Memories of a thousand* gigs #17

(* probably not actually that many, but who’s counting?)

#17: Morrissey

St. David’s Hall, Cardiff – 15th May, 2006

Support: Kristeen Young

Also in attendance: Mrs Robster

Love him or loathe him, it surely cannot be denied that Morrissey is one of the most outspoken, charismatic and influential artists the UK – make that the world – has ever produced. Almost exactly 23 years to the day that the Smiths released their debut single, I finally caught the great man himself, live in the flesh.

I kind of missed the Smiths, not really ‘getting’ them until they split. I’d followed Morrissey’s subsequent solo career somewhat sporadically, buying many of his early singles but never becoming an obsessive, or a “crashing bore” as he would put it. I was aware, however, of the enigma that was Morrissey; the awe that surrounded him. For one reason or another, I had never experienced it myself, but had built up a serious appreciation for the man and his work.

By 2006, it could be argued Morrissey was well past his best. He was still getting critical acclaim for his records – he was touring ‘Ringleaders Of The Tormentors’ at the time – and though many fans were deriding his band, who they felt lacked the intricacies and emotion of previous line-ups, reviews of his live shows were almost unanimously positive. So it was with this backdrop that I entered into my one and only live Morrissey experience with high expectations.

Normally, I would have expected Morrissey to have been playing the Cardiff International Arena (now the Motorpoint Arena), but Westlife were playing a three night residency there so it was the altogether more formal (yet strangely intimate) setting of the St. David’s Hall that played host instead. Mrs Robster and I decided to watch from the balcony where we would have an unobscured view. A good decision. From there, we could look down on the pit where the adoring masses gathered, where every word to every song would be hollered (in varying degrees of tunefulness) and where the memories of the days when Johnny Marr et al joined their hero on stage were still fresh in the minds.

This enigma, this aura, this otherworldly presence - I had heard so much about it for 20 years or more yet I remained unprepared. When Morrissey strolled onstage to one of the loudest, most uplifting welcoming cheers I’d ever heard, something hit me like nothing before. This is going to make me sound like such a fanboy, but believe me, I don’t offer gushing praise where it is unwarranted. The guy oozes charisma in abundance; I felt I was in the presence of something very special. This was more than a pop star here; this was a man who is revered, worshipped, idolised like a deity, and you can feel that at a Morrissey concert. I’d never experienced such an outpouring of sheer awe at a gig before, and haven’t since.

Moz at St David's Hall

The thing is, it’s just so effortless. Some performers try for decades to perfect the art of being a star and never succeed. Moz just is and seemingly always was.

Mrs Robster has a small problem with the Smiths though. It’s not them or their music, it’s more psychological and concerns just one song, but it nagged her. Morrissey always played a handful of Smiths songs at his shows, and Mrs Robster had asked me beforehand whether I thought he’d play “that song” or not.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “He hasn’t played that since the Smiths broke up, so I don’t reckon he’s about to start playing it now.”

That song was Girlfriend In A Coma.

Before we were married, Mrs Robster became quite seriously ill with a liver complaint. One morning I had to drive her to hospital for a biopsy. Now to say she felt a little nervous would be one serious understatement. As far as she was concerned, she was being sent to her death. Everything that could possibly go wrong was going round and round in her head; she’s a bit of a worrier is my girl. In the car on the way we played a Smiths tape to keep our spirits up. As we drove onto the hospital site, that song came on. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Ever since that moment, my Mrs has always associated Girlfriend In A Coma with the fear and dread she was feeling at that moment.

I hoped I had allayed her apprehension though. While I couldn’t be 100% certain Moz hadn’t given Girlfriend In A Coma an airing in the past 20 years, I was fairly confident it wasn’t a regular fixture in his repertoire.

So, after a rip-roaring start, which Smiths track did Moz decide to give a run out to? You’ve guessed it! Of all the classics he could have played, he decided, on the one occasion the wife and I went to see him, to play that song! She grabbed my hand and squeezed it for comfort. The only compensatory factor is that it is a short song, a mere 2 minutes, so the agony was short-lived. Fortunately, it was soon forgotten as Moz continued relentlessly through a quite amazing set. Life Is A Pigsty and Ganglord were undoubted highlights, which seeing as both were new songs (the latter even being unreleased at the time, appearing shortly after as a b-side) showed the strength of the material he continued to put out.

Throughout, Morrissey’s unique aura filled the St. David’s Hall and I left feeling rather overwhelmed. The legend was real; being in the presence of Morrissey was what I imagine an audience with the Pope would be like to a Catholic. It was weird, me being an atheist and all, but he held that audience in the palm of his hand and we were totally at his mercy. The strange euphoria I felt remained as we walked back to the car at around the same time as Westlife fans leaving the CIA poured into the streets around us. A rather surreal moment, to say the least.

Soundtrack:

• Girlfriend In A Coma [live] – Morrissey (from ‘Live At The Hollywood Bowl’)
• Life Is A Pigsty [live] – Morrissey (from ‘Live At The Hollywood Bowl’)

So here’s to you, Mrs Robster

I suppose it was inevitable that when I eventually met the future Mrs Robster, it would be music that would bring us together. In our case, it was R.E.M.

I had the enormous privilege of seeing R.E.M. three times and each occasion has its significance. The latter two occasions were with Mrs Robster; at Cardiff Arms Park on the Monster Tour in 1995 and Earl’s Court in 1999. The Cardiff show is right up there in terms of significant moments in my life as it is how the Mrs and I met. Well, we had met previously in passing as I knew her mum through work, but this time I was asked if I would ‘look after her’ as she was going to the show with one of her friends. Being a mere slip of a girl, her mum wanted someone responsible to make sure she was OK. Obviously she couldn’t find anyone to fit the bill, so she asked me instead… A few months later, we went on our first date and we’ve never looked back.

As well as our mutual appreciation/devotion/obsession with Athens GA’s finest, we seemed to align musically in other ways too. She had Bowie and Police CDs and was rather accepting of my suggestions. I’ve already mentioned how the La’s album is one we hold dear for reasons I cannot divulge on a non-age restricted blog; ‘I Am The Greatest’ by A House was another big fave of us both. I made her a mix tape as all young lovers used to do, replete with sleeve notes. It might still be in a box here somewhere, but off the top of my head I recall it did have Satellite of Love by Lou Reed on it, Carole King’s Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow and I Don’t Like Mondays by the Boomtown Rats as it was the number one single the week she was born. I’ve always been jealous of that – no one can deny it beats Chirpy Chirpy friggin’ Cheep Cheep in every possible aspect!

Over our years together we’ve shared our musical loves and hates, though to be fair it’s more a case of she’s listened to what I’ve been playing and decided what she likes, what she doesn’t and what she cannot stand. She loves Pixies for instance (who we saw on our honeymoon, as relayed here), and Public Service Broadcasting, but cannot stand Cardiacs, Bjork or the Manic Street Preachers. I suppose I have to forgive her really, though had she taken a dislike to Pixies too I’m not sure we’d have lasted the 19 years we’ve stuck at it.

Or maybe we would have. It’s not all been about music, we’ve had all manner of ups and downs. The ups have been amazing, fun and unforgettable; the lows however have been rather devastating. Many relationships have fallen apart over far less. That’s what we hold dear. We’ve come this far even though we drive each other insane. When I think about what we’ve put each other through... yet she’s still my gig buddy. Yes, she was even with me when we saw the Manics last year. She watched them through gritted teeth, but never left my side, bless her.

This year marks our 10th wedding anniversary. Getting to the first was difficult enough – we’d already lasted almost 10 years as a couple by that point – so it’s really something to celebrate. Not sure how we’ll do that yet, but there’ll probably be some tunage involved (though likely not an airing of ‘A Little Man And A House And The Whole World Window’ unfortunately…)


Soundtrack:

• Satellite of Love – Lou Reed (from ‘Transformer’)
• I Don’t Like Mondays – Boomtown Rats (from ‘The Fine Art Of Surfacing’)
• Let Me In – R.E.M. (live version from ‘Roadmovie’, recorded during the ‘Monster’ World tour)

50 Songs to take to my grave #8: Overture from ‘The Marriage Of Figaro’

Ooh, a curveball. Yes, for amid the piles of indie and alternative records and CDs in my collection, there is a vague smattering of classical tunes. One piece in particular always stirs a reaction in me. For some reason, the opening overture from Mozart's ‘Marriage Of Figaro’ really invigorates me. It has a real sense of mischief about it, a bit like Mozart himself; he was never one to stick by the rules.

The first time I heard it was when I saw the Dan Aykroyd/Eddie Murphy movie ‘Trading Places’ way back in the 80s when I probably wasn't old enough to watch it; it’s used during the title sequence. It struck me almost immediately, even then, as something rather uplifting and just a little bit cheeky. I had no idea at the time that ‘Le Nozze di Figaro’ (to give it its proper Italian title) had initially been banned in Vienna for its licentiousness, but if the opening piece was anything to go by, it hinted that this was going to stray into slightly ‘naughty’ territory (by the standards of the day, at least).

Look, I’m no classical buff, and certainly no critic of the genre so cut me some slack here, but in these few short minutes, we have an indication that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was the rock star of his day. It’s a brilliant example of his genius, and little surprise that its popularity remains strong 228 years on.

This one’s bound to raise an eyebrow or two when it’s played at my wake. Wolfie would surely approve of that.


Here's a wonderful take performed by the Wiener Symphoniker in 2006, conducted by Fabio Luisi.

The Journalism Years

Disclaimer: Today's piece is rather long. It does contain, however, a few amusing tales of a trainee wannabe journalist covering the music 'scene' of a small provincial area which may, or may not, bring a smile to the faces of those who make the effort to to read it.

TheRobster takes no responsibility for those readers who, having taken the time to read the whole thing, fail to find anything of interest within it. But thanks for bothering...

After a period of time on the dole, I found myself skint, bored and itching for a new challenge. True, my social life was at an all-time high, but I felt my life stagnating somewhat. My work on the fanzine with Higgz had inspired me to seek a career in music journalism. That, though, was easier said than done. I made some enquiries – it seemed that Uni was the only realistic route, but I was seriously under-qualified, academically at least. Therefore I decided on a different tact – work experience.

I approached my local weekly paper, the North Devon Journal with a portfolio of the stuff I’d been working on with Higgz and asked if there was any opportunity for some work experience with their editorial team. My luck was in – at that precise moment, one of them was about to go on maternity leave. By sheer chance, it happened to be the person who wrote the local music column ‘Wavelength’. Not only was it my lucky day, but theirs too. I agreed to work a couple days a week for expenses only.

Like most things I do, half-arsed wasn’t my style. I threw myself head first into the task and within a few weeks I was not only filling my allocated space, but was asking for more! I made sure my name was known amongst local bands, promoters and venues. I attended gigs every weekend and listened to every demo tape that was sent in the post. Impressed by my effort, the Deputy Editor approached me a couple months in and made a proposal. There was an opening for a junior reporter. I’d get a salary, full training, professional qualifications (if I stuck at it) – the lot. I would continue being the Wavelength scribe, but I’d now have to broaden my horizons – going full time and writing ‘proper news’ as well.

Opportunities like this are rare.  Anyone who has ever tried breaking into journalism will tell you how competitive it is. They usually won’t even look at you if you don’t have a degree. I don’t need telling how lucky I was, but I also maintain it was my willingness to work for nothing, my enthusiasm and my success at turning Wavelength into a two-page spread that clinched it for me. I was a raw talent that they decided to take a chance on.

Wavelength became my adopted child and I was very proud at what I was doing. If I’m being honest, the news, court reporting and advertising features were all of a much lesser significance to me than Wavelength. Of course, I put a lot of effort into all my articles, but Wavelength was where my heart was and where my inspiration came from. I had a lot of fun doing it and became a bit of a minor local celebrity. Whenever I showed up at gigs, people wanted to talk with me. I met a lot of really cool people. Inevitably, I also came across some who wanted to give me nothing but a hard time, and admittedly, I sometimes made trouble for myself.

When local metal band Shea gave me a copy of their latest EP to review, I described singer Rachel’s voice as sounding like a broken lawnmower. That didn’t go down too well, with one particularly disgruntled fan becoming rather aggressive towards me at a gig a few weeks later. I also made a faux pas when reviewing a local festival. I knew the members of Saturday Night Beaver really well and also quite liked them as a band, so I’m at a loss to explain why I wrote that they just “trudged through their usual set”, especially as singer Oz dedicated one of the songs to me. I got some well-deserved flack for that one, and I’m not sure I was ever forgiven.

Perhaps even more interesting than the Saturday Night Beaver feature I wrote in 1995 was the adjoining gig round-up article published alongside. See who was due to support Torrington band Electric Orange before an injury-forced cancellation... yep, that's THE Muse! How times change, eh?

I was the scourge of mediocre pub covers bands though. To me, they lacked any kind of creativity, imagination or musical passion. As good musicians as many of them were, to just play the same old tired songs again and again (Mustang Sally was on all their setlists) was just lazy and predictable. One band, the appallingly named Pelvic Thrust won a Battle of the Bands competition much to the utter derision of the majority of those present. I didn’t hold back when it came to the write-up:

“To say this result is a travesty doesn’t do justice to how ridiculous the whole thing is. If Pelvic Thrust really is the best band North Devon can offer, I hereby resign and will be on the first plane to Outer Mongolia in the morning.I strongly suspect, however, that I’ll be back writing about some good bands in this column again next week.”

As expected, the howls of protest against my words were equally rabid:

“Pelvic Thrust won because they were the best band on the day. If you can’t handle that, get on that plane to Outer Mongolia. I’ll pay for your ticket myself – one way, of course!”

Ouch! Letter of complaint (which I still have)
in which the complainant states he
"[does] not expect to get treatment like this".
He also claimed I "suppress through
mocking and criticising the tastes of others",
while calling my own views "disgusting".

Then there was the time I let rip on One Way Out, a band of middle-aged blokes who wore leather trousers and played Flying-V guitars. They were playing at the Newmarket Inn for the landlord’s birthday. And yes, they trudged through Mustang Sally. By now completely bereft of anything to say about such bands that I hadn’t expressed dozens of times previously, my review consisted of a cutting parody of ‘How to be a pub band’, which included such points as:

“Wear spandex trousers, ensuring the obligatory cucumber is in place”;
“Play Flying V’s. Nothing says ‘serious rock musicians’ more than a Flying V”;
“Integrate long guitar solos into every single song”.

A band member responded vehemently to the paper's Managing Editor, calling me (among other things) childish, patronising, spoilt, offensive and aggressive. In spite of this, my editor wrote back defending my stance as fair comment. Truth be told, I was none of those things the band member accused me of being, but I was perhaps mischievous, naughty even. But by this point I was becoming rather exasperated by the whole thing and couldn’t be arsed being nice or objective just for the sake of it. Ironically, the other band who played that show was Shrug, the band I would subsequently join as lead guitarist (that story’s to come next week).[1]

I should point out here that there were some excellent pub bands around too. Bob White and the Southern Cross were superb, clearly influenced by the likes of Dr Feelgood and early Captain Beefheart. They also wrote and played original material which was clearly in their favour. Then there was the Torrington punk supergroup The Desperate Men, comprising members of Naked i, Electric Orange and Sweet Thangs. They played raucous covers of punk classics and non-punk classics that they ‘punked up’, all while dressed like the Reservoir Dogs.

Strangely, I also got flack when I was positive about some bands. I purposely showed a lot of support for young bands, and one local promoter in particular used to strive to offer any new young band the chance to play his events. Peter Wilcox, aka ‘Tiny’, operated under the rather dubious name of Fluid Emissions. He would hold regular shows at a host venue, putting on three or four bands at a time. He would charge a couple quid admission and use the cash to fund future gigs, transport costs for the bands, publicity material etc. He also released two CDs compiling specially recorded tracks by bands around at the time.

Many of the acts became known as ‘Tiny’s bands’ as they would rarely play unless Tiny put them on. As you would expect, many were short-lived, one or two moved on, and quite a few hung around for a while, forming an integral part of the North Devon music scene.

One band that seemed to provoke a particularly spiky response from people was the Jellybabes. The Jellybabes were four 16/17 year old girls who played the type of punk that was dubbed ‘Riot Grrrl’ by the music press. This term described a movement of mainly all-female bands that made angry, noisy punk-influenced music, chief protagonists being L7, Bikini Kill and Babes In Toyland. Up to that point, females were either fronting otherwise all-male musicians, or sang backup vocals. But these girls were not only ridiculously young, but came armed with guitars and drums, snarly vocals and *shock-horror* - their own songs! For this alone I loved them. Here was a band who had to be nurtured and encouraged, and I made it my mission to write about the Jellybabes at every given opportunity. Needless to say, this didn’t go down terribly well. There were those who clearly didn’t get the style of music they played and criticised their musicianship. But there were also those critics who tried – unsuccessfully – to disguise their blatant sexism. There was no doubt a few blokes felt threatened, a point the girls confirmed to me on one of the numerous times I spoke to them. My encouragement and positivity towards them was, thus, taken as me wanting to get them into bed! This was the attitude that female artists faced even at that level. From what I understand, not an awful lot has changed in the intervening years.

I also incurred the wrath of a band called Rug, though this was entirely their own doing. They were fronted by a guy called Marcus who worked at Up Front, one of Barnstaple’s indie record shops. He would always pop into the Journal’s offices on a Monday, just before Wavelength’s lunchtime deadline, to let me know about the band’s gigs for the following week. I often had to pester the subs to try and squeeze these dates into the Gig Guide which had more often than not been set out by this time. One particular week, Marcus didn’t make it in until Tuesday, a day late. Rug’s gigs thus did not make that week’s Gig Guide. From that moment, I was public enemy number one. There was a feeling amongst one or two bands on the scene that Rug were becoming rather full of themselves. Record companies had shown an interest in them and they were recording an album. I had personally found them all to be great guys, good fun and generally rather humble. Marcus in particular was very amiable and funny. That was at least until Rug didn’t make the Gig Guide that week; that’s when they showed their true colours.

Their album was self-released and titled ‘Ideas Above Stations’, apparently a swipe at certain people who thought they were bigger and better than they actually were. “They know who they are,” read the accompanying press release. The joke amongst other bands was that it was a self-titled record!

My Rug article was innocent enough at the time, but looking back, it's ironic in so many ways - both the headline and the placing of the Gig Guide being the most striking!

Mrs Robster was particularly fond of a band called Crack who had two bass players and made a spectacular noise. I did a feature on them for the column one week; they all came round my house for the interview and got me absolutely trashed beyond belief! That was the most fun piece I ever wrote, I tell you. When a record company who wanted to sign them thought there were obvious drug connotations to their name, they changed it to Tide. The record company didn’t sign them regardless and they split shortly after. 

Wavelength wasn’t just about music though. I also dabbled in politics. During the time I was there, the abhorrent Tory government (is there any other kind?) was bringing in a new Criminal Justice Act which sought, amongst other things, to persecute those members of society who chose not to conform. Travellers and ravers were the main targets, but it soon became apparent that anyone out for a Sunday afternoon stroll could fall foul of its absurd restrictions on our ‘rights to roam’. While the law passed through with ease, I certainly stirred up plenty of debate in the sleepy backwaters in the arse end of the country, with plenty of people I really didn’t expect to support my views (including MPs and magistrates) telling me how they had been swayed by my articles. I was particularly proud of the reaction I received from local Tories and the police. They saw me as nothing more than a militant troublemaker, a stirrer, a rabble-rouser. I just saw myself as someone who told the truth, who broke ranks from the general conservative tendencies of the provincial press and stood up for the little guy. Once you do something like that of course, your card is marked. Not that I gave a shit of course, these were exactly the sort of people I wanted to upset; I succeeded.

Sadly, nearly two decades later, nowt much has changed in either our politics or media…

I quit journalism after a couple of years. Once again, reality set in and I realised there are always wankers who can’t wait to bring you down. Management changes resulted in our left-leaning News Editor being sidelined to make way for a yes-man, and a new power-dressing female Deputy Editor made her presence well and truly felt, putting a stop to oiks like me writing subversive articles that made people actually think and challenge their perceptions (one of her first offerings was to pen a leader which totally contradicted every point I had made against the Criminal Justice Act. No prizes for guessing which side of the fence she was on!) I was also threatened one night in a pub’s toilets by a guy who took exception to being named in a court article that appeared in the paper. He was up on a charge of being in possession of a Class A drug with intent to supply. Sadly, he had neither the intelligence nor the commonsense to work out that I had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the article. I was a mere junior reporter so made no editorial decisions whatsoever; I had also been in Portsmouth for three months doing my journalism studies so wasn’t even in the area when his case came up! I didn’t quit my job because of him – people like that just made me feel better about myself – by that point I’d already been strongly considering my position. But threats of violence I can well live without, particularly when I didn’t much care for the job any more. My work was done; it was time to move on.


Soundtrack:

• Treacle – Jellybabes (from the second Fluid Emissions sampler ‘Junior 2’) - will re-up byr request
• King Slinky – Crack (also from ‘Junior 2’) - will re-up byr request
• Mustang Sally – Wilson Pickett[2] (from ‘The Wicked Pickett’)

---

[1] I did eventually make peace with One Way Out in rather odd circumstances. One night, after a Shrug rehearsal, we went for our customary few beers. The Newmarket was hosting an open mic night – and guess who the ‘house band’ was? That’s right, and they were insistent that I join them for a rendition of Mustang Sally! To be fair, they were great sports. I murdered both Mustang Sally and Get Back before they stepped aside and let Shrug play a song.
[2] The song still fucking grates with me, but the great Wilson Pickett singing it softens the torment somewhat.

Memories of a thousand* gigs #14, #15 & #16

(* probably not actually that many, but who’s counting?)

#14: Gene

Cooperage, Plymouth – 5th November 1998
Also present: Steve B, Jim, Stu

My memory being what it is, I could have sworn I saw Gene on the ‘Revelations’ tour in 1999. Research reveals however they were actually still touring in support of their second album ‘Drawn To The Deep End’. Nevertheless, ‘twas a great performance in which we were not only blessed by the sartorial elegance of singer Martin Rossiter, but a certain Mick Talbot (he of Style Council fame) was playing keyboards with them too!

Soundtrack:

• Olympian [live at Sheffieid Leadmill] – Gene (from ‘Gene Live’ DVD)

#15: Tar
TJ’s, Newport - 1st November 1993
Support: Grotus, Naked i

Was I a roadie, an assistant, or just a bloke who hung around with a band? Whatever my role, I was part of the Naked i ‘party’ for a short period when it looked like they might just be getting somewhere. My (sadly) one and only visit to the legendary TJ’s followed the band playing a prestigious showcase gig in London the previous night and a subsequent meeting with EMI Publishing. TJ’s was an awesome venue, perfect for a hot sweaty night of industrial-strength hardcore. Tar and Grotus were touring the UK together, Naked i managed to get an opening slot for this show. They were brilliant, as always – just a shame there wasn’t a few more people there to see them. As expected, Tar also made a fabulous racket. Grotus were the standout, though – ridiculously heavy, ridiculously loud and ridiculously watchable.

Soundtrack:

• Giblets – Tar (from ‘Toast’) - no YouTube alternative, will not re-up.
• Hourglass – Grotus (from ‘Slow Motion Apocalypse’)
• Panic – Naked i (from ‘Anus Horribilis’ EP) - will re-up by request

#16: Frank Turner
Motorpoint Arena, Cardiff – 16th February 2014
Also present: TheMadster (a.k.a. Sprog the elder)

Notable for it being my first-born’s first ever gig! TheMadster (as she is to be known on these pages) soaked it up, wanting to get as close to the front as she could, though the protective dad in me didn’t want her to get hauled into the mosh pit. Thinking about it, the sport-obsessed Madster could probably have handled it; her relentless training and running events, as well as turning out for her school’s netball and girls rugby teams, makes her stronger than I ever was at my first gig!

Frank is a showman, there’s no doubt about that, and he doesn’t really do songs that the audience can’t sing along loudly to, so this was a great choice for a first gig. Madster jumped around, sang and punched the air as if she was the one who had been doing this sort of thing for 25 years! I was out-rock ‘n’ rolled by a 16-year-old debutant – but I felt pride, not shame. How long she’ll want to go to gigs with her old man remains to be seen, but for as long as she wants to rock, I’ll be happy to tag along…

Soundtrack:

• Four Simple Words [live] - Frank Turner (from ‘Tape Deck Heart’)[1]

---

[1] Specially chosen for you by TheMadster! 

Torrington: so much to answer for

Up and running again - for how long I'm not sure, but here goes nothing.....

My old home town (Great Torrington) may have never been anything more than a pin prick on a map, but at one time it did have a fairly decent music scene. You probably won’t have heard of any of the bands, but had you dropped by sometime during the early-mid 90s, you may well have seen posters advertising gigs by the likes of the Sweet Thangs, Electric Orange, Naked i, the Desperate Men, the Push, the Candyabyss, Shrug and numerous others.

A few bands were particularly dominant. While none of them went on to greater things, some of their music still holds up pretty well. I recommend you have a listen to the MP3s below at least once.



Jive Turkey
The story goes that there were three brothers who arrived in town sometime in the mid-80s. They were amiable, softly spoken and largely kept themselves to themselves. Then one night at a gig in the local Plough Theatre, these same three guys walked out on stage and proceeded to blast those present into the middle of the next week! Collectively they were known as Jive Turkey and no one looked at those three guys in the same way ever again.

Jive Turkey put out several singles and EPs plus two albums during the 80s and early 90s. Debut album ‘The Perfume Experiment’ had a hint of Madchester meets Jesus & Mary Chain about it, while ‘Can U Dig?’ was altogether rawer and noisier, a return to their punky roots, but also a hint as to where they were headed next. They signed to a number of record labels over the years but never really settled, leading to a great deal of wariness and cynicism of the industry. A shame really, because reviews were generally positive in the national press and they could well have achieved far more than they actually did. They did once reach number 5 in the French indie charts however!

• Goodbye Johnny Ray - Jive Turkey (debut single) - will re-up by request
• 50 Dollar Bill - Jive Turkey (from ‘Perfume Experiment’) - will re-up by request; here's a clip from old TSW show 'Tongue & Groove' circa 1989)

Jive Turkey called it quits in the early 90s, but immediately reformed as…

Naked i

Naked i (l-r): Sean, Joel, Nijel
pic by TheRobster

A reinvented and re-energised version of Jive Turkey, Naked i were my favourite band on the circuit. Their biggest influence was undoubtedly Fugazi, but their music crossed over into grunge territory too, though I’m not terribly sure they ever appreciated that comparison.

I spent a bit of time with the band helping out as a sort-of ‘roadie’[1].

After a couple of demos, they released the awesome EP ‘Anus Horribilis’ and two cracking 7” singles, Step Inside You Weirdo and Kite Flyer. Several other later demos were recorded, which I am privileged to have copies of, but were never issued. Sadly, in spite of playing several prestigious gigs around the country and favourable write-ups in NME, Naked i split in 1996. They had intended to just disappear without a word, but they were too good for that. I persuaded them to do one final show to say goodbye – I’d even organise it myself. They agreed, and thus my brief stint as a concert promoter began - and ended - with Naked i’s farewell gig. They made a ferocious racket and I still love hearing their stuff.

• One Of TheSons - Naked i (from ‘Anus Horribilis’ EP) - will re-up by request
• Step Inside You Weirdo - Naked i (from ‘Step Inside’ 7") - will re-up by request

The Cult Maniax

Cult Maniax (l-r): Benj, Mildu, Fox, Al

Fronted by the charismatic Big Al, the Cult Maniax was a punk band that released several singles, the studio LP ‘Cold Love’ and a live album. They achieved national recognition, gaining a reputation on the underground punk circuit and charting on more than one occasion in the UK indie charts during the early 80s. Every now and then their records crop up on eBay and sell for rather a lot of money. 

Drummer Mildu lived three doors down from me and I walked to school each morning with his youngest brother. Big Al could also be seen driving through town in his American Cadillac. Even so, all I knew about the Cult Maniax when I was growing up was that they made a record about a local pub landlord that was banned by the courts, and I often heard Mil practicing while I was kicking a ball around my backyard.

In their later years, they were known as Vibe Tribe following a name change to avoid confusion surrounding themselves and the increasing popularity of The Cult (of She Sells Sanctuary fame). A sole single emerged under that banner before they dissolved. They reform periodically and toured just last year. (Here's a clip of them playing Blitz in London last year, with Sean from Naked i/Jive Turkey now on bass.)

• Psycho Rocker - Cult Maniax (from ‘Full OF Spunk’ EP)
• Lucy Looe - Cult Maniax (b-side of Blitz)

Lucy Looe is an absolutely filthy song that was not only a firm fave of Maniax fans, but was also the regular set closer of Al's next band...


The Sweet Thangs
Following Vibe Tribe’s split, Big Al formed the Sweet Thangs, a seven-piece collective which blended fast, heavy punk rock with reggae, ska, Latin American rhythms and 50s rock & roll. They were the most popular band on the circuit among locals and always filled every venue in the area. A Sweet Thangs gig was always a raucous and extremely sweaty affair, but great fun. Two demo tapes were issued, but they only released one ‘proper’ EP, ‘Umgawa’.

• Poison - The Sweet Thangs (from ‘Umgawa!’ EP) - will re-up by request

Electric Orange

Electric Orange (l-r):
Benj, Kaj, Jez, Harj
pic by TheRobster

Former Cult Maniax/Vibe Tribe guitarist Benj formed Electric Orange with Big Al’s partner Jez and brothers Kaj and Harj. They were also popular among the local audiences and had a lot of potential to go further. Their songs and sound would have gone down really well during the Britpop era, I reckon. Sadly this commercial potential was never fulfilled, and while there were plans to release a single, the only material they managed to put out was a demo tape and two tracks on a local compilation album, one of which is included here.

• Slimelight - Electric Orange (from the Fluid Emissions compilation album ‘Junior's First Words’) - will re-up by request

Torrie had long had music at its heart; Christ knows there wasn’t much else to do there. There was, however, a Sunday League football team West Of England FC - named after, and sponsored by, our fave pub - which featured all of Naked i, three quarters of Electric Orange, yours truly and a few other roadies, friends and associates. We played in a red, gold and green kit (yes, seriously!) and were more often than not suffering from post-gig exhaustion, hangovers or both.

I have particular memories of one other Torrington band, Shrug, as somehow I ended up joining them as guitarist. That story is coming up next week so you’ll have to wait…

[Sidenote: This is my 50th post. Woo-hoo!]

---

[1] I travelled with them for a week and helped carry their gear. On a few other occasions I did their lights, but I mostly jumped around like a twat during their set or drove their wives/girlfriends to and from gigs. I’m not sure if that’s what a roadie is supposed to do, but that was pretty much my role!

50 albums to take to my grave #5: Muswell Hillbillies

Ray Davies is one of my musical heroes, responsible for some of pop music's finest moments. The Kinks as a unit, while revered in broad musical circles, remain grossly overlooked in the wider world, other than their well-known hits. The truth is, the Kinks were a great albums band, and I don't use the term 'great' lightly here. For 10 years - from 1966's ‘Face To Face’ through to ‘Schoolboys In Disgrace’ a decade later - the Kinks made a succession of really good records, even though most of them did next to nothing commercially.

Of course, the one Kinks album that does get continually raved about is ‘The Village Green Preservation Society’ (1968), and there's no denying what an utterly brilliant (and hugely influential) record that is, but the one I keep coming back to came out the year of my birth.

‘Muswell Hillbillies’ followed a troubled period for the Kinks. The hits had started to dry up until Lola offered brief respite. They parted company with Pye records, their label since the beginning, a soundtrack for the British comedy movie ‘Percy’ being their swan song. Signing to RCA in 1971, it was clear Ray Davies had a new broom and intended to sweep clean. Intriguingly, he seemed to display more of an interest in the music of the US, a country the group had been banned from touring during the late 60s. When the ban was lifted in 1969, the Kinks' return to the States was unsuccessful with many dates being cancelled.

Lyrically, the songs on ‘Muswell Hillbillies’ are typical of Davies. His characters express disillusionment and frustration at the pressures of modern life in the UK and show a defiant resistance to change. Davies himself put a lot of himself into his protagonists which no doubt fuelled his creativity. The music however marked a significant shift in the band's sound. The addition of a horn section allowed them to explore new horizons such as British music hall and trad jazz. In fact, several styles and genres were weaved into ‘Muswell Hillbillies’ yet it sounds amazingly cohesive, a proper album rather than a collection of songs with a few hits thrown in.

But the American influence was strongest. The Deep South runs through Uncle Son and Holloway Jail while the opening pairing of 20th Century Man and Acute Schizophrenia Paranoia Blues, along with closer Muswell Hillbilly, have a distinct Americana feel, fusing blues, country and rock to wonderful effect.

Country and blues lie at the roots of American music. Love, sorrow and despair are at the heart of much of their subject matter. The Kinks transplanted that into modern day London and told the stories of people living lives steeped in tradition, fighting against a tide of change and yearning for the days when things were so much simpler. You can't help but love all of Davies' characters in this context, and just hope they'll overcome their problems to fight another day. I'm still rooting for them now, 43 years on.

For me, ‘Muswell Hillbillies’ eclipses ‘Village Green’ for its bravery and stubborn refusal to pander to the trends of the day. It was, to all intents and purposes, a statement of intent; the Kinks' future lay across the Atlantic and for the next couple of decades that's certainly where the remaining success they enjoyed was had.

Misbehaving with Chumbawamba

Hypocrisy lies at the heart of journalism. Music journalism is no exception. Why, for instance, is it perfectly acceptable to champion certain artists who espouse certain political or social beliefs or opinions, while others who hold similar views are chastised, ridiculed even, regardless of their musical styles?

Chumbawamba is a case in point. They have never been the media’s favourite band. On the contrary, the music press did practically nothing but pour scorn, contempt and derision on them for the best part of 30 years. They were one of the great misunderstood bands of our generation, probably because our media is lazy and inadequate and its audiences likewise. While some live the lifestyle and ideology of anarchy and subversion, deploring the mainstream and the establishment, Chumba confronted it head on. You can’t pour a bucket of water over the Deputy Prime Minister from a squat in Yorkshire, you have to be prepared to get yourselves into a position to bloody well do it. While the zealots published their DIY manifestos and gave them away to a few hundred like-minded souls, Chumba signed to EMI (amid screams and taunts of “sell outs!”) and spoke openly about anarchy on Breakfast TV to millions. Johnny Rotten did adverts for butter to fund a PiL reformation. Chumbawamba took $100,000 from a huge corporation (for the use of one of their songs in an advertising campaign) and promptly donated every penny to anti-corporate activists. Using corporate money to fight corporate greed is a hilariously paradoxical statement and far more productive than handing out a few leaflets proclaiming “Bankers Out!” And while it’s encouraged to rail against racists, homophobes and other similarly ignorant shitheads through ‘peaceful demonstration’ (which, let’s be honest here, ultimately achieves absolutely nothing), would you physically confront a bunch of National Front skinheads who gatecrash your gig intent on causing trouble? Would you get off stage and beat the living crap out of them? Chumbawamba did, and got themselves banned from the venue as a result. Banned for kicking the arses of utter scumbags who were looking for it. Because ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING is wrong, isn’t it.

This was, of course, all hopelessly lost on the media. Jarvis Cocker mooning at Michael Jackson at the Brits? “Ha! Naughty old Jarvis, but how we love him.” Chumba drenching Prescott?  “Unacceptable, what an example to set our young people!” We’ll sneer and rail against those in charge, but once they’re genuinely threatened, we’ll tut, shake our heads and wag our fingers in the collective, self-righteous manner that’s expected of us. Oh how very Daily Mail of us.

I say “we”. I don’t include myself in that. I like to think I’m one of those “we” tut and shake “our” heads at. I certainly was back in 1992, the years I first saw Chumbawamba in concert (see previous article). Maybe that show proved to me that I was right and that the “we” were nothing more than ignorant sheep, capable of little more than being manoeuvred by the evil shepherd (Government) and border collie (media) into our pens until such time as were we ready for slaughter. Or maybe I already believed that anyway. I don’t rightfully remember.

Either way, from that moment on I was a Chumba acolyte. Within two months, I had seen them another three times, including once at the semi-legendary Anchor in Westward Ho![1] By this time I was practically living the band’s fourth album ‘Shhh!’, a largely anti-censorship record that rose from the ashes of the scrapped ‘Jesus H. Christ’ album that suffered at the hands of the censors for using elements of other people’s songs that Chumba couldn’t get permission for. ‘Shhh!’, therefore, was the newly re-recorded censored version. Yet more irony. In spite of this, it was by far the most popular CD on the jukebox of my fave pub, the West of England.

For the next couple of years, I saw Chumbawamba time and time again, each time no less entertaining than the last. The costumes and theatrics continued to add that visual flourish (Alice shadow-boxing through Bad Dog being a particular favourite of mine), while the songs became more and more catchy, even embracing the synthetics and beats of dance music, without losing their political and social messages.

The last time I saw them was in 1996 during the ‘Swingin’ With Raymond’ tour. They happened to be in Portsmouth at the time I was doing my journalism exams, so I dragged my fellow student Paul along to the Pyramids Centre with me. It was the one and only time I’ve had the privilege to see the magnificent Cardiacs live – a newly-trimmed four-piece line-up provided the support. It was probably the tenth time I'd seen Chumba and while I never tired of seeing them, I did feel the time was right for a change. They didn’t quite have the same impact on me by this point and their show was becoming a tad predictable.

A year later, Chumbawamba sat at number two in the charts and were watched by the nation on Top of The Pops. The band I’d raved about for five years, that drew sneers or puzzled expressions from others at the very mention of the name, were now part of the mainstream. Radio One airplay, Breakfast TV, awards shows. Another irony? Well, we know what happened in the immediate aftermath, but once the fuss had died down, Chumba went back into relative obscurity, releasing several more albums and evolving into a slimmed-down acoustic folk unit in the process before finally splitting up in 2012.

I recently compiled a load of Chumba MP3s, a bumper best of, if you like; 75 songs from their very first EP in 1985 right up to their farewell release, last year's ‘Margaret Thatcher: In Memorium’ (a celebration of the overdue demise of our reviled former PM). I was surprised how much of it remained relevant, both musically and lyrically. While it could be argued that for all their political activism and controversy-courting Chumbawamba didn’t change anything, there’s no denying (as far as I’m concerned anyway) that they went about it in a far more captivating manner than many of their self-righteous peers who not only didn’t dare to infiltrate the ‘mainstream’, but who avoided it at all cost, thereby changing nothing at all. Chumba certainly influenced my own views and gave me an awful lot more to think about than your average so-called anarchist.


Soundtrack:

• Behave – Chumbawamba (from ‘Someone’s Always Telling You How To Behave’ EP)[2]
• Bad Dog – Chumbawamba (from ‘Anarchy’)
• On eBay - Chumbawamba (from ‘Un’)
• Torturing James Hetfield - Chumbawamba (from ‘ABCDEFG’)[3]

Further reading:

• Footnote – Boff Whalley (the frequently hilarious story of Chumbawamba by the band’s ever-present guitarist/vocalist)

---

[1] Legendary at least to a certain generation of local music fans in the late 80s-mid 90s. Westward Ho! is an otherwise dreary seaside town near Bideford named after Charles Kingsley’s novel (and to my knowledge, is one of only two towns in the world with an exclamation mark in its name[4]). The Anchor was a pub with a function room upstairs that housed pool tables and darts boards through the week, and live music at weekends. It was an awesome venue, beloved by local promoters, performers and audiences alike. I never once saw a fight there, though the police raided it several times believing (foolishly) the place to be full of drug dealers. It was sold sometime in 1994-5 to a bloke who didn’t want to attract “that sort of crowd” anymore and started hosting discos instead. Needless to say, there was trouble every week; the police were regularly called in numbers thanks to the alcohol-fuelled numbskulls who now frequented the place. A couple years later it closed for good and is now a block of sea-view apartments.
[2] For South West Correspondent following his recommendation a couple weeks ago...
[3] "Metallica's lead singer James Hetfield expressed his satisfaction when told that the US army used one of the group's songs to break the will of Iraqi prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. Chumbawamba imagines retaliation..." (NME, 2010) One of Chumba's most hilarious songs, Boff Whalley cites it as a fave of his.
[4] The other being the intriguingly named Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha!, Quebec, Canada.

Memories of a thousand* gigs #13

(* probably not actually that many, but who’s counting?)

#13: Chumbawamba
Bierkeller, Bristol – 8th June 1992
Support: Shudder to Think, Sweet Thangs

I joined the good ship Chumba the night I saw them live for the very first time; the night I climbed onstage and danced with them; the night I finally found my edge.

I’ve actually seen Chumbawamba more times than any other band. Well, any band that’s ‘well-known’, anyway. It all started in 1992, nearly 10 years after they’d formed, at the Bristol Bierkeller. One of the local bands I followed, Torrington’s very own Sweet Thangs, had landed an opening slot and I tagged along to support the Thangs in what I (wrongly) believed was a step toward their inevitable domination of the global music scene.

I knew little about Chumbawamba other than the press’ depiction of them as anarchist troublemakers who shouldn’t be taken terribly seriously. A mate had played me some tracks from their third album ‘Slap!’ a week or two before the show and I was instantly taken by how they sounded completely unlike how I expected. This was no polemic-ranting hardcore punk band, this lot had tunes. Like, proper pop songs. Their lyrics, however, provided a fascinating counterpoint: the Hungarian Uprising of 1956; surviving Auschwitz; the left-wing militant journalist Ulrike Meinhof; and the story of a police dog turning on one of its handlers. This wasn’t the overly-serious anarcho-punk of Crass and Subhumans - this was fun; this was anarcho-punk you could dance to.

But you can’t claim to have experienced Chumbawamba until you’ve experienced Chumbawamba live, and that night I witnessed a show I had never before seen the likes of. Eight people, six of them vocalists taking turns to sing lead, tight four-part vocal harmonies, a multitude of costume changes, and lots and lots of dancing. This wasn’t so much a band as a theatrical troupe with bonafide characters: Alice Nutter as fag-smoking, whiskey-swigging, Northern Soul-dancing nun; Danbert Nobacon as naked man with umbrella.  

I was, quite simply, blown away. I knew hardly any of the songs, but I didn’t stop moving from the moment they began. In fact, being in the crowd wasn’t enough and I joined a handful of similarly enthused souls and rushed the stage where we were warmly received and permitted to remain for the rest of the show.

And so it began – my interest in radical thought and free-thinking ideologies had been sparked by nothing more sinister than pop music. When it came to a Chumbawamba concert, anarchy had never been more fun!


Soundtrack:

• Ulrike – Chumbawamba (from ‘Slap!’)
• That's How Grateful We Are – Chumbawamba (from ‘Slap!’)