I do have to write in an apologetic state as I have promised you that I would endeavour to write at least once a week.
My excuse (.for that is all that it is) was that our guitarist, who also happens to be my son, got himself married.
Until you have experienced this particular delight you will have absolutely no idea the emotional and mental space it demands of the parents. I thought that having myself been married that it would be a walk in the park. No chance.
So sadly I have much neglected my blog.
I suppose that it was also synonymous with my lack of playing over the past few months as I had intimated in my last entry I had become fed up with the whole ‘performing’ thing was not in mood to be entertaining nor creative.
However; the sun has been shining and I have had a good healthy dose of vitamin D and am feeling generally at one with my inner rocker once more.
Also with the prospect of performing with my childhood hero ‘Bruce Foxton’ this week I feel the tinge of excitement that tends to inspire those of us that take to the stage for the edification of an adoring public.
All things being equal I shall return with the rockers pen and strip my soul for the delight of you lot!!
On another sadder note.
I often have a little browse through the statistics of this website just to ensure that I am not just writing this blog for my own benefit (if you left more comments I would know that you are actually reading what I am writing).
Anyway the stats show that a good deal of my readership come from Japan. You guys clearly love your rock.
In fact one of my first albums I purchased was the legendary Cheap Trick Live at Budokan…what a blinding album that was.
I have had friends who achieved nothing in this country and have had phenomenal success in the land of the rising sun. It is a land that clearly appreciates a good hard rock riff.
We in the West have been watching in awe as the news of the incredible tragedy of the earth quakes hit your shores.
It doesn’t mean much I know but please be assured that the prayers of this fellow rock lover are well and truly with you and I pray that the Phoenix will raise quickly from the rubble and you will be back rocking & rolling as soon as you are able.
We’ll speak soon.
RG
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
Revenge is a dish best served explosively.
I had received two comments from our support artiste at our last gig that I really appreciated and helped make my evening.
The first was that I “didn’t have enough wrinkle to be old enough to be Aaron’s father” always good for the fragile ego that one.
The second was that we were a really friendly band and fun to perform with.
I have always prided myself as being easy to work with and I have tried my hardest, as have my band mates, not to be too precious and to make friends rather than bad reputations.
It remind me of all the bands over the years that I have been involved in supporting and even those who then in turn ended up supporting us (beware the old adage, be careful how you treat people on the way up as you never know who you are going to meet on the way back down again).
On the whole we have had a great time meeting loads of new bands and artistes and only a few stick in my mind as being a right royal bunch of jerks.
Sadly our last gig at a well known Bristol venue a few years back did end up with both Support bands giving us withering looks, that they were indeed way too special to be supporting a bunch of losers like us.
One of the bands even decided that they were soooooooo special that they went well over their allotted time and ate royally into our time slot. Believe me that hurt, especially as we had worked so hard to get an audience there in the first place.
Subsequently as the venue allowed them do this we shook the dust from our sandals and have not returned there since.
Unsurprisingly it was the same venue where we were booked to support a well known signed folk rock act that decided that they would continue to sound check until the very moment that the doors were opened. The venue then chewed our backsides off for not being ready on time.
I am also reminded of the time we were booked to support a local band in Bristol only to be told on arrival that the band had no equipment at all, and I mean nothing; the guitarist had to borrow a plectrum (pick) from Aaron.
The drummer then set about resetting CJ’s drum kit for a left handed drummer only to break it in the process. Of course we didn’t realise this until about a third of the way through our set when the whole lot began to part company with CJ and itself and literally fell apart.
The band that had inflicted the damage on our equipment and kit then held court in the next room drawing the crowd away from our set.
I have said it before and I shall say it again…why do we do this to ourselves?
What we really need is a personality like our former guitarist Matt. He was once incensed that the support band having played to our audience began to pack up and were preparing to drive home. Matt stormed outside the venue and frog marched them back into the building and having removed their van keys told them that they were going no-where until we had played. We had been good enough to support them and they were going to return the favour by boosting our audience in support. I would never have had the nerve to do that.
Mind you our tales are nothing as compared to those who have had the pleasure of being ‘Road Crew’.
I once knew a guy who went from being a sound man onto becoming a road manager for acts such as George Michael. During recording sessions he would regale us with his tales of the road.
The funniest were of his memories of being on the road with a Spanish Heavy Metal band in Europe. The funniest account gave me hope that there is indeed such a concept as ‘justice’.
This particular band did not treat their crew with much respect at all to the point that they didn’t really budget the tour with such frivolities as ‘food’.
Now they do say that an army marches on its stomach and this is even more so for a road crew.
After a couple of weeks of this the crew had lost all its good humour and patience and were hungry, tired and fed up.
Part of the band’s show consisted of large pyrotechnics which had to be constructed by the only member of the crew who held an explosive licence, Bluey.
One night, fed up to the back teeth and extremely hungry Bluey got completely wasted before the gig and decided to take his revenge on his inconsiderate task masters.
Now bear in mind that each flash bomb only needed a tea spoon of this industrial strength gun powder for spectacular results, Bluey walked up each flash pot and poured a whole tub into each one, yes a WHOLE tub.
Then Bluey, satisfied with his act of vengeance curled up behind the mixing desk and fell last asleep and was totally unarousable.
My friend and his crew were then faced with a huge dilemma. Bluey was the only one who held a licence to handle this stuff. If anyone of them had as much as looked at the gun powder let alone touch it they could have found themselves being prosecuted under health & safety.
So they decided to leave it as it was and go and warn the band.
“Listen lads, it’s the last gig of the tour so we have decided to make it a spectacular one so what ever you do stay well away from the front of the stage at the point in the show where the flash pots always go off”.
The band gave an off hand reaction to this. They were leather clad rockers, nothing would distract them from doing what they did best….rocking.
However; despite their bravado they all began to look a tad nervous as the song in the show arrived that was normally accentuated by a controlled explosion of flame.
As the drummer leaned into a roll of the drums that announced the arrival of the explosion the band’s demeanour was now one of naked fear. With that my mate hit the detonation button.
Apparently what resulted was a solid wall of sheer flame 50 ft high and about 50 ft wide.
The band literally fell backwards into their amps and speakers completely blinded and sun tanned and the drummer fell of the riser into the orchestra pit behind.
My friend said that it was the first time that he had ever seen an audience turn as one and flee.
The explosion was so fierce that one of the venues officials called the bomb squad as they though the Basque separatists had been at it again.
At the end of the show my friend went to retrieve the pots and found that they had been blown clean through the stage itself and were now firmly buried in the concrete floor below and were going nowhere.
And the band who had suffered such retribution?
Well, they were all grins and thumbs up asking if they could do that again the next time they toured.
I suppose that once a Pratt, always a Pratt.
But it was a valuable lesson to me “Be careful how you treat people on the way up as they may have a bellyful of Jack Daniels and a dynamite licence”.
The first was that I “didn’t have enough wrinkle to be old enough to be Aaron’s father” always good for the fragile ego that one.
The second was that we were a really friendly band and fun to perform with.
I have always prided myself as being easy to work with and I have tried my hardest, as have my band mates, not to be too precious and to make friends rather than bad reputations.
It remind me of all the bands over the years that I have been involved in supporting and even those who then in turn ended up supporting us (beware the old adage, be careful how you treat people on the way up as you never know who you are going to meet on the way back down again).
On the whole we have had a great time meeting loads of new bands and artistes and only a few stick in my mind as being a right royal bunch of jerks.
Sadly our last gig at a well known Bristol venue a few years back did end up with both Support bands giving us withering looks, that they were indeed way too special to be supporting a bunch of losers like us.
One of the bands even decided that they were soooooooo special that they went well over their allotted time and ate royally into our time slot. Believe me that hurt, especially as we had worked so hard to get an audience there in the first place.
Subsequently as the venue allowed them do this we shook the dust from our sandals and have not returned there since.
Unsurprisingly it was the same venue where we were booked to support a well known signed folk rock act that decided that they would continue to sound check until the very moment that the doors were opened. The venue then chewed our backsides off for not being ready on time.
I am also reminded of the time we were booked to support a local band in Bristol only to be told on arrival that the band had no equipment at all, and I mean nothing; the guitarist had to borrow a plectrum (pick) from Aaron.
The drummer then set about resetting CJ’s drum kit for a left handed drummer only to break it in the process. Of course we didn’t realise this until about a third of the way through our set when the whole lot began to part company with CJ and itself and literally fell apart.
The band that had inflicted the damage on our equipment and kit then held court in the next room drawing the crowd away from our set.
I have said it before and I shall say it again…why do we do this to ourselves?
What we really need is a personality like our former guitarist Matt. He was once incensed that the support band having played to our audience began to pack up and were preparing to drive home. Matt stormed outside the venue and frog marched them back into the building and having removed their van keys told them that they were going no-where until we had played. We had been good enough to support them and they were going to return the favour by boosting our audience in support. I would never have had the nerve to do that.
Mind you our tales are nothing as compared to those who have had the pleasure of being ‘Road Crew’.
I once knew a guy who went from being a sound man onto becoming a road manager for acts such as George Michael. During recording sessions he would regale us with his tales of the road.
The funniest were of his memories of being on the road with a Spanish Heavy Metal band in Europe. The funniest account gave me hope that there is indeed such a concept as ‘justice’.
This particular band did not treat their crew with much respect at all to the point that they didn’t really budget the tour with such frivolities as ‘food’.
Now they do say that an army marches on its stomach and this is even more so for a road crew.
After a couple of weeks of this the crew had lost all its good humour and patience and were hungry, tired and fed up.
Part of the band’s show consisted of large pyrotechnics which had to be constructed by the only member of the crew who held an explosive licence, Bluey.
One night, fed up to the back teeth and extremely hungry Bluey got completely wasted before the gig and decided to take his revenge on his inconsiderate task masters.
Now bear in mind that each flash bomb only needed a tea spoon of this industrial strength gun powder for spectacular results, Bluey walked up each flash pot and poured a whole tub into each one, yes a WHOLE tub.
Then Bluey, satisfied with his act of vengeance curled up behind the mixing desk and fell last asleep and was totally unarousable.
My friend and his crew were then faced with a huge dilemma. Bluey was the only one who held a licence to handle this stuff. If anyone of them had as much as looked at the gun powder let alone touch it they could have found themselves being prosecuted under health & safety.
So they decided to leave it as it was and go and warn the band.
“Listen lads, it’s the last gig of the tour so we have decided to make it a spectacular one so what ever you do stay well away from the front of the stage at the point in the show where the flash pots always go off”.
The band gave an off hand reaction to this. They were leather clad rockers, nothing would distract them from doing what they did best….rocking.
However; despite their bravado they all began to look a tad nervous as the song in the show arrived that was normally accentuated by a controlled explosion of flame.
As the drummer leaned into a roll of the drums that announced the arrival of the explosion the band’s demeanour was now one of naked fear. With that my mate hit the detonation button.
Apparently what resulted was a solid wall of sheer flame 50 ft high and about 50 ft wide.
The band literally fell backwards into their amps and speakers completely blinded and sun tanned and the drummer fell of the riser into the orchestra pit behind.
My friend said that it was the first time that he had ever seen an audience turn as one and flee.
The explosion was so fierce that one of the venues officials called the bomb squad as they though the Basque separatists had been at it again.
At the end of the show my friend went to retrieve the pots and found that they had been blown clean through the stage itself and were now firmly buried in the concrete floor below and were going nowhere.
And the band who had suffered such retribution?
Well, they were all grins and thumbs up asking if they could do that again the next time they toured.
I suppose that once a Pratt, always a Pratt.
But it was a valuable lesson to me “Be careful how you treat people on the way up as they may have a bellyful of Jack Daniels and a dynamite licence”.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
There and back again
The rock & roll life can be somewhat of a roller coaster ride at times. One minute you are riding high, heart beating fiercely, white knuckled as you race with the birds on top of the world and glad to be alive.
The next you are plummeting down towards the puddles of child produced vomit, loose change and pocket bric-a-brac that you lost the last time you screamed this way. Only to find yourself 30 seconds later hurtling back towards the stratosphere with the wind whipping through your hair and looking forward to another heady session of head butting seagulls.
I have experienced the rock & roll equivalent of this twice in one week.
The hurtling downwards experience was as we performed at the Louisiana last Sunday.
On the face of it all went well. The hard Core Punk outfit that had been supporting us had pulled out at the very last minute only to be replaced by the talented songster Julie baker who was a dream to work with and extremely friendly tuboot.
We also had a small but enthusiastic audience and they clearly enjoyed themselves.
However; for me my entire evening was back to front, upside down and yanked through a hedge backwards.
As we hit our opening chords of our first song something went horribly wrong and my bass nearly brought the back wall down. Clearly I have developed a technical fault with my guitar transmitter.
Anyway the sound engineer quickly solved the problem front of house and all was well. Sadly my onstage mix had been shot to hell. I was slowly being lifted off of my feet by a sheer wall of noise being produced mainly from Aaron’s guitar and my vocal in the monitor mix.
Being an old fart I normally wear ear plugs as I am becoming concerned at the long term damage I am doing to my hearing (it’s bad enough being as blind as a bat without adding ‘deaf as post’ to the equation). The trouble is with this level of volume the plugs were simply distorting the sound to an unusable mess and so I had to rip them out.
What I then experienced was the audible equivalent of leaping from a toasty warm bedroom window into the English Channel in January. Shocking.
My head was spinning and within almost no time at all I couldn’t pitch a note to save my life though saving my reputation at the point would have been of more value.
Now you would have thought that after 33 years I would have developed the communication skills to inform the in-house engineer of my dilemma and get him to ‘sort it out’.
Sadly this skill has always eluded me and in melt down situations like this I generally proceed like Bambi caught in the headlights of a forty tonne juggernaught on full throttle.
In the past my guitarists have wised up to my disability quickly and risking me look like a complete incompetent in front of the sound guy told him exactly what I needed on my behalf. This is a responsibility I have been more than happy to hand over to somebody else no matter how ‘retarded’ it may or may not have made me look.
Perhaps it’s time to pass this particular mantle on to the next generation and get my son and guitarist to communicate in that ancient language of ‘technical’ in that dark and mystical way to the shaman of sound and volume while I simply recite the time honoured incantations of “One, two, one, two, testing, testing”.
As it was I had to try and play, sing, pitch and remember all the words whilst my eyeballs were slowly being pushed to the back of my skull.
It was a losing battle and I began to get more and more lost in songs that I have been singing for years. This tragic outcome wasn’t helped by Aaron announcing to the crowd that ‘This is another song that the old boy wanted in the set, watch him mess this one up’. Maybe I need to have a gentle word with him at some point, preferably tooled up with a nice stout piece of two by four. You may not be allowed to smack your children any more for lack of obedience but there is nothing to say that you can’t beat them senseless at the age of 25 for humiliating their old man in front of a laughing audience.
Anyway, the long and the short of it was that as soon as the last chord had been struck I was off that stage as fast as my knackered old knees could carry me. Packing up was a daze and goodness only knows how I managed to drive home at the end of the day.
As I sat crashed in front of my television set with the tinnitus in my ears threatening to explode my head I pondered the premise that I may just be getting a little too old for this lark.
That was the bottom of the roller coaster ride. However; just as surely as you career downwards you normally whip straight back up the other side.
The slope back up came the following Saturday when my mobile phone rang.
“Hi Paul, this is “Gareth Chillcott here”. I instantly snapped to attention. I mean, this guy is rugby royalty.
Now from my blog stats it shows that the large majority of my readership comes from the US and South Korea (clearly you guys like your rock & roll down there) and so you would not have a clue who Gareth Chilcott is.
In rugby terms I wouldn’t say he is the equivalent of David Beckham (Lord no) but probably more of a Wayne Rooney (you’ve heard of him as he plays for Manchester United and it doesn’t matter what part of the planet you come from you ALL know Man United). Anyway, Gareth was a famous and much respected rugby football legend who played for England and who just happens to hail from Bristol and we are all very fond and proud of him.
Anyway to keep himself in his retirement Gareth purchased himself a music venue and puts on some of the best gigs in the South West and here he was phoning me and inviting myself and Aaron to support ‘From the Jam’ (made up of two of the original members of The Jam).
I was a big fan of The Jam in my teenage years and had rushed to get tickets when they had kind of reformed with a new lead singer. Talk about made up…..I get to play with my heroes and all the frustration and negative thinking of just under a week ago melted away.
The roller coaster at this moment has reached the highest point, the view is incredible and air is clear. For now at least I am going to stay there…….roll on the end of April.
“Now that’s entertainment”
The next you are plummeting down towards the puddles of child produced vomit, loose change and pocket bric-a-brac that you lost the last time you screamed this way. Only to find yourself 30 seconds later hurtling back towards the stratosphere with the wind whipping through your hair and looking forward to another heady session of head butting seagulls.
I have experienced the rock & roll equivalent of this twice in one week.
The hurtling downwards experience was as we performed at the Louisiana last Sunday.
On the face of it all went well. The hard Core Punk outfit that had been supporting us had pulled out at the very last minute only to be replaced by the talented songster Julie baker who was a dream to work with and extremely friendly tuboot.
We also had a small but enthusiastic audience and they clearly enjoyed themselves.
However; for me my entire evening was back to front, upside down and yanked through a hedge backwards.
As we hit our opening chords of our first song something went horribly wrong and my bass nearly brought the back wall down. Clearly I have developed a technical fault with my guitar transmitter.
Anyway the sound engineer quickly solved the problem front of house and all was well. Sadly my onstage mix had been shot to hell. I was slowly being lifted off of my feet by a sheer wall of noise being produced mainly from Aaron’s guitar and my vocal in the monitor mix.
Being an old fart I normally wear ear plugs as I am becoming concerned at the long term damage I am doing to my hearing (it’s bad enough being as blind as a bat without adding ‘deaf as post’ to the equation). The trouble is with this level of volume the plugs were simply distorting the sound to an unusable mess and so I had to rip them out.
What I then experienced was the audible equivalent of leaping from a toasty warm bedroom window into the English Channel in January. Shocking.
My head was spinning and within almost no time at all I couldn’t pitch a note to save my life though saving my reputation at the point would have been of more value.
Now you would have thought that after 33 years I would have developed the communication skills to inform the in-house engineer of my dilemma and get him to ‘sort it out’.
Sadly this skill has always eluded me and in melt down situations like this I generally proceed like Bambi caught in the headlights of a forty tonne juggernaught on full throttle.
In the past my guitarists have wised up to my disability quickly and risking me look like a complete incompetent in front of the sound guy told him exactly what I needed on my behalf. This is a responsibility I have been more than happy to hand over to somebody else no matter how ‘retarded’ it may or may not have made me look.
Perhaps it’s time to pass this particular mantle on to the next generation and get my son and guitarist to communicate in that ancient language of ‘technical’ in that dark and mystical way to the shaman of sound and volume while I simply recite the time honoured incantations of “One, two, one, two, testing, testing”.
As it was I had to try and play, sing, pitch and remember all the words whilst my eyeballs were slowly being pushed to the back of my skull.
It was a losing battle and I began to get more and more lost in songs that I have been singing for years. This tragic outcome wasn’t helped by Aaron announcing to the crowd that ‘This is another song that the old boy wanted in the set, watch him mess this one up’. Maybe I need to have a gentle word with him at some point, preferably tooled up with a nice stout piece of two by four. You may not be allowed to smack your children any more for lack of obedience but there is nothing to say that you can’t beat them senseless at the age of 25 for humiliating their old man in front of a laughing audience.
Anyway, the long and the short of it was that as soon as the last chord had been struck I was off that stage as fast as my knackered old knees could carry me. Packing up was a daze and goodness only knows how I managed to drive home at the end of the day.
As I sat crashed in front of my television set with the tinnitus in my ears threatening to explode my head I pondered the premise that I may just be getting a little too old for this lark.
That was the bottom of the roller coaster ride. However; just as surely as you career downwards you normally whip straight back up the other side.
The slope back up came the following Saturday when my mobile phone rang.
“Hi Paul, this is “Gareth Chillcott here”. I instantly snapped to attention. I mean, this guy is rugby royalty.
Now from my blog stats it shows that the large majority of my readership comes from the US and South Korea (clearly you guys like your rock & roll down there) and so you would not have a clue who Gareth Chilcott is.
In rugby terms I wouldn’t say he is the equivalent of David Beckham (Lord no) but probably more of a Wayne Rooney (you’ve heard of him as he plays for Manchester United and it doesn’t matter what part of the planet you come from you ALL know Man United). Anyway, Gareth was a famous and much respected rugby football legend who played for England and who just happens to hail from Bristol and we are all very fond and proud of him.
Anyway to keep himself in his retirement Gareth purchased himself a music venue and puts on some of the best gigs in the South West and here he was phoning me and inviting myself and Aaron to support ‘From the Jam’ (made up of two of the original members of The Jam).
I was a big fan of The Jam in my teenage years and had rushed to get tickets when they had kind of reformed with a new lead singer. Talk about made up…..I get to play with my heroes and all the frustration and negative thinking of just under a week ago melted away.
The roller coaster at this moment has reached the highest point, the view is incredible and air is clear. For now at least I am going to stay there…….roll on the end of April.
“Now that’s entertainment”
Thursday, 17 February 2011
Sid Snot Calling
I haven’t had a crack at the old promotion, well not big time anyway, since the Gutter Brothers game to Bristol. That particular exercise put me off of ever doing it again. Man but that was hard work and it consumes your every working moment.
I mean I almost have to sell my soul to Santa in order to get 93 souls though the door on that night and that was considered a really good turn out.
So you can imagine my delight when I discovered that I am once again tasked with hitting the campaign trail and that I have under one week to promote the dickens out of The Mudheads latest venture.
The Louisiana is fantastic little venue right in the heart of Bristol and we have generally always enjoyed playing there. However; this is something that we have done sparingly as our ‘fan base’ (cough) have the opportunity to see the beloved band of their choice for free almost any Saturday night they care to. So why would they want to pay five quid for 45 minutes of us on a Sunday night.
To see how we handle the band that will be performing with us that’s why!!
Somebody somewhere was clearly not looking at content when they pulled this evening together.
The band we are playing with and that will be opening for us have turned out to be, and I quote, Hard Core Punk. Having listened to their music on Myspace, the term ‘Hardcore’ is perhaps a little bit of an understatement. These guys could strip the graffiti off of a brick wall at half a mile. Aaron assures me that for their genre they are extremely good. However; to be honest, they frightened the life out of me. This was not helped by their EP cover which has a picture of a guy vomitting his spleen up.
This could go either one of two ways. We could make a lot of new mates, OR, and judging my the picture of the insane puker it is more than likely going to be this, a blood bath.
I wonder once again why I do it to myself.
Ah well, at least this guarantees that you’ll all tune in next week to see what happens.
Until then, “Those who are about to die salute you”.
I mean I almost have to sell my soul to Santa in order to get 93 souls though the door on that night and that was considered a really good turn out.
So you can imagine my delight when I discovered that I am once again tasked with hitting the campaign trail and that I have under one week to promote the dickens out of The Mudheads latest venture.
The Louisiana is fantastic little venue right in the heart of Bristol and we have generally always enjoyed playing there. However; this is something that we have done sparingly as our ‘fan base’ (cough) have the opportunity to see the beloved band of their choice for free almost any Saturday night they care to. So why would they want to pay five quid for 45 minutes of us on a Sunday night.
To see how we handle the band that will be performing with us that’s why!!
Somebody somewhere was clearly not looking at content when they pulled this evening together.
The band we are playing with and that will be opening for us have turned out to be, and I quote, Hard Core Punk. Having listened to their music on Myspace, the term ‘Hardcore’ is perhaps a little bit of an understatement. These guys could strip the graffiti off of a brick wall at half a mile. Aaron assures me that for their genre they are extremely good. However; to be honest, they frightened the life out of me. This was not helped by their EP cover which has a picture of a guy vomitting his spleen up.
This could go either one of two ways. We could make a lot of new mates, OR, and judging my the picture of the insane puker it is more than likely going to be this, a blood bath.
I wonder once again why I do it to myself.
Ah well, at least this guarantees that you’ll all tune in next week to see what happens.
Until then, “Those who are about to die salute you”.
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
A Dream Realised
Regular readers of this blog will already know that one of my life long ambitions for becoming a successful rock & roll legend is that when I arrived at a venue all the equipment was set up in place and plugged in ready to go. And following the gig a band of committed roadies would crawl all over the gear like a nest of ants stripping the stage bare and returning their haul to the warmth and safety of the awaiting haulage trucks.
This would all of course give me ample time in my luxury hotel suite to prepare myself mentally, physically and spiritually to deliver my rock & roll best to an adoring audience. Following the show I would be able to quickly retire quickly to my inner sanctum in order to freshen and cleanse myself for the following day’s extravaganza.
This dream is of course all complete clap trap and I have spent the last 30 odd years lumping around a variety of musical back breakers with the rest of the band in the name of entertainment.
However; this weekend just past I did get a taster of what it could be like (without sadly the luxury accommodation to go with it)
To say that my week had been a nightmare would be somewhat of an understatement.
Having parents that are still physically active can in its own way be a challenging prospect, especially when my fit and sprightly 75 year old father decided to take off for a good stout walk between Bristol and Bath along the cycle track that ran alongside the steam railways line.
Great idea that is until you catch your boot toe at pace on a piece of frost risen tarmac and bite a piece out of the track.
One heavy tumble later and a broken hip our late Queen Mother would have been proud of dad found himself flat on his back and wondering how the heck he was going to get himself the two miles back to the car park and civilisation before he froze to death.
They do say that the Lord looks after his own and in this case the ‘looking after’ came in the form of a cyclist who was also a qualified First Aider.
The long and the short of it, having failed to get an ambulance down the track or an helicopter close enough to the scene, my father became the first man I’ve heard of to be rescued by Steam Train (we never do anything by halves in my family).
So that was crisis number one. The second was when my very own partner in crime, the delectable Mrs Rock God found herself collapsed in a state of sheer agony and unable to move. Thankfully my level headed student daughter was on hand as I threatened violence most horrid to the poor emergency services operative if she didn’t stop making excuses and get an ambulance to my home immediately. Daughter number one wrestled the phone from me and without threatening illegal and painful reprisals got us the ambulance we needed.
Crisis number three the following day came from my mother who was clearly in the mind set that she was missing out on all action and developed an infection in her recently operated upon eye. The result, yet another trip to a local eye hospital.
By the lunch time of the day of the gig I was looking down the wrong end of a very black hole of stress. The thought of a long evening lumping and assembling musical equipment, performing and then disassembling it all again did not fill me with enthusiasm.
Thankfully I play in a band with two diamond geezers and they both realised very quickly that I had hit the wall and getting me to stand in front of an audience and actually remember who I was let alone what I was supposed to be playing would be miracle enough and they ordered me to stay at home until a car came to collect me.
This was one weird experience as we now have a very set routine on gig nights that starts at approximately 7pm for me and this was going to take me well away from that routine.
Saturday night, 8:30pm and I was sat in front of the television with a glass of wine in my hand all ready togged out in my stage finest.
Actually that gives the impression that I was relaxed and awaiting my chauffeur. In reality I was pacing a bit and the driver was in fact my daughter-in-law (well she will be in just over two months time).
I also felt a HUGE sense of guilt. Whilst I rested, my comrades in musical arms were having to do all the hard work.
I needn’t have worried. Sue collected me bang on cue and delivered me to the venue with about 15 minutes to spare and it would seem that I was not missed at all. In fact, I got the distinct impression that they rather enjoyed not having me in the way for once and had set up more kit than usual in less time than they normally would.
I sound checked……..tuned my bass and we were off!!
Two hours later, I had time enough to throw my bass into its case before I was grabbed by my temporary minder by the scruff of my neck and bundled back into her car and delivered back home to the arms of my loving wife.
I would like to say that we finished off the evening in true rock & roll style with much partying and rock & roll. But bear in mind the weekend we had both had (especially Mrs RG), we actually finished the evening in a truly un-rock fashion sat watching Escape to the Country whilst sipping a large glass of vintage scotch.
And my band mates? Apparently they took half the time to pack up as we normally would and didn’t miss me one bit.
I bet they would if I suggested the same arrangement next week.
This would all of course give me ample time in my luxury hotel suite to prepare myself mentally, physically and spiritually to deliver my rock & roll best to an adoring audience. Following the show I would be able to quickly retire quickly to my inner sanctum in order to freshen and cleanse myself for the following day’s extravaganza.
This dream is of course all complete clap trap and I have spent the last 30 odd years lumping around a variety of musical back breakers with the rest of the band in the name of entertainment.
However; this weekend just past I did get a taster of what it could be like (without sadly the luxury accommodation to go with it)
To say that my week had been a nightmare would be somewhat of an understatement.
Having parents that are still physically active can in its own way be a challenging prospect, especially when my fit and sprightly 75 year old father decided to take off for a good stout walk between Bristol and Bath along the cycle track that ran alongside the steam railways line.
Great idea that is until you catch your boot toe at pace on a piece of frost risen tarmac and bite a piece out of the track.
One heavy tumble later and a broken hip our late Queen Mother would have been proud of dad found himself flat on his back and wondering how the heck he was going to get himself the two miles back to the car park and civilisation before he froze to death.
They do say that the Lord looks after his own and in this case the ‘looking after’ came in the form of a cyclist who was also a qualified First Aider.
The long and the short of it, having failed to get an ambulance down the track or an helicopter close enough to the scene, my father became the first man I’ve heard of to be rescued by Steam Train (we never do anything by halves in my family).
So that was crisis number one. The second was when my very own partner in crime, the delectable Mrs Rock God found herself collapsed in a state of sheer agony and unable to move. Thankfully my level headed student daughter was on hand as I threatened violence most horrid to the poor emergency services operative if she didn’t stop making excuses and get an ambulance to my home immediately. Daughter number one wrestled the phone from me and without threatening illegal and painful reprisals got us the ambulance we needed.
Crisis number three the following day came from my mother who was clearly in the mind set that she was missing out on all action and developed an infection in her recently operated upon eye. The result, yet another trip to a local eye hospital.
By the lunch time of the day of the gig I was looking down the wrong end of a very black hole of stress. The thought of a long evening lumping and assembling musical equipment, performing and then disassembling it all again did not fill me with enthusiasm.
Thankfully I play in a band with two diamond geezers and they both realised very quickly that I had hit the wall and getting me to stand in front of an audience and actually remember who I was let alone what I was supposed to be playing would be miracle enough and they ordered me to stay at home until a car came to collect me.
This was one weird experience as we now have a very set routine on gig nights that starts at approximately 7pm for me and this was going to take me well away from that routine.
Saturday night, 8:30pm and I was sat in front of the television with a glass of wine in my hand all ready togged out in my stage finest.
Actually that gives the impression that I was relaxed and awaiting my chauffeur. In reality I was pacing a bit and the driver was in fact my daughter-in-law (well she will be in just over two months time).
I also felt a HUGE sense of guilt. Whilst I rested, my comrades in musical arms were having to do all the hard work.
I needn’t have worried. Sue collected me bang on cue and delivered me to the venue with about 15 minutes to spare and it would seem that I was not missed at all. In fact, I got the distinct impression that they rather enjoyed not having me in the way for once and had set up more kit than usual in less time than they normally would.
I sound checked……..tuned my bass and we were off!!
Two hours later, I had time enough to throw my bass into its case before I was grabbed by my temporary minder by the scruff of my neck and bundled back into her car and delivered back home to the arms of my loving wife.
I would like to say that we finished off the evening in true rock & roll style with much partying and rock & roll. But bear in mind the weekend we had both had (especially Mrs RG), we actually finished the evening in a truly un-rock fashion sat watching Escape to the Country whilst sipping a large glass of vintage scotch.
And my band mates? Apparently they took half the time to pack up as we normally would and didn’t miss me one bit.
I bet they would if I suggested the same arrangement next week.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Dressed to kill
Ever since Elvis took to the stage with his low slung guitar and quiff and the Beatles shaved theirs off in favour of mop tops and collarless suits, the budding rock wannabie has struggled to find the right image that would define them as an artiste or as a band.
Some of the images have become iconic (The sex Pistols safety pins and ripped t-shirts, The Jam’s mod suits, The Beatles Sergeant Pepper look) others have been installed into the hall of fame as a downright embarrassment and remembered in terms of parody and humour (Zig Zig Sputnic, the whole of Katchagoogoo, and anything worn by Boy George).
Get it wrong and you could well find yourself being remembered less for your hit singles and more for the ridiculous hair styles that you and your friends sported on Top of the Pops back in the 80’s (ask Nic Beggs and Limahl)
The trouble is, every musician realises very early on that if you want to make a good first impression then it best not to amble onto the stage in your pyjamas (unless of course you are the keyboard player for the Boomtown Rats).
You have got to make an effort in order to visually define what kind of band, artiste or singer you are.
If a band wanders onto stage wearing ripped jeans, t-shirts, a cut off denim jacket with “Satan’s very own rock band” emblazoned on the back and hair that almost touches their knees, it is unlikely that they are going to be an experimental jazz outfit or the Bath City All Male Voice Gospel Singers.
Again if the singer saunters on to stage in a sharp suit with teeth to match and patent leather shoes, the entire ensemble dripping with smarm, then it is highly unlikely (although not impossible) that the band will then subsequently launch into a death mental onslaught of ‘Bring your daughters to the slaughter’.
Nine times out of ten what you see is normally what you get.
This has been something I have personally taken seriously, often much to the amusement of my band mates.
In Amaziah I experimented with a variety of looks in order to try and get away from the traditional ‘metal’ look and lent more towards the emerging New Wave flavour.
However; there are photos of me in a huge white sports blazer (formally belonging to my father in the 70’s) and huge aviator sun glasses. Not a great look for sure.
In the end, inspired by Sting from The Police I settled on a bright Green jump suit that I had purchased from Bony Maroneys a second hand clothes shop in Bristol frequented mainly by punks.
Nobody appeared to find this look funny and so I stuck with it.
The only draw back was that I only had one of said piece of clothing so as you can imagine by the time I had reached the end of say a two month tour of Europe the jump suit was capable of getting in to the truck on its own at the end of a night. If I had tried to fold it, it would have been in serious danger of snapping and it smelt worse than a pair of trousers after the hundred year war.
The jump suit went to a good home in the end and was eventually used as a maternity outfit for my wife who was expecting our current guitarist Aaron. She has always been slim so you can imagine that back in the day I was Rock God in physical stature as opposed to now having more in common with Buster Blood Vessel from Bad Manners.
That was probably my one and only successful stab at a dress code as since then I have tended to be at odds with my band mates when it came to a corporate band image, or at the very least I have generally got it horribly wrong.
Mind you it can be a real indication of where the band is at.
In the original incarnation of Mudheads Monkey the band took to the festival stage in our rock finest, I was wearing doc martins, tight torn jeans, baggy shirt, funky waist coat and a bandana around my throat…….a bit of a rock folk troubadour look if you like.
Bassin was decked all in denim and sporting cool shades (being inspired by Bruce Springsteen and that blue collar poet look), Matt had a bit of an early skater boy thing going on. The drummer Mark, well he wore a knitted pullover.
Nothing states “I really have had enough of this” better than a pullover purchased from Marks and Sparks.
I believe we did one more gig after this before Mark quit.
Being my brother-in-law and much loved friend I still see him regularly and I often see that look in his eyes that suggests that I really ought to grow up and stop trying to be 25 again…and get my self a decent British Homes Stores pully.
In our next version of MHM this time with CJ drumming we tore up the stage at the Greenbelt Christian Arts festival in our very best imitation of a folk grunge outfit in the school of The Levellers. All tie dye and baggy trousers
The trouble is we were much more musically inclined to the Indie pop school of rock and our look was totally incongruous with the music, and we lost the opportunity of a decent promoter on the back of this particular tailoring disaster. We went back to the t-shirts and jeans after that.
Recently we have been experimenting with the ‘school daze’ look, all white shirts and school ties. This was in the hope that people would get the irony that the 50 year old singer was dressed in a school uniform. I mean, Angus Young for AC/DC has done it for years and he is older than me. Besides nothing says New Wave better than a school tie. Nobody got it.
We are now going to have a stab at the ‘well groomed’ dude look once more and I have recovered my oldest suit from the attic and we are going to ‘make an effort’. All suit jackets, smart ties and shiny shoes.
Trouble is, have you ever tried to get changed into a three piece suit in the gents toilets of a crowed pub. Unpleasant to say the least.
Also a waistcoat, tie and full jacket does nothing to keep me physically cool. We will have to see if this works or not or if I just drop down dead from heat exhaustion.
What ever happens it won’t be anywhere as near as bad when Matt and I went all country when supporting Country & Western legend George Hamilton the 4th.
We were snapped by our local paper dressed in checked shirts and waistcoats, a right couple of ‘good ol boys’ Man is that picture embarrassing. I’m not sure what was worse, the shirts or the over enthusiastic grins which adorned both our faces as we sandwich this giant of country who we were both way too young or British to have heard of.
I think I would rather go back to the bright green jump suit.
Some of the images have become iconic (The sex Pistols safety pins and ripped t-shirts, The Jam’s mod suits, The Beatles Sergeant Pepper look) others have been installed into the hall of fame as a downright embarrassment and remembered in terms of parody and humour (Zig Zig Sputnic, the whole of Katchagoogoo, and anything worn by Boy George).
Get it wrong and you could well find yourself being remembered less for your hit singles and more for the ridiculous hair styles that you and your friends sported on Top of the Pops back in the 80’s (ask Nic Beggs and Limahl)
The trouble is, every musician realises very early on that if you want to make a good first impression then it best not to amble onto the stage in your pyjamas (unless of course you are the keyboard player for the Boomtown Rats).
You have got to make an effort in order to visually define what kind of band, artiste or singer you are.
If a band wanders onto stage wearing ripped jeans, t-shirts, a cut off denim jacket with “Satan’s very own rock band” emblazoned on the back and hair that almost touches their knees, it is unlikely that they are going to be an experimental jazz outfit or the Bath City All Male Voice Gospel Singers.
Again if the singer saunters on to stage in a sharp suit with teeth to match and patent leather shoes, the entire ensemble dripping with smarm, then it is highly unlikely (although not impossible) that the band will then subsequently launch into a death mental onslaught of ‘Bring your daughters to the slaughter’.
Nine times out of ten what you see is normally what you get.
This has been something I have personally taken seriously, often much to the amusement of my band mates.
In Amaziah I experimented with a variety of looks in order to try and get away from the traditional ‘metal’ look and lent more towards the emerging New Wave flavour.
However; there are photos of me in a huge white sports blazer (formally belonging to my father in the 70’s) and huge aviator sun glasses. Not a great look for sure.
In the end, inspired by Sting from The Police I settled on a bright Green jump suit that I had purchased from Bony Maroneys a second hand clothes shop in Bristol frequented mainly by punks.
Nobody appeared to find this look funny and so I stuck with it.
The only draw back was that I only had one of said piece of clothing so as you can imagine by the time I had reached the end of say a two month tour of Europe the jump suit was capable of getting in to the truck on its own at the end of a night. If I had tried to fold it, it would have been in serious danger of snapping and it smelt worse than a pair of trousers after the hundred year war.
The jump suit went to a good home in the end and was eventually used as a maternity outfit for my wife who was expecting our current guitarist Aaron. She has always been slim so you can imagine that back in the day I was Rock God in physical stature as opposed to now having more in common with Buster Blood Vessel from Bad Manners.
That was probably my one and only successful stab at a dress code as since then I have tended to be at odds with my band mates when it came to a corporate band image, or at the very least I have generally got it horribly wrong.
Mind you it can be a real indication of where the band is at.
In the original incarnation of Mudheads Monkey the band took to the festival stage in our rock finest, I was wearing doc martins, tight torn jeans, baggy shirt, funky waist coat and a bandana around my throat…….a bit of a rock folk troubadour look if you like.
Bassin was decked all in denim and sporting cool shades (being inspired by Bruce Springsteen and that blue collar poet look), Matt had a bit of an early skater boy thing going on. The drummer Mark, well he wore a knitted pullover.
Nothing states “I really have had enough of this” better than a pullover purchased from Marks and Sparks.
I believe we did one more gig after this before Mark quit.
Being my brother-in-law and much loved friend I still see him regularly and I often see that look in his eyes that suggests that I really ought to grow up and stop trying to be 25 again…and get my self a decent British Homes Stores pully.
In our next version of MHM this time with CJ drumming we tore up the stage at the Greenbelt Christian Arts festival in our very best imitation of a folk grunge outfit in the school of The Levellers. All tie dye and baggy trousers
The trouble is we were much more musically inclined to the Indie pop school of rock and our look was totally incongruous with the music, and we lost the opportunity of a decent promoter on the back of this particular tailoring disaster. We went back to the t-shirts and jeans after that.
Recently we have been experimenting with the ‘school daze’ look, all white shirts and school ties. This was in the hope that people would get the irony that the 50 year old singer was dressed in a school uniform. I mean, Angus Young for AC/DC has done it for years and he is older than me. Besides nothing says New Wave better than a school tie. Nobody got it.
We are now going to have a stab at the ‘well groomed’ dude look once more and I have recovered my oldest suit from the attic and we are going to ‘make an effort’. All suit jackets, smart ties and shiny shoes.
Trouble is, have you ever tried to get changed into a three piece suit in the gents toilets of a crowed pub. Unpleasant to say the least.
Also a waistcoat, tie and full jacket does nothing to keep me physically cool. We will have to see if this works or not or if I just drop down dead from heat exhaustion.
What ever happens it won’t be anywhere as near as bad when Matt and I went all country when supporting Country & Western legend George Hamilton the 4th.
We were snapped by our local paper dressed in checked shirts and waistcoats, a right couple of ‘good ol boys’ Man is that picture embarrassing. I’m not sure what was worse, the shirts or the over enthusiastic grins which adorned both our faces as we sandwich this giant of country who we were both way too young or British to have heard of.
I think I would rather go back to the bright green jump suit.
Friday, 14 January 2011
I'm singing in the rain
Most musicians do it has to be said, prefer the luxury of performing in the dry.
We will on occasion, if the situation is right (for that read remuneration) allow our fingers to get somewhat cold for an open air event. Wind, sun even fog will not deter us especially if there is a pay cheque at the end of it. However; at no point will any band worth their salt mix an event with running water.
Now you may accuse me of being somewhat precious at this point, but even I, who was unceremoniously removed permanently from any kind of science lesson at school due to an unfortunate incident with a highly flammable chemical and a lit bunson burner, can tell you, live electrical current and water do not mix, under any circumstance.
Cast your minds back if you will to the onslaught of autumn (fall) last year and in particular to November the 5th, Guy Fawkes Night (in case you are not from the British shores, we celebrate the failed attempt of a would be assassin to blow up the government in the Houses of Parliament – it happened many hundreds of years ago but we still go for any excuse to stand out in the cold and let of fire works).
Now CJ works hard for The Mudheads and has his work cut out as our logistics man and in order to contribute to saying thank you to him for all his efforts we like to lend our services as a band to his daughters school every November the 5th for their annual firework party in order to help raise funds for the following year.
We have done this for quite a few years and although they have always been extremely cold events we have always had a great time and have helped to raise many hundred of much needed pounds for the school.
We had a break last year when a new chair to the Parent Teacher Association was appointed to replace our over worked drummer. The new man promptly decided that he would do something far more contemporary and exciting and booked a former X-Factor contestant for the princely sum of 80 quid (that may not sound a lot but I am not sure that she was even a finalist and bear in mind that The Mudheads were completely free of charge…. And they even charged us for our own hotdogs).
Anyway said plan went horribly wrong when she mimed three songs (badly) and then bogged off with the PA leaving the party in deathly silence. Subsequently The Mudheads and our sound system were immediately re-booked for the following year.
These events have been, without fail, cold affairs and normally the coldest night of the autumn leading into Christmas. This year not so cold, mainly because it was absolutely hammering down with rain.
We were set up in a band stand and CJ had butchered a gazebo to make a back drop in order to afford us some kind of protection from the driving rain that was being pushed by one hell of a gale from behind us.
This did not however stop half of the rain whipping under the tarpaulin and straight up the back of our legs.
Also, as we gingerly plugged our instruments in to the mains supply, we discovered that the roof of the band stand had not been built to withstand the onslaught of such a torrential rain fall.
As the roof began to leak like the ceiling underneath an unattended flowing bath tub CJ began to resemble a hair rock drummer in some badly made 80’s MTV video as his cymbals sent cascades of water back up into the air every time he belted them. Being back lit by the stage lights it looked spectacular but it was not doing his kit any good at all. At least he wasn’t actually physically linked to voltage, Aaron & I both were.
Thankfully our quick witted drummer boy noticed the roof finally giving up the ghost directly above my bass amp and leaving his drums mid song threw his rain coat over the top of my kit, seconds before the deluge dropped from ceiling like Niagara Falls.
As Aaron’s guitar glistened shiny wet he had a distinctly nervous appearance about him as he took the full force of the wind driven rain from his side of the stage.
We performed to a large if not utterly soaking wet audience until the fire works were due to be lit and then we set up damping down as much of our equipment as we could and wringing out the guitars and drum kit. Then back on for a second half.
I have experienced audiences turning on their heels and fleeing at my gigs before but never with quite so much passion.
As soon as the last rocket fizzled into the nights sky parents grabbed their sodden offspring and legged it to the safety of their cars and home.
We were left playing to a veritable waterfall of rain and CJ’s wife and children.
The school treasurer virtually threw a crate of beer at us in form way of a thank you and also hurriedly disappeared into the mist.
I have mentioned on several occasions that our equipment is not cheap. It is the sort of stuff that as budding teenage rock stars we would salivate over when our noses were pressed up against the music stores windows and although we are not materialistic about it we do appreciate that we are indeed fortunate to have this resource and endeavour to look after it.
Having it drenched in sky juice and then loaded through the rain back into a soaking wet trailer does not nothing to instil a firm sense of well being and as CJ finally slammed the trailer doors shut in a scene resembling something out of Morgan Freeman’s ‘Hard Rain’ we began to wonder if we would every be able to use any of it ever again or if we would simple reconstruct the evening s fire work display, indoors, the very next time we endeavoured to play.
Anyway, bottom line, most of kit is either British or American made and built to last and thus survived handsomely, which is more than be said for CJ’s drum skins and my nerves.
But hey, if we didn’t have these experiences what would I write for you??
Next, expect an entry about a gig in a blizzard and being flattened by a tornado.
We will on occasion, if the situation is right (for that read remuneration) allow our fingers to get somewhat cold for an open air event. Wind, sun even fog will not deter us especially if there is a pay cheque at the end of it. However; at no point will any band worth their salt mix an event with running water.
Now you may accuse me of being somewhat precious at this point, but even I, who was unceremoniously removed permanently from any kind of science lesson at school due to an unfortunate incident with a highly flammable chemical and a lit bunson burner, can tell you, live electrical current and water do not mix, under any circumstance.
Cast your minds back if you will to the onslaught of autumn (fall) last year and in particular to November the 5th, Guy Fawkes Night (in case you are not from the British shores, we celebrate the failed attempt of a would be assassin to blow up the government in the Houses of Parliament – it happened many hundreds of years ago but we still go for any excuse to stand out in the cold and let of fire works).
Now CJ works hard for The Mudheads and has his work cut out as our logistics man and in order to contribute to saying thank you to him for all his efforts we like to lend our services as a band to his daughters school every November the 5th for their annual firework party in order to help raise funds for the following year.
We have done this for quite a few years and although they have always been extremely cold events we have always had a great time and have helped to raise many hundred of much needed pounds for the school.
We had a break last year when a new chair to the Parent Teacher Association was appointed to replace our over worked drummer. The new man promptly decided that he would do something far more contemporary and exciting and booked a former X-Factor contestant for the princely sum of 80 quid (that may not sound a lot but I am not sure that she was even a finalist and bear in mind that The Mudheads were completely free of charge…. And they even charged us for our own hotdogs).
Anyway said plan went horribly wrong when she mimed three songs (badly) and then bogged off with the PA leaving the party in deathly silence. Subsequently The Mudheads and our sound system were immediately re-booked for the following year.
These events have been, without fail, cold affairs and normally the coldest night of the autumn leading into Christmas. This year not so cold, mainly because it was absolutely hammering down with rain.
We were set up in a band stand and CJ had butchered a gazebo to make a back drop in order to afford us some kind of protection from the driving rain that was being pushed by one hell of a gale from behind us.
This did not however stop half of the rain whipping under the tarpaulin and straight up the back of our legs.
Also, as we gingerly plugged our instruments in to the mains supply, we discovered that the roof of the band stand had not been built to withstand the onslaught of such a torrential rain fall.
As the roof began to leak like the ceiling underneath an unattended flowing bath tub CJ began to resemble a hair rock drummer in some badly made 80’s MTV video as his cymbals sent cascades of water back up into the air every time he belted them. Being back lit by the stage lights it looked spectacular but it was not doing his kit any good at all. At least he wasn’t actually physically linked to voltage, Aaron & I both were.
Thankfully our quick witted drummer boy noticed the roof finally giving up the ghost directly above my bass amp and leaving his drums mid song threw his rain coat over the top of my kit, seconds before the deluge dropped from ceiling like Niagara Falls.
As Aaron’s guitar glistened shiny wet he had a distinctly nervous appearance about him as he took the full force of the wind driven rain from his side of the stage.
We performed to a large if not utterly soaking wet audience until the fire works were due to be lit and then we set up damping down as much of our equipment as we could and wringing out the guitars and drum kit. Then back on for a second half.
I have experienced audiences turning on their heels and fleeing at my gigs before but never with quite so much passion.
As soon as the last rocket fizzled into the nights sky parents grabbed their sodden offspring and legged it to the safety of their cars and home.
We were left playing to a veritable waterfall of rain and CJ’s wife and children.
The school treasurer virtually threw a crate of beer at us in form way of a thank you and also hurriedly disappeared into the mist.
I have mentioned on several occasions that our equipment is not cheap. It is the sort of stuff that as budding teenage rock stars we would salivate over when our noses were pressed up against the music stores windows and although we are not materialistic about it we do appreciate that we are indeed fortunate to have this resource and endeavour to look after it.
Having it drenched in sky juice and then loaded through the rain back into a soaking wet trailer does not nothing to instil a firm sense of well being and as CJ finally slammed the trailer doors shut in a scene resembling something out of Morgan Freeman’s ‘Hard Rain’ we began to wonder if we would every be able to use any of it ever again or if we would simple reconstruct the evening s fire work display, indoors, the very next time we endeavoured to play.
Anyway, bottom line, most of kit is either British or American made and built to last and thus survived handsomely, which is more than be said for CJ’s drum skins and my nerves.
But hey, if we didn’t have these experiences what would I write for you??
Next, expect an entry about a gig in a blizzard and being flattened by a tornado.
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