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??
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
The Rock God must occasionally audition
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”.
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”.
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
A band must have a van
I had one of those rare opportunities of catching up with an old ‘band mate’.
Dave and I had been members of my very first (and only) professional band Amaziah. By professional I do not mean that we were unemployed and signing on the dole, I mean we actually got paid to play. Alright fair enough, by paid I mean fifteen quid a week, but it was few years ago and even that meagre allowance meant that we were ‘professional’.
We were budding rock stars and certainly looked the part. Dave had the new wave thing going on with black spiky hair and tight jeans and I was going down the new wave of British road, long blond hair and bright green jump suit. Also to quote the Nickelback song ‘We all want to be a rock star’, “we will all be skinny because we just won’t eat”, was a quote that fitted us well. Accept in my case I just couldn’t eat. I was a typical rock god in the making, a whole bunch of neurosis bagged up together. I was so crippled with anxiety that I would puke any time I ate…but hey…it was a great look! (the skinny not the puking).
Anyway, as Dave and I shared a glass or two memories returned to a time when we had to hitchhike the entire length of the country in just one night.
You see, like many bands before and since we suffered from the malady of too much gear and not enough van.
We had an old City of Bath ambulance, which had served its purpose for the band for many years, but by now had seen much better days and certainly was struggling to cope with the weight of equipment that bands such as ours require to make the deafening din that we did.
It had already let us down on a trip to Holland when one of our road crew very helpfully made us a drum riser that doubled as a flight case. Trouble is what he hadn’t factored in was that the case was so heavy it took four burly blokes to heft into the van….empty….Loaded with all the stands and drum hardware it was impossible to lift.
However, they got it into the van regardless of the poor things feelings. It gave up on trying as soon as we reached the Hook Van Holland. We spent the rest of the tour in a hired truck, which pretty much cleared any money that we had hoped to make on that tour (so you can see why we only got fifteen quid a week can’t you).
The final straw for ‘ol Bessie’ came following a short tour of Northern Ireland during the height of the ‘Troubles’.
We had survived the ‘troubles’ and had even got away with telling one of the British troops on patrol that one of the band, who was waiting for chips in a chip shop, that he might be carrying a gun.
We thought it was funny….the soldier did not, and our drummer sure as hell didn’t. Smell it, he was sitting in it!
Anyway, the ferry journey back was pretty much as it was going, horrendous!!
You hit a point in the sea sickness when you are afraid that you are going to die, and then you get beyond that when you are afraid that you AREN’T going to die.
Believe you me. A heavy sea, a huge number of Orange Band marchers, spilt beer and wall to all vomit is probably the closest I will get to hell this side of eternity.
It was so rough that a lorry went over in the hold, and ‘Ol Bessie’ just quietly took it all, sadly sagging below the weight of our kit.
Getting off the boat involved the driver taking a run at the gang way and hoping that the gap between the boat and dock didn’t increase with the swell.
Having ‘hit’ land I fear that ‘Ol Bessie’ got a cob on, whispered in mechanical speak ‘stuff this for a game of soldiers’ and gave up the ghost. With an exasperated crunch the whole underside of the ambulance collapsed and we juddered to a halt.
We were in Stranraer, Scotland It was midnight and we were a very long way from home (Bristol).
The trouble is, I had promised my girlfriend that I would see her before she went to college in the morning (yes we were that young). She had been a bit upset about us going to Northern Ireland in the first place and so wanted to see me back home safe and sound (the fact that she has been my wife for the past 26 years probably meant that she actually liked me).
A promise is a promise and I had no intension of breaking it.
So Dave and I set off at the stroke of midnight to find our own way home.
This involved two scruffy youths in old army great coats and the air of travellers who had recently survived the Belfast/Scotland crossing, hitching a lift with whoever would give us a ride.
Well, believe it or not, we got picked up by several huge lorries that were travelling down south. They were an odd assortment I can tell you, probably why they deemed to give us a ride. One swore back was white that he was the whip playerer in Dave Dee Dozy Beaky Mick and Titch and another who we suddenly realised to our terror was fast asleep and had been for a good many miles.
However, despite the weirdoes, dangerous drivers and copious amounts of baked beans (they all insisted on stopping and having breakfast…right through the night) we made it to the outskirts of Bristol by day break and hopped on a milk float for the remainder of the journey home.
I got to see my future wife and both Dave and I managed to get to our beds to get a few hours shut eye, unlike the rest of the band and crew that ended being stuck in Scotland for days.
‘Ol Bessie’ sadly never recovered from this final insult and had to be gently but lovingly led into a field where she was shot through the head gasket.
Gone but not forgotten she was replaced by a shiny black Mercedes tour bus…which we loved, as it had proper seats.
From those days forth I dream of expensive tour buses with beds and fridges and even…dare I say it…a toilet.
Sadly, all we have these days is a humongous horse box, which still struggles under the weight. ‘Ol Bessie’ whispers to it from the beyond’, “run away, run away”.
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”.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
What a pleasant day for a cycle!
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.
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.
Friday, 5 June 2009
Back to the blogg
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.
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.
Monday, 11 May 2009
Big, black and beautiful
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.
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.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
A good workman is worthy of his hire
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.
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.
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