Liverpool Philharmonic Friday Augu 27th

Today, Faithful Blogreader, I must once again crave your indulgence. This is going to be a longer than usual blog, as there's raaaaaaaather a lot to relate, so I hope you'll hang on in there. As the song says, we'll start at the very beginning.......So we've driven from Whitley Bay, and arrive in Liverpool at about 3.30am, so as you can imagine, everyone's feeling a little torpid. The band are staying in Satan's B & B ( sorry, I mean the Adelphi ) but the crew, as befits our lowly, hairy-arsed status, have been allocated rooms in that pinnacle of budget accommodation, the Formule 1. For anyone who's never stayed in one of these beknighted hostels, a brief description is required. Imagine, if you will, a room...nay, a cubicle...some eight feet by ten feet ( don't ask me what that is in bloody metres....I'm old). Occupying nine-tenths of the available floorspace is a normal-looking double bed. Where things start to go totally Spanish is the second bed, however. This is a kind of bunk arrangement running horizontally across the top of the double bed, accessed by a dinky little ladder. Acting as the en-suite facilities, there's a miniscule washbasin in one corner of the room. A tiny table is slung across the opposite corner, under which sits a scarred and fag-burned plastic chair...and that's yer lot. The Ritz it isn't, and two problems immediately rear their ugly heads. The first is that neither Arthur or I are lightweights, so the idea of scampering up the somewhat flimsy-looking ladder holds little appeal, even if we could physically manage it, which we seriously doubt...the room appears to have been designed as a playhouse for orang-utans rather than a resting place for fifty-something roadpeople. There's a second bulk-related problem, too, which is that even if we DID manage to get up onto the bunk by some process of levitation, osmosis or whatever, neither of us fancies the idea of having the other's twenty-odd stone hovering just above our bonces with just a thin piece of wood standing between us and potential oblivion. And did I mention that after we'd got our keycard from the sullen youth at reception with the Warsaw/Toxteth hybrid accent and hauled our weary bodies and baggage up to the second floor that the bloody thing didn't even open the door ? Now, I know that the band were also having hotel-related fun and games themselves tonight, what with the five of them having to share two rooms, but let me tell you, by comparison with THIS shitbox they're in the executive suite at Claridges. We were finally let into our "room" by another monosyllabic, bullet-headed Pole, and solved the problem of the second bed by taking the mattress off the bunk and throwing it on the remaining floorspace under the sink.By now we were so shagged out that we just didn't care anymore, so I crashed out on the floor, undaunted by the interesting and varied array of insects which then tried to share my covers. After what seemed like only ten minutes but was, in fact, a massive four hours, we were awoken by a herd of bison galloping down the corridor. It was, in fact, just the room-service lady ( from Katowice, since you ask ) wheeling her little laundry cart from room to room, but thanks to some piece of miraculous construction genius every single footstep in these corridors is amplified a thousand times. What can I say...the place is built and owned by the French, and whilst they are very good at being garlic-munching surrender monkeys, they're shite at building cheap hotels. It wasn't over yet, however.....I decided to have a shower to try and get the accumulated floor-level flora and fauna out of my skin, so I summoned up the courage to brave the little cubicle down the corridor. I looked around for a towel, but could only find two flannels under the washbasin. After a moment or two I realised with sinking heart that this scrap of thin terrycloth was no flannel...this WAS the towel. Now, I'm no rough frontiersman or hardy survivalist, but I thought even I could make this work somehow. Wrong. When you've got as much surface area as I have, most of which is covered by moisture-retaining hair, you need considerable drying-power. The little hankie did it's best, and I managed to mop up some more of the liquid by contorting my body under the warm air hand-dryer, but short of performing a handstand there was no way of using this method this to air the old undercarriage, and thus it was with a somewhat chafing, John Wayne-esque gait that I headed back to the room. But enough of this spleen-venting....time to get on with our story. I merely wanted to give you a feel what what we were experiencing in the less than perfect build-up to this, probably the most important show in the short history of The Bootleg Sixties. Having assembled the troops in the carpark ( the hotel, naturally enough, not runnning to anything quite as extravagant as a reception area ) we head off to the venue in convoy. The Philharmonic is a beautiful hall, vast of ceiling and rich in architectural flourishes. With a capacity of over 2,000 it's by far the biggest and most impressive place we've ever staged this show, and despite some shortcomings for our specific needs ( like Cheltenham Town Hall it has no light directly above the stage and a rake of choir stalls behind it )local tech gurus Ad Lib have installed some free-standing screens for us that easily look as effective as the white backdrop we customarily use. Damian's going to have some fun trying to light the stage with a house rig designed more for providing a staid general colour wash for an orchestra than the flashing bombast of a rock show,but he's brought some toys with him and is also in general awe of the place, taking photos of it from every conceivable angle.I've got some toys of my own for tonight, too, more of which later, but for the moment our main focus is on whether or not Den's plan for getting replacement disks for tonight's show has worked or not. Den is coming in at 11.00am to start rejigging the slide show we already have as a back-up plan, and the disks themselves are being rushed up by car, so we're reasonably optimistic. The day gets another major boost when our enterprising foragers Clive and Damian discover a local Egyptian-owned cafe which has hit on the genius idea of a takeaway full Engllish breakfast. For a blissful ten minutes or so there's total silence as we sit in a line at the front of the stage and trough down gratefully. Like any army, a touring band marches on it's stomach, and though I'm carrying enough subcutaneous body fat to enable me to live, camel-like, for several months without food if pressed, this fresh fuel really hits the spot, so it's with renewed vigour that we push on with our work. First major relief of the day....the disks arrive, get loaded into the computer, and after a " Please God, please...." moment, Arthur annnounces " We have a show ". In reality, from here on in we're coasting; the early get-in has meant that everything else is ready for the band's arrival at 3pm for soundcheck, and after that the rest is just tweaking. The soundcheck itself reveals a few frayed nerves and tempers as lack of sleep and the pressure of the occasion take their toll on some of the band, but a couple of " jams " into the process and everyone's visibly relaxing. Tonight's show will differ significantly from the touring show. Perennial Hollies favourite Just One Look is replaced by their Look Through Any Window, The Small Faces All Or Nothing stands in for Itchycoo Park and The Byrds' Mr Tambourine Man gives way to Turn Turn Turn. The Easybeats' resolutely mental Friday On My Mind in in there, and as this is The Beatles Festival, a smattering of extra Fab Four tunes have been added to the mix. Got To Get You Into My Life makes a welcome return and We Can Work It Out takes over from Walk Right Back as the ultimate song of the acoustic medley. Most exciting development for me, however, is the addition of Helter Skelter as the encore number. Always a powerful song, seeing The Overtunes batter it into submission at soundcheck is almost worth the admission price alone. Having long thought U2's version was the defintive cover of the number, I have a serious change of heart as the boys tee it up and knock it out of sight into Row Z. It's times like this, when the five musicians step outside the slightly polite format of Sixties pop and really cut loose that you realise what a truly great band they are; there's a "rock" presence here that wouldn't look out of place on any of the world's arena stages and you appreciate fully that, geniuses at Sixties music as they are, they'd be equally brilliant at any genre in the rock music format. We get a little glimpse of this every night when they do the wig-out section of Light My Fire, but this here is something so joyous and visceral that the few remaining hairs on the back of my neck are stood at attention throughtout. It's magnificent, and to complement the bombast of this closing song, I also have a few little secret weapons hidden around the stage. In addition to the usual array of fireworks, along the front we have four thunderflashes, all featuring what the label solemnly refers to a " a loud report ". Best of all, though, concealed behind the screen I have device known as a bomb tank, which is essentially a bloody great cast-iron dustbin into which you suspend an explosive device called a maroon. Ships in distress use these at sea, so you're maybe getting the picture of the volume involved. The plan is to trigger this mini-Armageddon at the top of the intro build for Helter Skelter, so I have a quick practise until I'm happy I've got the timing right...this is a one-time option so there's no margin for error. Another thing that's different about tonight is that we've got a support band on with us, a lovely bunch of local Cavern-playing regulars called The Shakers who are going to kick things off with a thirty-minute set. There's a strict 11pm curfew tonight, so the show HAS to run tight, and as such we've ditched a lot of the regular banter between songs. We're going to have to keep a very close eye on the clock as we can't risk having to lose any of the set. Seven thirty finally rolls around, the doors open, and at the appointed hour sharp-suited compere Neil walks on to start proceedings by introducing The Shakers. As the band play I peep out into the auditorium and do a quick double-take....the place is full, upstairs AND down. Oh, yes....this is going to be GOOD ! As the last notes of Twist & Shout die away and The Shakers say their " thankyou and goodnight " we're already onstage, clearing their gear and setting up our own. We've been given fifteen minutes, manage it in ten, and so we're good to go. When the house lights go down we get that big audience roar thing going on, then suddenly the stage lights are up and the band are into From Me To You. On the last tour we saw how little venues can barely contain the power and presence of The Bootleg Sixties show in full effect, but we also saw in places like Coventry and Stockport how well the band can make the step up to the bigger stages, and tonight they're doing it as to the manner born. The sound is immense, they're smiling and clearly enjoying themselves, and despite the lack of house lighting Damian's doing some VERY clever things with his MAC 250s. Not for the first time I look at the stage, then out at the audience and think
" Yes....this show really CAN be as big as this EVERY night ". That's for the future, though...tonight we're concentrating on keeping this perfect. Every song is rapturously received, all the visuals are runnning like clockwork, and before we know it there are two thousand plus people bellowing " Then I saw her face " back at Den as I'm A Believer brings the first half to a close. We've overrun by five minutes but we know we can pull that back, so everything's still calm backstage. By the time the house get everyone out of the bar at the end of the interval and we get clearance to restart the show we've lost another five minutes, so I'm getting a BIT anxious, but we'll just have to see how it goes. Instead of the usual video at the start of the second half, Den's done a very clever George Harrison / Eleanor Rigby mash-up to accompany a visual montage he's put together, and from there it's straight into Blowin' In The Wind. All Or Nothing gets everyone back in the party mood, and to hear all those people singing You Were On My Mind is just fantastic. By the time the band are on the home stretch of Green Onions, Mony Mony and Jumpin' Jack Flash it's "back of the net" time, and the audience don't even need to be asked to dance. The noise they make as they bay for the lads to come back onstage is incredible, and you can actually hear screams of joy as Jamie kicks into Helter Skelter. The appointed moment comes and.....BOOOOM ! off go the pyrotechnics, BANG ! off go the band and AAAAGGH ! go the audience as we break the world record for mass simultaneous bowel-voiding. Oh yes, it was loud....it was VERY loud.....At last it's all over, and as the band head off to the Adelphi to meet and greet, we start to take the show down, proud of what we've achieved here tonight. It's been virtually flawless, and we've seen first-hand what this COULD become. We load up the gear, tired but happy, and some of the lads head home, whilst Arthur, Nick and I follow the band to the Adelphi for a quick celebratory snifter. Steve's there with pal and fellow skinsman Chris Sharrock of Robbie Williams and Oasis fame, but we're just after a quiet drink,so we head into the least busy bar. Just as we've ordered, an odd mobile phone call comes in from young Lids, and Nick, concerned by the tone of his offspring's voice, heads back to the hotel to see what's afoot. Phil wanders in to the bar, a big smile creasing his face, and joins us in a Guinness, then uber-fans Marilyn and Debbie apppear.I surreptitiously check to see if they are sporting fresh jeans, as the originals may have been inadvertently soiled by the effects of my explosions, but these girls are made of stern stuff and there's not even a piddle-mark in sight. Nick returns with Lids in tow, and we hear the latest instalment in the tale of the Formule 1. Our Lids hasn't been feeling too good lately, so he'd headed to bed after the show, only to be awoken by the sight of five drunken Scousers standing in his room, apparently looking for some kind of party. It appears that one of the other clever aspects of the room design at the Formule 1 is that some of the rooms can't be locked from the inside, so this mob of marauding Mickey Mousers were thundering up and down the corridors going into whichever rooms they could open. No wonder the poor lad was nervous on the phone.... We finally bid farewell to everyone and head back to Albert Docks where we wearily climb the stairs of the Shithole Du Jour, as we have renamed this Gallic dump. As we reach our landing two security types are escorting a bunch of noisy, bolshie pissheads off the premises, and as they pass us I realise how annoying it is that you never seem to have an Uzi submachine gun on you when you need one. Hey ho, next time, perhaps. It's been a good, good day today, and though we're totally knackered we fall asleep with the glow of a job very well done. Tonight I don't even mind the beetles and fleas snuggling down with me, though tomorrow I will vow to burn this accursed place to the ground and dance on the ashes.....