Every Picture Tells a Story

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

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

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

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

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"

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

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.