Taunton Brewhouse Theatre Tuesday April 24th

We’ve only got five shows to go now, and I’m already starting to feel the slight panic I get when a tour comes to an end. Partly it’s the prospect of having to sort out all the finances ( and I’d rather stick needles in my eyes, if I’m honest ) and part of it is having to return to “ normal “ life, without the support and friendship of these brilliant guys. It’s not like we don’t speak between tours, of course…Rodders and Tomps in particular are always just a phone call away when things get a little fraught and I need a dose of sanity…but here on the bus and in the theatres we’re a little army, and I can put all the other poo out of my mind for a while. It’s been a bit of an “ annus horribilis” for me in many ways, and there’s a lot to be afraid of when I get back, but there’s also one very good thing to look forward to, so hopefully I’m not going to feel quite so cut adrift when I’m home. I’m moving back from Norfolk to Northamptonshire, and will be sharing a house with me ol’ Mum ( gawd bless ‘er ! ) so I need to look at all of this as a new start. Today’s a new start for the show as well…we’re in virgin territory here in Taunton, and although we’ve heard very good reports about the Brewhouse Theatre we don’t really know what to expect. The early signs are all good…it’s got a very pretty riverside location, and there’s a Morrison’s just over the footbridge, so we’re sorted for cakes and ale. Inside, it just gets better…a new building with a big stage and loads of wing space, plus the seats are raked very steeply, so it’s as though the audience is right on top of the band. We also know we’ve done a good advance sale here, so we’re in decent shape as we head into soundcheck. The theatre staff have also arranged for us to leave the bus and vans here tonight, which means we get the chance of showers and breakfast, and this also gives me the chance to launch a mini-tirade against the bunch of superannuated NIMBYs who live in the swanky new “ retirement complex” opposite the theatre. Basically, the Brewhouse was here first, but then these high-end condos got built opposite it along the edge of the cricket ground. They’re specifically for well-heeled and well-connected crumblies, and no sooner had Colonel and Mrs Bletherington-Ffarnes-Barnes moved in than they started to make waves about the noisy theatrical types from across the way, especially the vehicles that come in and out of The Brewhouse’s loading bay. The access road is, of course, a right of way belonging to both the theatre AND the complex, but this bristle-‘tached old buffoon and his coven of cackling geriatric witches have been trying to ban anything bigger than a tricycle from coming in to the area where the theatre load dock doors are. You know the score….”too much noise, ruining our view with their nasty tour buses, common long-haired men standing around wearing t-shirts and smoking cigarettes”….and what’s REALLY annoying is that generally, these kind of people manage to wear councils down with their incessant bleating , unless timely death intervenes first. Now, I’d be the first to jump on the NIMBY bandwagon if someone suddenly put an airport on top of my potting shed or something similar. I also believe an Englishman’s home is his castle, and I have my generation’s innate respect for the elderly ( I mean, I nearly AM one…). What I DON’T agree with is a situation like this, where a new development has come in and the residents are trying to bend the existing community and facilities to their will by playing on their status as senior, or privileged citizens. The theatre is gamely resisting this tide of Saga-sustained pressure, and that’s one of the main reasons we don’t pick up the interfering old git who ostentatiously walks around noting down the registration and operator’s licences of the vans and bus and throw him in the river…the Brewhouse have got to use firmness and courtesy in their struggle, so the “accidental” drowning of one of their opponents probably wouldn’t help their cause much. Shame. I’m also aware that many of these old boys would have fought in previous wars just to allow young whipper-snappers like me the freedom to drivel on in forums like this, and for that they’ll have my eternal respect…as I was saying to my friend Sue just the other day, I’m fiercely patriotic and anyone who fights for this country IS a hero in my eyes…but that doesn’t give them the right to then start to start displaying the fascist tendencies that they fought against in the first place. If, say, Admiral Nelson moved in to the road where I’d been happily living for the past ten years and started campaigning to have my conservatory demolished as it was lowering the tone of the neighbourhood, I’d probably put his other eye out, Trafalgar and The Battle Of The Nile notwithstanding. The Brewhouse is a great little theatre doing a fantastic job, with minimal impact on the surrounding area, and no wrinkly-come-lately should be allowed to stop that. Blimey….I AM ranting lately, aren’t I ?? Sorry folks…end-of-tour psychosis must be setting in. So…back to the gig ! Tonight is one of those slightly odd shows that has what we call an “ applause “ audience. They’re very appreciative, and their applause is genuine and fulsome, but there’s not much a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’. Doesn’t mean the boys aren’t going down well, it’s just that there isn’t the mayhem that often characterises the shows. With audiences like this here’s always a slight worry that when the band exhort them to get to their feet, they simply won’t, and that would be a tad embarrassing. I’d say it takes them almost right up until the end of the first half and the “sturm und drang” of You Really Got Me before the noise level ratchets up, but after that things improve significantly. I definitely get the impression tonight that people are actually watching the show, and I have to keep reminding myself that they’ve never seen it before. We tend to forget that it IS a bit of an assault on the senses, and sometimes you just want to sit and take it all in. Jamie’s turn on Handbags And Gladrags is especially well-received tonight, and partly that’s because he’s so close to the audience. It’s always been a bit of a tour de force but tonight he really wows them, thrashing his guitar and stamping the stage as though he were trying to eliminate an armour-plated rodent…and when you’re sitting just a few feet away from that voice, you’re not going to forget the experience quickly. The pyros in Pinball Wizard actually get a cheer of their own ( in fact I’m thinking of setting up a Facebook page for them ) then Blackberry Way seals the deal. This song really has been one of the musical highlights of the tour for us…just brilliant. The closing medley with it’s new drum intro sees everyone on their feet, and by the time the house lights come up we’re already getting fantastic feedback from both the venue and the audience. To paraphrase the immortal words of Arnie, “We’ll be back !”.

Christchurch Regent Centre Sunday April 22nd

Let me start this morning’s sermon by saying that some of you may find its’ content somewhat offensive. If so I apologise, and in my best disclaimer voice let me say that the following are my personal views and are in no way representative of the opinions of The Bootleg Sixties LLP or any of it’s employees. Thank you. Anyway, despite the fact I’m resolutely aetheist, I’ve always worked on the “live and let live” premise, but where the wheel comes off is when you ( and when I say “you”, that’s a universal “you”, not “you”….oh, you know what I mean….) start to impose your beliefs on me. If I’m having a pleasant, relaxing day at home and some Jehovah’s Witnesses come to the door, they are going to get the shortest of shrift. Not interested, go away. I mean, has ANYONE in the whole of human history had that knock on the door from these earnest souls and gone “ You know what ? Thank goodness you came round. You’re EXACTLY what’s missing in my life ! “) .It’s the same with amplified muezzin calls to prayer., saffron – clad Krishna baldies shuffling down Oxford Street chanting and bashing little cymbals, and to some extent even church bells. Keep your religion to yourself, please. I don’t want it, and I REALLY don’t want it being imposed on me.. It is thus with clenched teeth that I must relate the events of this morning. So I’ve got to bed about quarter to four, and that’s fine, as I don’t have to be up until noon. However, some time around 8.45am on this quiet Sunday morning, my sleep is interrupted by the incessant thump of a drummer playing a rock beat... badly. It’s not in-yer-face loud, it’s Chinese water torture loud. You can’t ignore it, and it seeps into your ears, driving blessed sleep away ( and co-incidentally rousing the “old man’s bladder”, who reckons that as I’m awake I may as well have a wee ). My first thought is that it’s a local band rehearsing in a nearby garage or something, and I quickly run through in my mind what we may have on the bus that I can use as a lethal weapon. As I become more orientated, however, I realise that the sound is actually coming from the Regent Centre itself, and I’m also aware of guitars, keyboards and voices too. As I step outside the bus in my fetching t-shirt and shorts combo I’m painfully aware that it’s also LOUD. It sounds like a full-on concert going on in there, and as it’s Sunday morning, it can only be a bloody modern, happy-clappy, rock-music-as-means-of-worship church service. When will these people ever LEARN ? Don’t they know the saying that the Devil has all the best tunes ? Rock music is dirty, and sexy, and visceral, and belongs in the gutters and the clubs and the bars, not in bloody churches. I mean, the very term “ rock’n’roll” is slang for doing the horizontal bop…it’s got NOTHING to do with religion. Show me just ONE picture of Jesus wearing a low-slung Fender Stratocaster guitar and I’ll change my mind, but until them I’m afraid my take on it is that Christian rock is one of life’s great abominations, like Marmite and Sunderland F.C. As I can’t find a single door that’s unlocked, my initial idea of setting fire to the place is stymied, so I briefly consider invoking the spirit of Beelzebub to see if he can use some of his satanic shizzle to visit a flood or a storm or a plague of tadpoles or something on them. Luckily I stop myself in time. You can only dance with the Devil once. The legendary bluesman Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil at the crossroads in exchange for worldly fame and riches, and he ended up getting murdered just a few years later. When I make MY pact it’s going to involve lottery wins, Marabou chocolate, a Lamborghini Countache and possibly Kiera Knightley, so I’m not going to waste it on these numpties. Instead I get dressed and stomp off into town to see if I can find a tramp to berate, but this is Christchurch, where even the homeless have houses. I’m oddly discomfited by this unwelcome interruption of my much-needed beauty sleep ( and by gum , it is MUCH needed…) and the mood only dissipates when the word finally comes in that all of the singers and players have gone, hopefully to painful futures involving legions of biting insects. My mood is finally lightened when it’s time for the load-in, and along comes Shaun Luckly, house tech extraordinaire and a man who looks like he should be a rock hero in his own right, with his long black ringletted hair and saturnine looks. One thing he IS though, is a really nice geezer, and it’s always a real pleasure to come here and work with him. Never fazed, never flapping, and always ready with a cup of tea or a quip, the theatres of Britain could do with an army of Shauns. That’s fifty quid as agreed, please mate…..Despite the fact that the only way into the venue is to hoik the kit up onto a 5’ high loading dock , take it in through a side door and THEN hoik it up onto a 5’ high stage or run it up a dizzying series of disability access ramps, it all goes in pretty well, and despite the tightness of the stage we’re well enough versed now in how to deal with these situations.. One slight hiccup does occur as one of our number is attempting to put a PA stack together, and has opted for a “ geometrically pleasing “ rather than a “ won’t fall over “ approach, with the result that…well, it falls over. Luckily no real damage is done and all continues apace. We’re not totally sure what to expect from tonight’s show….when we played here eighteen months ago we had a good crowd, but the way things have been going on this tour, we just can’t second guess audience numbers. We’ve had some do well that we expected to be a problem and some “bankers “ which have been, frankly, pretty poor. Luckily, tonight is one that actually improves on last time’s turnout…which is what we’d been hoping for on ALL the dates….and it’s also got a decent sprinkling of younger folks, which is something else we’re aiming to increase. As the Regent Centre’s got a long, narrow auditorium, it looks even fuller than it actually is, and this in turn funnels the crowd’s energy back towards the stage. As we’ve found several times on this tour, it’s the more raucous numbers which seem to be going down best for some reason….when the intro to You Really Got Me comes thundering out of the dark, we can always hear shouts of recognition from the crowd, and the cheering at the end of the guitar and keyboard wig-out-fest of Light My Fire has been long and enthusiastic. In fact, so up for it are the people here tonight that we’re a bit surprised when the band decide on You’ll Never Walk Alone as the encore, but the audience aren’t bothered, and bellow along merrily. It’s been a real success, and the Regent Centre has definitely moved ahead of Wimborne Tivoli as the place to play when we’re in this part of the world. We gee-up the load-out as much as we can to help Nick get away…he’s got to head back to Hertfordshire tonight as he’s got some personal business to attend to at home tomorrow…and the fact that it starts to rain adds to our need for speed. It’s going to be a bit odd not having the old chap with us tonight…in fact, we’re TWO sleepers down, as Chris has opted to self-drive the last few dates of the tour as they’re all within striking distance of his home. In fact, when I saw him at soundcheck today I realised I hadn’t even really spoken to him for the past two days, as he’s arriving just before soundcheck starts and leaving as soon as he’s offstage. At first everyone though that he might be making a mistake and that he’d miss not being part of the Bogey Brigade, but as tiredness kicks in and the final dates of the tour stretch out before us, more than a few of our happy band start to think that he’s got the right idea ! Only a few more to go, chaps. Tonight’s one of the nights when you realise what being on a tour bus with a bunch of your mates is all about…. we’re all crammed into the back lounge with a few beers, the banter and the jokes flow, and it’s just brilliant. THIS is what I miss when we’re off the road. The last tour I did earlier this year was just me and the American artist I was looking after, and it was weird. I mean, we got on great and it was all fine and dandy and civilized, but there’s such an “ All for one and one for all” thing going on with the twelve of us here that anything else is just a bit lame. Big John has become as much a part of the family as anyone over the past two tours as well…he’s got a seemingly inexhaustible supply of jokes and a fund of interesting trivia which will serve us all well in future pub quizzes, and he can be guaranteed to lift you out of any Slough Of Despond which you may unwittingly sailed into. His unswerving loyalty to Newcastle United FC has, of course, nothing to do with my relationship with the big fella…..!!!! We’re staying here tonight for tomorrow’s day off, so I realise I can stay up an hour or two past my bedtime and Mummy won’t be too unhappy….but by two o’clock I’m flagging and so I crawl into my little womb-on-wheels and as Baloo the bear once said, I’m gone, man, solid gone….

Burgess Hill Martlet Hall Saturday April 21st

When you’ve done a belter like Aldershot, there’s always the danger of it being a case of “ after the Lord Mayor’s show” for the next gig. To be honest, the signs for Burgess Hill aren’t great….in fact quite literally, as we can’t even find the bloody place at first despite the best intentions of our two Dorises and Big John’s Why Aye-pad. We finally rock up just a few minutes late, and it’s a nice surprise. Although there are no moving bars for the moving lights and projectors, which means Rodders will again have to do his Amazing Spiderman act up a ladder, it’s a lovely little theatre. Advance sales had been pretty dire, but the way the seats are set out means even a half-decent crowd will look good in here. As it turns out, when I check with the box office, sales have almost doubled from what they were when we last asked, so that’s a bonus for starters. The build takes longer than usual as we have to mount two of the projectors on stands rather than fly them on a bar, and that always has a high fannying-about quotient. The stage is also a little cosy, but we’ve played smaller without any problems. In short, it’s all good. It even has the benefit of a Waitrose almost next door, and, feeling the need for some healthy nosh, I go in and stock up on mung bean and badger bile extract curd. Yum. (Note…this may be slightly inaccurate. But I DID get a Snickers bar, and that’s got nuts in it, which are healthy,
right ? OK, I know, I know…so has squirrel shit, and that’s not good for you either…). Despite the pernickitiness of the build, we’re only about twenty minutes later than normal getting set up, which is another testament to the teamwork we’ve got on this crew. The band do their bit, too, cracking on through the soundcheck at a speed which enables Nick to do a fish and chips run, and allows us to eat it without risking chronic indigestion. Normally when we’re ahead of schedule we chill out on the bus for a bit, but the venue haven’t been able to give us power for it for some reason, so the Bogey is dark and chilly. It’d also a late show tonight, so this DOES create a bit of a lull in the proceedings, which Den and I try to fill by changing some of the slides around for the projections. There was a time, Faithful Blogreader, when any computer that came within several yards of me would inexplicably stop working, or lose it’s memory, or melt, and I began to wonder if I was like Magneto from X Men, with an invisible forcefield that threw machinery into disarray. Turns out I’m just crap with computers, but thanks to the wise tuition of Professor Tompkins, I’m now a bit of a whiz.. Apart from being able to handle Powerpoint as well as any normal seven year old, I’m fully computer literate, and my skill set is vast…sending e-mails, reading e-mails, deleting e-mails…I could go on. It’s also a big football day today….the Mighty Magpies of Newcastle United spank Stoke City 3-0 and move up to the nosebleed-inducing heights of fourth in the Premiership, at least until Spurs play their game later today. When the news filters through that Spurs have lost one nil, Big John and I offer profound thanks to Spurs for rolling over today against the ten men of lowly QPR ( sorry, Sue ! ), as well as pinching ourselves to make sure we’re not dreaming. Arthur, being a Spurs fan, is fairly disgruntled, but then I’ve never seen him actually gruntled, so I can’t really tell the difference. Showtime comes around, and we’re not really sure what to expect from this crowd. Den’s got a couple of friends in and Jamie’s wife, the lovely Michelle, is here too, bringing one of their daughters to see Daddy in action onstage for the first time, but otherwise we think this is pretty much virgin territory, so there’s a smidgeon of trepidation, but as ever, we needn’t have worried. They’re a noisy and enthusiastic bunch tonight, and right in the front row at stage left in front of Jamie is a row of people who, we later discover, are fans from Worthing, and apart from the usual applause and whistling, they display a fantastic routine of formation dancing…whilst still in their seats. I wonder for a moment how they rehearsed it….” Yeah, come over to mine about eight….bring a bottle and I’ll get a pizza in. And don‘t forget to bring all your chairs….” but they’re clearly having a ball, and it doesn’t take long before they’re on their feet and bopping around. The band aren’t quite at full throttle in the first half, but they’ve got this show totally nailed, and what we sometimes have to remind ourselves is that even if we don’t think a show has been especially good by our own high standards, to people seeing it for the first time it’s fantastic, and what’s especially pleasing on this tour is the amount of people who HAVE seen it before telling us that they think this is the best we’ve done yet. It’s harder for us to be objective as we see it every night, but it’s been such a constant comment that we must be doing SOMETHING right. The rockier songs seem to be the winners tonight, but Jamie’s Handbags And Gladrags gets a special cheer ( and it wasn’t just Michelle ! ). The triple whammy of Pinball Wizard ( with fully operating pyros ! ), Blackberry Way and Green Onions has already got most of the house on their feet even before the final medley, and by the end of THAT, this gig has changed from a “ singlaong encore “ to a
“ rocking out encore” , and Spirit makes it’s second appearance in two days. If anything this one’s even meatier, and the place is heaving at the end. Job done !! There’s a moment of farce as we prepare to leave; the massive steel automatic barrier opens to let Arthur out…then closes again and steadfastly refuses to have anything to do with either the bus or Nick’s van. As we know the whole place is shut tomorrow, being a Sunday, we have visions of having to take an oxy-acetylene torch to the damn thing so we can get out and get to Christchurch, but luckily the obligatory “ little man” who works these kind of things turns up with some kind of key fob malarkey, and we are released. Arthur’s feeling rough so our little convoy hits the first services and he stocks up on jollop and pills, then he swaps with me and I “race” Nick to Christchurch. I say “ race” but it’s more a case of me tearing past him when I’m going downhill, and him laughingly passing me as I wheeze up the hills, but it helps to pass the journey. We roll into the car park at The Regent Centre at a respectable 3.15am, and as we’ve escorted John here through the labyrinthine back streets of the town, we can jump straight aboard. The only downer is that the bus has to be parked sideways on a hill, so she’s far from level. This seems OK until I actually get into my bunk and start rolling downhill due to the camber. I manage to rig up a protective wall of pillows and clothes, but when I wake up at five to have the first of my “ old man’s bladder” trips to the loo, I find my face is mashed against the side of the bus again, and that’s SO not a good look. In fact, when I get up, the camber seems much steeper, somehow, and I make it to the loo only by bouncing off various bunks, musicians and assorted hard or pointy surfaces on the way. For a minute I toy with the idea of totally bottling out of the return journey, but the old lids are drooping again, and I can hear the siren call of my bunk. I’ll be fine. I can DO this. Taking a deep breath, I release my hold on the galley door to stagger bed-wards…..and promptly plant an elbow right in Phil’s head..Oops….!

Aldershot Princes Hall Thursday April 19th

We had a day off yesterday, and the good folk of the Princes Theatre in Aldershot kindly agreed to let us park the bus up and use their facilities. All of the band except Phil have gone home again, and of course Junior has sadly left us to go back to his “ proper job”, so it’s only six of us on the bus. Big John immediately set out to lay waste to the female population of the town while the rest of us enjoyed more genteel pursuits, such as watching DVDs, eating incessantly, drinking beer, sleeping, farting (Nick) and tour accounts (me). The day hadn’t started especially well….Rodders and I had arrived at 4.25am to find major building developments going on around the venue, as well as a totally new and confusing car park. Being the good citizen that I am, I neatly parked the van and left a note in the window saying we were playing at Princes Hall and were waiting for them to open so we could pick up a permit. I also left a footnote with my mobile saying contact me in an emergency, never for one moment thinking someone actually would….I mean, the bloody car park was huge and totally deserted. I had, however, reckoned without the pettifogging, parsimonious small-mindedness of the local council officials. At 8.45 am my mobile wakes me from an exhausted sleep, and some pillock tells me that I’ve parked in the wrong place, and if I’m at Princes Hall I need to park on the RED bays, as the other bays belong to the council and magistrate’s courts. I trust I’m not stretching the bounds of your credulity when I tell you that I felt like I’d been Superglued to my bunk, so tired was I. However, like a good little soldier I dragged my carcass upright, threw on some clothes ( don’t know whose they were ) and staggered, blinking, into the grey, rainy morning. I walked to the car park, hoping I wasn’t blocking someone in, hence the call…only to find it was still almost totally bloody deserted, with the van sitting forlornly but unobtrusively in one corner. Faithful Blogreader, it is at this point that my inner caveman came to the fore, and I started bellowing abuse at the blank windows of the court offices, hoping to coax my tormentor into plain sight, whereupon I could extract his liver through his earhole and make him eat his own foot. No such luck…the only response was from two policemen who were just coming off duty, and, clearly wanting to avoid extra paperwork this late in their shift, let the madman rant on as they warily sidled into the police station and clocked off. Eventually the rage subsided, and just as I was contemplating ram-raiding the council offices in the van just for the hell of it, I spotted Steven, one of the house techs from the Princes Hall, turning up for work. Within minutes he’d sorted me out a vehicle pass, and my first thought was “back to bed”……but I’m up now, aren’t I ? I’m awake, and it’d be pointless trying to sleep. Instead I decided to have a shower, which, though welcome, was an experience in itself. So caked with limescale was the showerhead that the water actually came out at right angles, and I only managed to get wet by standing next to the cubicle door and letting the water catch me as it ricocheted off it. It was hot, though, and I felt a zillion times better when I came out. I actually tried to put off doing what I had to do for a while, and just wanted to chill out with the other lads, but in the end the demands of duty were not to be denied, and I set to it. I don’t know about anyone else, but there’s something about pages full of numbers and figures that is innately depressing, and to add to the downer factor we’ve still only been paid by FOUR of the theatres we’ve played, so I’m desperately trying to spread around what little cash we have had in. This, of course, is firefighting, and that means you’re always going to make SOMEONE unhappy, but there’s nothing else I can do….to use the catchphrase of last year’s tour, it is what it is. So frustrating and misery-inducing was this whole process that I got a bit overwhelmed and finally gave up. The gloom was lifted for a bit when Pug, Tomps, Nick and I sat and watched a DVD, but I got into my bunk feeling decidedly dejected. However, my default setting is normally fairly bright, so this morning, after a decent sleep, I decide it’s time to take off the Trousers Of Despair and pull on the Shorts Of Optimism. Arthur’s rejoining the tour today, and he’s flying in to Gatwick from Berlin, so I pick him up from North Camp railway station and take him to Tescos for a Full English breakfast fix…..as he’s been in the Grand Duchy of Foreigny for a couple of weeks he’s sick of morning repasts consisting solely of ham, eggs and bread rolls…and then we head to the load-in. We’re in full effect these days, even being a man down since Junior left, and we’re all set and ready to go by 2.45 pm again. There’s brief talk of a change in the setlist for tonight, but I in the end the band decide to keep things as they are, the only slight tweak being the reintroduction of The Hollies I’m Alive as a segue into Just One Look. Aldershot is always a corker; it’s the one show we do which is promoted by an outside source, in this case the inimitable Mr John Martin, toppest of top blokes, and it seems that he sells tickets to people based purely on the degree of rabid fandom they display. There are never any neutrals at the show here…..it IS something of a case of preaching to the converted , but hey…there’s nothing wrong with that. Our diehards are right there in the front row too….there’s Marilyn, enjoying her birthday today in the best possible way, and Debbie, and Dawn and Jim and Linda. It’s great to look out and see these faces, especially when you see they’re genuinely enjoying the show still. Guys, we couldn’t do this without you and people like you. Apart from some dimmer channel weirdness on the house lights and a few misfiring pyrotechnics, the production itself is as close to faultless as it gets. Den’s a bit more relaxed talking to this audience, and the band are just totally in the groove. To be honest, tonight’s a bit of a done deal right from the off….they’d have to play like total spaniels to go down badly here…so the sense of triumph isn’t quite as strong as it was at Bedford, where the audience was made up of a lot of people seeing the show for the first time, but it’s still brilliant…the sheer volume of the crowd response alone gives me goosebumps. With an audience like this there can only be one encore, and Spirit In The Sky is simply blistering…..at times it’s almost hard rock, with Phil stepping out over the monitor line and ripping solos from his Strat, and it’s totally glorious. Afterwards we say our goodbyes to our friends, and as Dawn leaves she calls out “ See you next year!” It’s only after she’s gone that I realise I can’t remember if I’ve told her that we’re planning a short winter tour this year as well, so Dawn…watch this space…we’ll be back in November 2012 ! With all the friends and fans around and after such a triumphant show we’re expecting to find the bus deserted and the band being borne around the pubs of Aldershot on litters of peacock feathers and unicorn hair by adoring acolytes, but to our surprise as we clamber aboard we find them sipping tea and eating cake in a most unrockstar-ey manner. “We’re a bit tired “ they plead, so we leave them to their Earl Grey and decide that we’ve had enough of healthy stuff…there’s only one thing for it….KEBAAAAAAAB !!! Luckily for us, Mustafa’s Salmonella To Go is still open, and looks suitably unprepossessing, so in we troop. Luckily there are no regiments of drunken squaddies in here tonight or the whole exercise could well have a different outcome. We DO get one window-licker who sings to himself in a high, keening voice the entire time he’s in the place, but we’re otherwise undisturbed as we set about out mystery meat with vigour. I’m about halfway through when my teeth crunch into something metallic. I fish it out and am slightly puzzled that it appears to be a disc of metal of some sort bearing the word “ Tiddles “. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about though…..Sated by our unsavoury repast, we stroll back through the freezing rain to The Bogey to find that the band really MUST have been tired…there’s not a soul to be seen. I have a wry chuckle at the irony of it all….so many people have a misconception of what life on the road and specifically on a tour bus is all about. They think it’s all sex and drugs and rock and roll. Well, we DO have the rock and roll, but the sex is only in our fevered imaginations and the drugs are never stronger than Weston’s cider and Ibuprofen ( mind you, some of the cider Tomps and Rodders drink is so strong it could be classified as an offensive weapon ). In fact, we get much more excited when someone finds a beer tucked away at the back of the fridge or if there’s an unopened packet of crisps in the food cupboards. We may well be a motley crew, but we CERTAINLY aren’t Motley Crue.....!

Newark Palace Theatre Wednesday April 18th

Paul McCartney may well wake up to the sound of music, with Mother Mary talking to him, but I wake up to the sound of the Lincolnshire rain hammering on the roof of the bus, so I Let It Be and go back to sleep. This is most unlike me…normally I wake quite early and then I’m up and at ‘em…but today I just can’t drag myself out of my bunk. I mean, we DID arrive quite late this morning…about threeish…but that’s no biggie for us on this tour. I think it’s the cumulative effects of the long days and nights and the stress of trying to keep all the financial plates spinning, plus, I’m sorry to have to admit, it’s the simple passage of time. I’m nearly 55 now ( June 7th, folks… all donations / presents / cakes / loose women / spare tickets for Newcastle United games / bundles of tenners gratefully accepted ) and at least once every day my mind writes a cheque that my body can’t cash. In fact, not only does it not cash it, but it sets off the panic button, brings down the security shutters and sends in the armed response team. I can still chuck the gear about almost as well as I used to when the occasion demands, and I reckon my basic strength’s still OK, but almost every joint is starting to feel as though it’s full of gravel, and my knees long ago decided that they didn’t want to play anymore and took their ball home. It’s got to the point where I’m almost as useless as a Dalek when it comes to stairs,
and as if they know this, it seems as though all the theatres we’re playing are on about nine levels, with the two things I need to access most being on levels one and nine. So come on, boffins of the world….invent a bloody anti-gravity belt or else a fat lad – sized indoor jet pack or something. I’m struggling here !!!! When I finally roll out of my scratcher it’s half ten in the morning and so I immediately go into “ I’ve wasted time !” mode. Luckily Rodders is on hand, as he so often is, to remind me that I’m being a big jessie and that there’s nothing wrong with sleeping when you’re tired. Big John’s Wetherspoons – Seeker app has obviously been in full effect, as our very own Breakfast Club of John, Rodders, Nick and Tomps have all been out and troughed down by the time I get up. It appears that on this tour it’s Pug who has drawn the Magic Bunk in the allocation lottery, for he’s still peacefully sleeping despite the cacophony of talking, laughing and farting that’s going on just inches away from him. Mind you, judging by the noxious emissions that Nick’s producing this morning, maybe there’s another reason he’s not conscious….Come one o’clock and the rain’s still not eased, so we just have to grit our teeth and get on with it. Luckily the get-in is not too bad, and everything gets chucked in quickly. Once inside it’s clear this is the perfect kind of theatre for us. Good size, nice big stage with plenty of wing and dock space, decent dressing rooms with showers and a management that really want to help. So perfect is it, in fact, that we’re actually finished and set up ready for the band at 2.45pm, the fastest we’ve ever done it. Told you this was a bloody good crew…..Nick and I take advantage of the early finish to scoot off to a local ATS and pick up a new tyre for his van, the Black Pearl, and I’m feeling so chilled out that I only cry a thimbleful of tears when they give me the bill for
£ 108. Back at the venue it’s oddly deserted….the band have been in and showered, so they’re either on the bus or mooching around Newark ( VERY pretty place, by the way…well worth a visit. Only make sure you do it next time we’re playing there and bring everyone you’ve ever met in your life with you….). We’re so on top of this show now that in all honesty, once we’re set up there’s no real need for anyone to be here until the boys come back for soundcheck, and giving the crew this extra bit of downtime has been a real morale booster. They’re all totally professional, responsible lads, and don’t need me on their backs every five minutes to make sure the job gets done and done well, so it means everyone’s more relaxed and there’s a great atmosphere. I make use of the quiet time by grabbing a quick shower, and then it’s accounts a-go go. Oh, the joy….Tonight is one of those shows where there are some acoustic oddities. As the stage is quite deep, Tomps and I are quite a long way back from the crowd, so even without our comms headsets on, the applause seems a bit muted. Going by the expressions on the band’s faces, though, this isn’t the case at all, and from the stage itself the applause is long, loud and warm, and the band slide into one of the most effortlessly masterful performances I’ve ever seen them do. It’s got power, but it’s controlled power, less hell-for-leather, more….. hell-for-suede. It’s relaxed but focused at the same time and is an absolute joy to watch. The lads have also FINALLY decided to start the “ Sixties Party” thing right at the beginning of the last medley rather than wait for Mony Mony at the end, and it works a treat…this way from now on, please !!! To our surprise ( and delight, of course ) Den calls Spirit In The Sky as the encore. I’m slightly miffed, as tonight I’m going out to the merch table again before the end of the show and I bloody LOVE the way they play this song, but as I head to front of house I suddenly realise I’m getting an opportunity I’ve actually never had before….to see even part of this show from the audience’s perspective ! I slip through a side door…and it’s mayhem. I’m nearly beaned by the meaty fist of a bloke who is punching the air, and everywhere it’s clapping, dancing, singing people. The band look and sound amazing, and I finally see what it is we pay Mr Rodwell for when he does the lights !! ( Nice one as ever,
Rodders …! ). Weirdly I feel as though somehow I’m trespassing into a forbidden area…..that’s what happens when you’ve been stuck in the stage right wings with a set of headphones on for the past three years….but it’s a fantastic glimpse behind the curtain at what the audience see when they come to this show. I begin to wonder if I can buy a ticket for the next show in Aldershot….As this is our first time here, there are plenty of people who want to meet the band afterwards, and the feedback both we and Sean, the venue manager, are getting is superb. This is definitely on our “ come back asap “ list.. Lovely gig, lovely people. The loadout is quick, too, which means we can set off for Aldershot sooner than planned. Steve’s taking the Black Pearl home again tonight to do another day’s admin catch-up on The Overtures diary, and John’s dropping the rest of the lads off at home. It’s Jamie’s birthday tomorrow and the last thing he wants is to be in Aldershot with a load of old lags like us. Den’s just going back to recharge the batteries a bit and Chris is sorting out his car as he’s going to be self-driving the gigs from here on in, but Phil’s stuck with the bus….THAT’LL teach him to go living in Gothenburg !! Rodders and I drop Junior off in the Grand Duchy of Furzeton, Milton Keynes, then head to Toddington services south and the 24 hour Burger King. Or not….the 24 hour one is only on the bloody northbound M1 ! WHAT MADNESS IS THIS ?! We briefly consider driving to Luton just to turn around and come back north, but finally agree this is just a little bit mental, so after making do with a ( surprisingly fine) all-day brunch, we swap drivers and set off on the final leg to Aldershot. It is at this point, Faithful Blogreader, that I must make a confession that is neither big nor clever. I was already quite tired before I took the wheel, and it’s not long before I’m drooping. The fact that the van’s heater is now permanently stuck on it’s “surface of the sun” setting doesn’t help, either. Rodders has already done his stint, and the poor lad’s already nodding off, so I’ve got to stick with it. I think I’m doing OK until I see a blue junction sign come up on the M3. As our friend and colleague Tracy Jacobs lives along this drag, I know that her junction is the first one we come to. As I get up to the sign, though, I get a real jolt to see that it’s actually the one after hers, and it’s the one I need to take for Aldershot. This REALLY gets the adrenaline going…somehow I’ve driven along a stretch of the M3 with absolutely no recollection of having done so. Clearly I was in control of the van, and knew where I was going, but I’m proper scared by this fatigue-induced amnesia. This must not happen again. It doesn’t take long to get to the Princes Hall, and luckily John rolls up within five minutes, so we get aboard and head for bed. It still takes me a while to drop off, though…..I realise that for all the fun and games and jokes and japery that go on here on the road, all it takes is one second of tiredness or an error of judgement and everything could change for ever. I know it’s not my usual style to close a post on such a sombre note, but this was a wake-up call to me and I’m passing it on to you. It’s better to get somewhere half an hour late in this world than twenty years early in the next. If you’re driving at night and you’re tired, don’t be a sap…take a nap.

Wakefield Theatre Royal Tuesday April 17th

Another red letter day today…it’s Tomps’ birthday, and he’s finally old enough to buy cider without an adult in attendance. I’m sure he had something more exciting in mind than sitting in the back seat of the bus with me and Nick ( a.k.a The Flatulence Kid ) on a rainy Humberside morning, but them’s the breaks, as they say. After a day off in sunny Scunny, we set off for tonight’s show in Wakefield. As with South Shields and a couple of the other gigs, the recession has bitten deep, and the theatre is struggling a bit. When we played here on the first tour three years ago we were pleasantly surprised at the size of the audience given the fact that we’d never been here before, but we have to be realistic and appreciate that’s not going to happen this time around. We love the theatre, as it’s one of the classic little old former music halls, but one major drawback is that as it sits on a major road junction, we can’t park the bus here. That means we all have to bail out, and Big John has to take the Bogey to a nearby truck park. He’s more miffed than normal because he took her through a truck wash this morning, and he’s justifiably proud of her shining…err…greenness. Now, instead of impressing the good folk of Wakefield, she’s tucked ignominiously away next to a load of manky old pantechnicons. It’s just for today though….her luxurious verdant coachwork will be back on display tomorrow in Newark. As it’s a short drive from Scunny, we arrive a bit early, and the local techs rather grumpily tell us we can’t come in as they’re re-rigging the lights from last night’s Cirque du Ceil show, so we scuttle off through the wind and rain to the theatre’s bistro for a very rock’n’roll cup of hot chocolate ( although one member of the party, who shall remain nameless but is sometimes called Pug ) decides a beer is more in order. Bad lad. By the time the actual get-in time comes around the attitude of the house crew has softened considerably ( they even make us tea ) and everything drops back into the groove. John has driven off to a truck park a short walk away but it still means we’re stuck in the theatre for the day, and once we’ve finished our work and we’re waiting for soundcheck, time DOES seem to hang heavily, even for the birthday boy, who finds a little nook behind some flight cases and catches forty winks. I try to catch up on my accounts, but I’m feeling really tired too for some reason, and decide it’s a bad idea….last think I need is to have to re-do the bloody things at a later date. Normally by showtime there’s a degree of adrenaline kicking in, but I have to say it’s just not working today…maybe the schedule is finally catching up with us, but the crew are all weary, and even during the first half I find myself dozing at my station, which just won’t do. The interval comes, and with it the ice cream tubs. Feeling as tired as I am there’s only one way to wake up, so I stick my face totally in the ice cream tub, much to the bemusement of Tomps. Works, though, and I’m fine in the second half once I’ve licked the mess of my mug. No weariness for the band tonight, though…..they’re banging through the set at full throttle, and this small but very enthusiastic crowd is lapping it up. The only odd thing about the Theatre Royal is that the merchandise position is in the bar, which is upstairs. To get there involves several doors, keys, more stairs, electronic fobs, even more stairs, retina scanning systems, some stairs that alarmingly seem to lead to the ladies’ toilets, and finally you have to give the sacred password to the Ancient Gatekeeper who guards the Chasm of Doom ( well, it feels like that anyway ). About three days after I set off, and totally knackered, I arrive, panting, in the bar to find….no-one. Yes folks, here’s a useful sales tip if you’re trying to catch those post-gig buyers…..try and have the merch table somewhere on the ground floor where people will actually pass you, as opposed to them just streaming out of the main doors several storeys below, blissfully unaware of your presence. As it transpires we DO have a few hardy souls who find our secret hideout, so I tip my hat to you good folk. This hardy band includes a friend of Phil’s, a delightful lady from Sweden called Barbro, and a young couple who I am convinced have wandered in by mistake. Turns out they’d just fancied coming to something different and had loved the show. Rodders had spotted them in the first half and thought much the same thing as myself, and when he couldn’t see them after the interval thought “ Ah…they’ve sloped off under cover of darkness”. Far from it, though….they’d switched seats so they were right in front of the stage, and were bopping away with the best of ‘em. We need more people like this, please !!!! Big John being Big John, he’s brought the bus up to the venue anyway, and trust me, there’s not a traffic warden in the land who would dare approach him when he’s on a mission. This means the band can get straight aboard after the show and begin work on seeing off the contents of the bottle of Jack Daniels which had appeared that day. Mild intoxication may have ensued….We’re in Newark tomorrow, and as that’s just about eighty miles we’ve decided to do the post-show shuffle again. Big John can’t leave until quarter past midnight due to his driving hours, so the vans set off a little early, seeking the Holy Grail of the 24 hour Burger King. So far we’ve found only one, but hey…hope springs eternal. As it turns out, our hopes are dashed again. We pull into Blyth services near Doncaster to find nothing but locked shutters and switched-off lights where there should be Whoppers, Bacon Double Cheeseburgers, and Chilli Cheese Bites. DENIED !! There IS, though, a Costa-style place open, populated by a sullen teen who tells us listlessly she’ll be with us in a minute, then returns to sorting carrots into different shades of orange or something equally useful. It soon becomes clear she’ll not be with us in a few minutes, or, indeed, in this lifetime. A somewhat overweight truck driver comes up behind us, and to our alarm starts to pick up trays of crockery and move them about. It takes a while to realise that far from being some scruffy trucker, this chap actually works here….maybe the apron and paper cap just didn’t fit…but he cheerfully takes our order and even has the good grace not to get upset when I pass out at his feet after being given the news that two pieces of bread and a scraping of cheese and ham will cost me £ 3.69. We figure that by now the bus will have left, and as we are driving out of the services Big John is actually turning in, so the vans pull up to wait for him. It’s at this point that Nick realises one of his back tyres is flat. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever changed a big tyre on a van or truck, but it’s not a pleasant business. Add to that the fact that it’s bloody freezing and blowing a gale, and the whole process just gets even worse. “ God, that looks horrible “ I reflect from the warmth of my van cab as I watch Nick manfully struggling alone with the wheelbrace. To be honest, we all jump out to try and help, but apart from Rodders, who actually gets the spare out of the van, the rest of it is just window-dressing, and we are mere spectators. The evening is given a surreal twist when the bus pulls up behind us, and Steve, no doubt fuelled by Jack Daniels as well as the milk of human kindness, starts running around the assembled group, popping squares of Cadbury’s chocolate in our mouths before disappearing into the night. Afterwards it’s one of those “ Did I imagine that or did it really happen ?” moments, but the tell-tale choccy marks on my fleece provide the answer. At last we’re back on the road and make Newark without further incident. I resolve to do a tiny bit of work before climbing into my bunk, and pull my stupidly heavy office bag up onto the seat beside me….which is where it still is when I wake up an hour later, the zipper having made an attractive impression in my cheek. Note to self…try sleeping in the bunk next time……..

Scunthorpe Plowright Theatre Sunday April 15th

It’s almost as though the Gods Of Rock have decided that, having given us a glimpse of what we COULD be doing in the future when we played the Bedford show, they’re going to give us a swift kick in the biffins to remind us of what lakes of stinking ordure we still have to swim through in the here and now. Having survived the Gig In The Greenhouse in Morecambe last night, today we find ourselves in Scunthorpe, at the Plowright Theatre, which has been one of our favourite shows of the past two tours. We’ve pretty much sold it out both times before, and we love the crew here, for whom nothing is too much trouble. This time, however, the chill wind of the recession, fanned by the rancid, flatulent emissions of the American-based corporate numpties who now own the place, have combined to blow over half of our audience away. About ninety per cent of the people who come to theatre shows do so because they read about forthcoming attractions in the theatre’s brochure. When the tossers who put these things together, and please bear in mind this now includes a four-person marketing department whose sole job it is to do just this kind of thing, totally forget to put your show in the brochure, you’re going to struggle. Guess whose show wasn’t in the brochure ? Got it in one. As it happens we aren’t alone…our agent also manages The Searchers, and they’re not in the bloody thing either. As such no-one knows we’re on, and despite an admittedly game attempt by the marketing characters to try and salvage something from the wreckage, it’s too little and way, way too late. Whereas this used to be a “ banker” date for us, this time we’re looking to change the first letter of that word. And I don’t mean to a ‘t’. None of this is any reflection on the people here at the theatre, who are genuinely pleased to see us back and make sure we have access to all their facilities even before the load – in time. The problem is when globe-buggering corporates start to stick their greedy little fingers into things they don’t fully understand, and then sob into their balance sheets when things don’t work out just as the avaricious drones back at head office had planned. For some reason known only to the misguided berk who conceived this sad excuse for a plan, this big American leisure corporation, SMG Leisure, which owns venues of all types across Europe, has decided that the place to start it’s quest for UK domination is in Scunthorpe, presumably due to it’s well documented history as the town at the very centre of every significant musical trend of the past fifty years. Oh no, hang on…wasn’t that Liverpool ? Or was it London ? Or Manchester ? Shit…we’ve bought the goddam place now….it’s too late….!! Apart from the Plowright Theatre, Scunthorpe actually boasts a very nice 2000 capacity hall called The Baths. Because it used to be the swimming baths ( see what they did there..? ). Both previously council-run, whilst the Plowright is a reasonably recent development, The Baths has trundled along in happy semi-obscurity for about 100 years…. closing , re-opening, hosting gigs, bingo, discos, closing again, re-opening again….without ever once seriously troubling the touring circuit in the UK. SMG Leisure, ( surely stands for Sadly Misguided Gits ) in their infinite wisdom, decided that this was the very place for them, so they’ve taken it over, spent a boatload of money on refurbing it…and now it’s haemorrhaging cash, so they’re dumping staff and cutting back, and the planned refurb of the backstage at the Plowright never happened. Because, of course, they own the Plowright too. No doubt someone in East Lindsey council, the previous owners, is now driving around in a VERY nice new car, or is enjoying an exotic holiday somewhere….Anyway, enough ranting at this latest form of corporate rape. It’s happening all over the world and we’re stuck with it until we stand up and tell SMG or Live Nation or whichever morally bankrupt bunch of bastards it is to stick their chequebooks up their jacksies. As you may have guessed, this is something I feel a WEE bit strongly about….anyway, on to the show. All is going splendidly during the day until with a loud click and crack during soundcheck, all the power goes off. We put it back on. It goes back off. We put it back on, It goes back off . We out it back on. It goes back off.
( are you seeing where I’m going with this ? ).Finally, it goes off once too often and when we go to put it back on THIS time, our mains distribution unit, through which all power to the PA , moving lights, projectors and instruments runs, has finally turned up it’s toes, and steadfastly refuses to switch back on again ( or, indeed, do much of anything at all ). This, even the less technically minded among you may have gathered, is a Very Bad Thing. To use a dash of Cockney rhyming slang, we’re Donald Ducked, unless a solution can be found with the speed of many antelope. We are fortunate on two fronts. One is that Matt and Steve, the two theatre techs, are both really good blokes and know what they’re talking about, and the other is that we have with us Professor His Royal Highness The Right Honourable Martin “Rodders” Rodwell, a wise and learned sage, well versed in the ways of all things electrical. Not for him the girly tantrums and chewed knuckles favoured by yours truly at times of stress. Oh no. Armed only with about four miles of cable and a little thing that goes “ beep” when he plugs it in, he, Matt and Steve set about doing….well, something electricky. Whatever it is, it works, and I go to change my trousers. It’s always unsettling when something this potentially disastrous happens, but there’s a general air of negativity about today anyway….things just feel wrong somehow. This should be a sold-out show tonight…I shouldn’t be anxiously looking into the foyer to see how many people are coming in. We always have such a blast here that I feel cheated. I mean, it’s not that the show’s bad, nor is it that the audiences don’t like it…quite the contrary…it’s just that I feel there are forces at work here that are out of our control, and they’re messing with our futures. The band, as ever, don’t let us down, but by their standards, tonight’s a little lacklustre somehow. They play brilliantly, and to anyone in the crowd there’d be nothing amiss, but there’s a missing spark somewhere, and having seen them level Bedford just two nights ago, it’s even more apparent. At the end of the show I ask a little gaggle of people at the front of the stage if they’ve enjoyed it, and they say they have in a slightly puzzled way. A little puzzled myself at their response, I continue coiling cable until my ageing eyes finally swim into focus and I realise that two of the strangers are actually Marilyn and Debbie. No wonder they sounded puzzled, with me asking them politely about the gig and displaying no sign at all of recognition. Ladies, I apologise….just put it down to my incipient senility. We crack on with the load-out and get done in almost record time. We’re staying here tonight, so there’ll be a little bit of playtime before Mummy sends us up the apples and pears to Bedfordshire. I’m feeling totally drained and can hear my bunk calling, but suddenly Big John appears and the jokes start flying thick and fast. Out comes the iPad and we start watching classic comedy sketches, until at one o’clock I realise that if I don’t get myself in my bunk soon I’m going to be totally wiped out tomorrow, and I REALLY need to do some admin, plus Rodders and I have to try and find a part to replace the bit that had the eppy before the show. I pick my way across the various bodies sprawled, guffawing, in the downstairs lounge and haul myself into bed. It takes about 3.2 seconds before the darkness falls and The Roaring Walrus reawakens……