead by this gentle (slightly rotund) persona that I portray. I was brought up on motor bikes and I like speed, especially when I am dry and warm and I can crank the radio RIGHT up.

The current Rock God mode of transport is now, like its owner, showing the wear and tear signs of age and has a boot that leaks so badly that I have my own re-enactment of the Servern Bore taking place in my boot (trunk) on a daily basis.

The car is now so damp that I have ice on the inside of the windows and not on the outside where it is supposed to be.

With this in mind, I and ‘Mrs Rock God’ went for a little ‘look’ at some of the vehicles that might be available in my price range. And spurred on by wide reports that in light of the current ‘credit crunch’ dealers are practically ‘giving’ them away I was optimistic and enthusiastic.

Can I say right from the outset that the expression ‘practically giving them away’ is a steaming pile of poo….unless of course you feel that fifteen thousand quid is a snip. I however, who work for this countries fine health service, do not.

‘Giving it away’ in my estimation would constitute a fine and shiny new motor car given in exchange for a signed copy of my latest album and a bag of wine gums.

This however is not the case. The salesman require ‘mucho mulla’ in order to keep them in sharp suits and jangling bling and this one descended on myself and my wife with as much enthusiasm as a vulture from the Disney film ‘The Jungle Book’ with genuine promises to ‘be my friend’.

I knew it was a dead cause as I sat longingly behind the wheel of a Mazda MX 5 dreaming of the open road ‘poop poop’ and my wife went and made a beeline for a dramatically and painfully sensible people carrier type thing that had a terrifying air of ‘conservative family man’ about it.

My protestations of “What do I need something that big for” fell upon deaf and unsympathetic ears and the reply “what are you going to do with something as small as that”.

Now ignoring the obvious double entente of this remark, and before anybody else states the obvious, I defended my choice that I know longer required a vehicle that could transport ‘children’.

My wife is definitely not slow off of the remark retorted “Go on then, open the boot, where are you going to put your guitars then?”

Fearing the worse I nodded to the salesman to open said boot to reveal a space that would have been inadequate to transport your average sized lunch box let alone a couple of Takamine acoustic guitars.

As I desperately tried to find reasoned and acceptable ways to get around this problem, the salesman sadly shook his head as he witness the grumbling of yet another dream of the wide open road, top down, wind whipping through what is left of a greying head of hair.

I finally accepted my fate and that unlike Toad of Toad Hall, I would probably be better off with that flippin canary yellow cart and not the silver, slim line ego booster that I lusted after.

Does anybody know where I can buy horse feed… cheap!!

Has anybody seen my spleen?

2009-01-13T06:34:00.000-08:00

Well I survived the gig with most of my lungs intact…although I am suffering an almighty headache today…..and before you ask, no it was not self inflicted. They wheeled out a local cider at this place that bubbled…I thought it best to leave well alone and stick to that black sticky American soft drink that the police clean the blood off of the roads with.

We performed our best, although my singing voice wasn’t up to much (comments like “so what’s new” are not appreciated) and Aaron had to take over on several occasions when I doubled up with a hacking cough.

His concern really came from his experience of this particular virus with myself and his mother coughing so badly that we….well……without putting to fine a point on it…puked!

Now I know that the harder edge of Heavy Metal vomit on stage as part of the act. The keyboard player from ‘Cradle of Filth’ (a good Christian band much sought out for Sunday school parties) regularly vomited up a mixture of plum tomatoes and latex to particularly stunning effect.

However, the sight of a 40 something doubled up, cradling his acoustic guitar and hocking up his sticky toffee pudding and custard in a local public house would probably not be greatly appreciated by the management and punters alike and would probably guarantee a life time blockade on ever being asked to return.

Anyway, apart from having to recover my spleen from behind the bar where it had landed no great damage was done, apart from the irreparable beating my dignity took.

By the looks of it, 2009 will probably see the return of more acoustic style music to The Loader’s repertoire, especially as we do not have to cart about two and half tonne of equipment around with us. That is not to say that The Mudheads will in anyway slow down, but we are endeavouring to be more selective on the type of gigs we play.

On the journey home from the gig Aaron made an encouraging observation.

He works in a massive music store with lots of other musicians who apparently tend to give him a fair amount of stick for performing in a band with his old man.

His response to these ‘serious’ musicians is philosophical. He said that most of these guys spend most of their time ‘talking’ about music and dreaming of that big major record deal.

Aaron concedes that he does play in a band with his dad, but he is out there doing it and not just talking about it. He is also generally getting paid for it, which in his mind is a real bonus.

So on behalf of the ‘old farts’ in The Mudheads (which generally speaking means me)…and to quote The Who……”I hope that I die before I get (TOO) old”.

Rock & roll

Death of a folk singer

2009-01-12T08:16:00.000-08:00

I really am not looking forward to this evening at all…..and considering it’s the very first gig of 2009 that’s a bit worrying.

The trouble is, my ‘man flu’ actually turned out to be the real McCoy…’proper flu’ and too be honest I feel like a great steaming pile of horse manure. (don’t worry a life time developing the art of grooming assures that I don’t have the perfume of said pile).

The gig in question is one of those ‘showcase’ thingys, which basically means that we perform for free in a venue that ‘might’ just book the artiste on a fee paying basis. Along with about five other acoustic wannabies.

This of course is spurious to say the least; however the promoter for the evening has become a good friend to The Mudheads and has been turning many a good paying gig our way. So it would seem churlish to refuse.

On this occasion Aaron & I will be performing as an acoustic duo (under the moniker, ‘The Loaders’) as this prevents CJ being dragged away from his family on yet another occasion for a half hour slot wedged between a gaggle of ‘Folkies’.

The quality of the average ‘folkie’ has dramatically improved over the past few years, and they no longer tend to sing about fairies and the bleakness of existence.

However, they still remain sensitive souls and generally refuse to go on to any stage after we have been on it.

The Mudheads as well as the Loaders have often been described as ‘A bunch of ruddy lunatics with more energy than sense’, a title we have become fiercely proud of. However, this honour has not been bestowed lightly and the reputation has been earned by screaming our heads off, thrashing around the stage, breaking things and for generally embarrassing ourselves.

The fate of some ‘sensitive soul’ lamenting ‘The Streets of London’ after we have stormed off following our much requested ‘heavy metal medley on acoustic guitars’ is not something many are prepared to tolerate.

With this in mind we normally get shoved on at the end of the night.

It is for ‘the big finish’ we are told.

Normally what it does mean is that the lights are going out and last orders are being called and two thirds of the audience has bogged off as they have to get up for work in the morning.

I put on my most pathetic ‘sick note’ voice to the promoter this afternoon and he has vowed to stick us on first.

We shall see, we shall see.

Either way…..my head pounding and my throat feeling like I have been gargling with light bulbs and chilli peppers as well has having the Chinese elephant of good fortune encamped on my chest….I think I am going to try and remember the words to ‘The Streets of London’

“Have you seen the old girl, who walks the streets of London, carrying her home, in two carrier bags.”