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.

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.

The Axe Factor

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

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"

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

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?"

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!!