Not so many hours back, I said that Mr Hoffman-Gill had given me an idea for a post or two, in fact there's probably material in this area for many more. The area in question was triggered by the many music related lists he seems to go in for, but I don't intend to slavishly copy an album or gig list, as I can throw my own little slant in here.

I did my 'O' Levels back in 1978 and during the following spring (April 3rd) fell into a form of gainful occupation that quite frankly I'd have paid to do if I'd had the money. At the age of 17 I was pretty much obsessed with nothing other than music, bands, concerts and anything else related. At that point, distractions of a female persuasion were only a distant concern, though I could as the need arose put on a neat turn aboard a skateboard.

The spring's highlight in Stoke-on-Trent, on the live act front, was going to be Thin Lizzy who were scheduled to perform at Trentham Gardens. Unlike most of the other venues in the area, such as the Hanley Victoria Hall, or the distant cow shed that is Stafford Bingley Hall, Trentham Gardens was actually worth visiting during the day, as you could wander the gardens for many a mile, though at that time they were somewhat dishevelled and no where near the spectacle that it is today following its recent restoration. So that day, a couple of friends and myself arrived early at the Gardens, tickets in hand and went to see what was happening. So begins my list; the recollections of a 'humper & dumper' for bands many and various:

1. Thin Lizzy: Finding ourselves with plenty of time to kill, we naturally ended up outside the ballroom itself to see what, if anything, was happening there. Lined up outside were a couple of trucks, rear doors open and ramps running up to the cavernous interiors. Flight cases of a variety of shapes and sizes were being rolled off the back of the truck and through the open doorway of the ballroom, presumably heading for the stage. We probably stood for ten minutes or so, fascinated as we were to see real live roadies moving the kit round for a real live band, and a big one at that.

   Unbeknown to us, one of the road crew had noticed us stood there, and at a guess, rather hot in the April sun, decided to 'press-gang' us into action. "Don't just stand there lads! Give us a hand", and we were off, for the rest of the afternoon, shifting cases, lifting gear onto stage and most likely getting in the way, as we hadn't the faintest idea where anything went or what we should do with it. Out of the chaos rose the set, complete with drum risers, lights, amps, drum kits, mixers and mile after mile of cable.

   Having emptied the trucks of their cargo, there was little we could do to assist any further, so it was back to the hanging round watching the crew turn what looked a dumping ground into the recognisable makings of a live show. From somewhere, back-stage passes had appeared for us, meaning we were free to go anywhere within the venue. Down behind the stage was the food, the drink, the dressing rooms and later on, the band themselves.

   Somewhere around this time, we must have been introduced to the local promoter in town, Mike Lloyd. He ran a record shop in the centre of Hanley, though not one I frequented much. I don't recall it being a long conversation, but the end result was that if we wanted to do this again, then all we had to do was turn up at the Vic the following week at 11:00 and we'd not only get into the gig free, but we'd get paid a tenner for our trouble too. Things were looking up.

   My abiding memory though from the rest of the day was the sound check. Sat on the floor of a pretty much empty ballroom whilst Phil Lynott, Brian Downey and Scott Gorham were running through a track (can't recall which), whilst Gary Moore, who was in as a replacement for Brian Robertson, noodled away on his Les Paul playing something completely different. Whatever it was, the speed and dexterity he displayed was mind-blowing.

   The concert itself was a real treat and I seem to recall spending most of the evening on the upstairs balcony, accessible to those of us with a back stage pass only. And that, was how it all started

2. Buzzcocks: I'm pretty sure all the other bands I 'humped and dumped' for were performing at the Victoria Hall. Nothing stands out especially at this one, but I do remember Pete Sheeley, Steve Diggle and co. arriving on stage for the sound check, and also sitting behind John Maher's drum kit and getting a few tips from the drum roadie.
3. John Miles: Most people only remember John Miles for his single "Music" which got to #3 in 1976. In 1979, his popularity was perhaps of a lower order than some of the others acts of the time, he was though an exceptionally competent musician. The most striking feature of this concert was the sheer amount of equipment that his band arrived with. So much so that there wasn't space to put the support act on the stage, so starting a little later than normal, it was just the headline act that we got. Can't say that I recall feeling that we were in any way short changed

4. Scorpions: You know there's something quite appealing about German efficiency, it's great of you want trains to run on time, or the streets kept clean, but behind the scenes of what would have been Germany's biggest act at the time, it translated largely as no fun at all. Especially for those helpers provided by the venue. Lets just say that this was a day I didn't enjoy behind the scenes, throughout the day we were driven hard and with no great sympathy by the German road-crew. Even given the inevitable language barriers, they were a miserable bunch to work for. As far as the promoter was concerned, we were only really required to help unload the trucks, not to help at the end in breaking everything down, it was something I often did though, it was just part of the fun. That evening I didn't bother.

   The only notable event was trying to unload, then manhandle a huge hydraulic jack up to the stage. This was to be used under the drum riser, which at the appointed time would lift the riser, drum kit and drummer up around 8-10ft into the air. The problem was its sheer weight, literally dragging the thing off the truck and across the hall was bad enough, but I watched as something like 10 of the road crew tried to haul this thing up front edge of the stage using a bunch retaining straps, in what could only be described as a herculean effort. The crew kept the likes of myself well out if the way at this point, must have been an early form of health and safety I guess. They got it up there, but how no one lost a finger or got crushed, remains a mystery to me to this day.

5. The Damned: Nothing much about the gear moving sticks in the mind much at this one, but I do recall The Damned being exceptionally drunk on stage and the performance becoming free-form, with one member than another wandering off stage mid-song and a short while later re-joining the action. At the time, at all seemed rather fun, though in hindsight, more than a little disrespectful towards the paying public.

   The most memorable part of the day took place after the gig had finished, when for whatever reason we decided to head into the pub up the road - not something we generally did given the time it would have been by the time we usually finished. Sat in the bar as we got in there was Malcolm Owen the vocalist for The Ruts. Conversation passed over something and nothing through a slightly beery haze. but I do remember thinking what a nice guy he was; nothing about him suggested he had an ego, he just enjoyed what he was doing. It was with some sadness that I learned, a mere 12 months later, that he had died of a heroin overdose.

6. Hawkwind: Now this one was fun. Spectacularly relaxed Yank roadies, who didn't much seem to care too much about anything to be honest. They just got on with it, had a laugh and were more than happy to involve you in stuff that, in all honesty, we shouldn't have had any business getting involved in. At one point I was handed a power plug, a cable and the soldering iron from hell, along with the instruction to join the lot together. It wasn't going to happen and my man quickly realised it and handed me a tenner and got me to find the nearest music shop and bring back a roll of gaffer tape. Not a big task, but it seemed rather flash to me to be handed an entire evenings' pay and be asked to buy sticky tape with it. This was a good one and at that point I'd have been happy to have dumped the studying what I was supposed to have been doing, and just headed off out on the road with a crew.

So then, a short list, but a fun one and one I look back on with some very fond memories. Whilst I can't pin them down to any particular concert, giving the support acts a hand breaking their gear down in the interval was a buzz (no one helps support acts), as you could almost guarantee seeing some of your friends in the crowd below your feet, me with my pass and money in my pocket, them with their ticket stub and green eyes - at that age a great game of one one-upmanship.

All too soon, it came to an end. I should have been studying, but that came to an end later that year once my parents discovered that I hadn't been in college doing my 'A' Levels for months - an interesting conversation that one! Within days I had officially left school and was working on a building site as a general labourer (building trade dogsbody) and by the August of that year was signed up in the RAF as a trainee Air Communications Technician.

Now that was another story altogether...

It's an unlikely combination I grant you, but with the third of the bands' rehearsals now under my belt, these two are coming closer together. It's fair to say that the former are winning out in the track count so far as we gradually construct our set. I'll not list out the actual tracks here, so as not to spoil the surprise for any who might turn up for the first of our many-times rearranged gigs. As it's on VH1 at the moment though, I can confirm that we will not be attempting Tina Turner's 'Nutbush City Limits' - good thing too...

Despite having had guitars in my possession for the best part of 30 years, this is the first time I've ever been even remotely close to being in an actual act. The first time was absolutely terrifying, but I did just about get away with it. I did though rapidly discover that playing along with other flesh and blood musicians is not the same as playing to the original artists CD. The subtle shifts in tone and arrangement of a familiar tune are rarely there when trying to make yourself heard against the massive reverb of an empty rehearsal space, and the lack of balance between the instruments that come out of this.

I'd also not appreciated how difficult it is to pick up the language of a practice session. For some of the others, who have been doing this for perhaps 20-30 years in some form, it's second nature, whilst I must look utterly bemused by is all. I know what the words mean (mostly), but I haven't a clue how they relate to an actual track, which I don't de-construct as I'm listening to them in terms of verses, choruses, bridges and so on. An instruction telling me we're going to pick up two bars before the 2nd chorus is most likely to leave me thinking "Oh fuck! I've been found out!". The may as well drop me off in Gorky Park and ask me to find the Kremlin - no doubt I'll get there in the end, but it ain't going to be quick, or by the most direct route - don't speak the lingo you see.

All said an done though, it's beginning to come together, though I've not really settled myself into a regular structured practice routine away from the band rehearsals. Better an hour a day than 7 hours cramming over a day at the weekend. What is going to be nice though will to be get some of the guitars I have out of their pristine home in my bedroom studio and out in front of an audience, an audience that wishes to be entertained and will probably be more than forthcoming on what they think of us. I'm sure it be fun when it happens and I'm hoping that someone will capture some photographic evidence of it all. It would be nice to be thought of as someone who plays guitar and not just owns a few, after all, any old idiot with some ready cash can do that can't they.

Stepping out through the front door,
The Walker emerges into the glare of sodium street lights.
Turning right, he heads for the outer wall,
where his pre-determined and sterile route awaits.

Clad in a garb of hooded top and jogging bottoms,
he struggles to free the headphone cable
that has become caught in his iPod case
and repeatedly dislodges the in-ear speaker as he moves.

At the wall he veers left to hit the walkway there.
With measured precision, the poured concrete slabs
guide the way out into to night, temperature lowered
by the clear late autumn skies above his head.

As his pace picks up, The Walker feels his last meal
rise from his stomach, burning its way into his oesophagus,
the bitter acidic taste of chilli and tomato reminding
him of older more serious discomfort, but not tonight, not tonight

The rhythm of The Walkers' stride settle to the beat
of the iPods' output; random play serving out tunes unknown
and leaving behind those to be instantly forgotten.
Roger Sanchez sets the tone for the next 6 minutes

Please enter your password:
Good morning Mr Sanchez
You have accessed your computabank
please select the track you wish to hear now...

With electronic precision, The Walker counts his way
past the monotonous regularity of the 2 meter slabs
wall right and dark, houses left and anonymous. The slabs
blur, the numbers blur, The Walker moves ever ahead.

Remembering events of the day, a wry grimace crosses his face
Insignificant victories scored, minor humiliations endured
"We'll have you next time, you bastard" he thinks
"your days are numbered...". The pace increases a touch

Ahead, two figures appear,
ghost like beneath the toxic orange light.
The first with a familiar outline, the second unknown
Heading towards him, his co-conspirators gain detail

Convinced, as he is, of the first's identity,
he raises a hand in friendly salute of a shared task.
The first looks mildly phased by the greeting, but
returns the wave. Not who The Walker thought it was...

Not wishing to repeat the same mistake, The Walker heads
towards the second impassively. As they pass, a glint
of puzzlement crosses the second's expression at the blank
stare. The wife of a work colleague passes to one side...

Reaching the halfway point, The Walker feels the prickle
of overheated skin on his back, the evening no longer cool,
but instead temperature rising uncomfortable, heat trapped against
his torso, the hoodie now an unnecessary burden to comfort.

Heading past a street light, The Walker sees his shadow extend
in front of him, fading all the while as the next is approached
knowing as he does that a shadow unseen shrinks and deepens on the
ground behind his back. The Sweetest Perfection keeps time...

Takes me completely
Touches so sweetly
Reaches so deeply
Nothing can stop me

Clip, clip, clip raps his ankle, stooping in recognition,
The Walker stoops to re-tie a loosened lace, and once more
he feels the burn rise above his stomach, sensation unwelcome,
unwanted and uncomfortable. No stopping now the race not yet run.

Passing the field, he feels the fine mist dispensed in darkness,
smells its past life, must trust the plant did its job. The path
now fully dark, trusting to where he knows it follows, aim for the
bright spot ahead, no oncoming train this one...

Into the open and the brightness again, road crossed and safe
from its users, The Walker passes by the supermarket loading
bay. A hive of industry by day, but not now. Dead to the sleeping
world, a new dawn awaits ahead, events to unfold

Taking the extra loop, urged on at the iPod's request,
The Walker cuts right out of sight of tarmac and into
the corridor, the bushes encroaching from either side
providing a claustrophobic cover for those who desire it.

Escaping the gap, bland and unremarkable dwellings feeding
away left of him, The Walker recalls names, names of the day,
names of toil, names of weight and import, never forgotten.
But not here, not now, not at night - "That's mine"

Turning towards home, exercise drawing to a close,
The Walker eases down slower, nearly done till another
day. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the day after, but soon
With the door in sight, a Friend of a Friend takes The Walker home...

When he plays
No-one speaks
No-one speaks
When he plays
No-one speaks

There will unfortunately be no blog post this evening, as the proprietor of the site has been much too all consumed with band practice. This has been both a bad thing and a good thing; bad in the sense that I didn't know all my parts, and good in the sense that I wasn't the only one. You may rest assured though that bogging will returning to the place known as Izdihar very shortly, possibly as soon as tomorrow, assuming that I can come up with the semblance of something to amuse and delight you all with.

In the mean time, I will finish by offering my congratulations to Petite Anglaise and family on the arrival of Jack who weighed in at 3.75 Kg, very recently (not a clue exactly when, but I'm sure she'll update us shortly).

Look & Listen

View Large On Black

Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSzS7S5uAos

Very occasionally, my iPod's random play feature will throw up an oddity. This afternoon's case in question was 'Harold the Barrel by Genesis, from their Nursery Cryme album released back in 1971, not that I first heard it then. I didn't start listening to their stuff until some time in 1976 and saw them for the first at Manchester Free Trade Hall in January 1977.

What struck me about its appearance today was the quintessential Englishness of the lyrics, the attitude of a socially embarrassed mother, the typical English copper, Harold's failed attempt at maintaining a stiff upper lip in the face of adversity, whilst all the while going quietly mad, and lastly the neighbours gossiping about the goings on behind Harold and his mother's back. It reminds me (as do many things) of the way things were in the sixties. Yes, I was born in 1961, but can't claim to remember the "sixties" as an event as it's so often portrayed, but it does instead match what I believe life was like at that time and how those who weren't traipsing up and down Carnaby Street or inhabiting The Cavern Club would have been behaving.

The other resonance in the lyrics for me came from a book of Graham Greene short stories I'm reading at the moment. All were written from the late 30's to the early 50's and seem to touch on the lives of ordinary folk as they were being affected by world affairs happening around them, or in the mess they had left behind. Some aspects of the latter were still to be seen when I was growing up. For that reason his stories prick away at memories left long in the distant past, or pretty much forgotten. Strange to think that they're still there. They're worth reading [the short stories, not my memories] should you have a few moments.

Anyway, on to Harold...

Harold the Barrel by Genesis, 1971

News:
A well-known Bognor restaurant-owner disappeared
early this morning.
Last seen in a mouse-brown overcoat,
suitably camouflaged,
they saw him catch a train.

Man-in-the-street:
"Father of three its disgusting"
"Such a horrible thing to do"

Harold the Barrel cut off his toes and he served them all for tea
"Can't go far", "He can't go far".
"Hasn't got a leg to stand on"
"He can't go far".

Man-on-the-spot:
I'm standing in a doorway on the main square
tension is mounting
There's a restless crowd of angry people

Man-on-the-council:
"More than we've ever seen.
- had to tighten up security"

Over to the scene at the town hall
The Lord Mayor's ready to speak

Lord Mayor:
"Man of suspicion, you can't last long, the British Public is on our side"

British Public:
"Can't last long", "You can't last long".
"Said you couldn't trust him, his brother was just the same"
"You can't last long".

Harold:
If I was many miles from here,
I'd be sailing in an open boat on the sea
Instead I'm on this window ledge,
With the whole world below
Up at the window
Look at the window...

Mr.Plod:
"We can help you"

Plod's Chorus:
"We can help you"

Mr. Plod:
"We're all your friends, if you come on down and talk to us son"

Harold:
You must be joking
Take a running jump

The crowd was getting stronger and our Harold getting weaker;
Forwards, backwards, swaying side to side
Fearing the very worst
They called his mother to the sight
Upon the ledge beside him
His mother made a last request.

67-yr-old Mrs Barrel:
"Come off the ledge if your father were alive he'd be very, very, very upset.
"Just can't jump, you just can't jump"
"Your shirt's all dirty, there's a man here from the B.B.C."
"You just can't jump"

Mr. Plod:
"We can help you"

Plod's Chorus:
"We can help you"

Mr. Plod:
"We're all your friends, if you come on down and talk to us Harry"

Harold:
You must be joking.
Take a running jump......