October 12th 2004
I'm sure everyone's waiting for a witty, incisive and hideously detailed account of the gigs so far, but having just popped home for a night between Bristol and Leeds I'm possibly too knackered to do it justice. But it might be preferable to opening the fridge so I'll give it a go:
I arrived at the BBC in Manchester the other Saturday at lunchtime in a fragile condition brought about by two and a half hours sleep. I was doing a session on Mark Riley's BBC Digital 6 show. I was really pleased to see him again - I haven't seen him since Marc Riley & The Creepers which is what he did in between The Fall and Mark & Lard. I was in the Captains Of Industry at the time so it must have been about 1985. I did the Mark Radcliffe Show when it was on in the evenings which must have been about 1995 with the Hitsville House Band (you can hear the session plus the chat with Radcliffe on the Almost A Jubilee CD which you can purchase of course from www.southerndomestic.co.uk - sorry for the blatant commercial but we all know I'm only in it for the money). Anyway, Mark (Riley) wasn't there that night, he'd gone on holiday. I've always remembered that as being the best radio show I've ever been on - not my contribution, the whole thing. There was a man reading extracts from Alice In Wonderland, a poet, and Radcliffe played Black Night by Deep Purple followed by Kraftwork and Suede and we were the band in the corner. I'm sure it wasn't Mark's absence that made it great, he would only have further enhanced it. Nothing's changed up there, even though they've been through the Radio 1 breakfast show and years of the afternoon show (which was never as good as the evening show because they had to acknowledge the play list which meant playing the Spice Girls). But they've done it all in the same studio, refused to move to London, and the only difference is that there's an oil painting of the two Marks hanging on the wall. I hope they won't mind me saying that the artist has made them look a bit fey - that's often the way with portraits - Mark & Lard in soft focus, it's a weird idea.
I played two songs, Same and Reconnez Cherie, and we had a chat about the AA directions I used to get there with. Bloody complicated - I had to read two paragraphs worth of detailed instructions involving a motorway roundabout whilst steering the car with one hand at seventy miles an hour. Sometimes I think there's a conspiracy against lone travellers - it's quite marked when you go in restaurants and ask for a table for one. They make you feel like a leper at a wedding feast, especially on Saturday nights. And that was exactly how I felt before the gig in Oldham, sitting alone at a table in The Old Bill restaurant where I 'enjoyed' lasagne and chips. I didn't ask for the chips, they just came as part of the package. The lasagne had bits of rice in it too so the carbohydrates were nicely taken care of. The place was full of self-employed men who'd taken their wives out for a slap-up dinner and a chat about the business. A wife at the next table bent down to get a tissue out of her bag and dunked her hair in my coffee. Nobody noticed so I didn't mention it. I didn't want the coffee anyway - it was Nescafe.
My aunt showed up at the gig with two men. On close inspection one of them turned out to be my cousin Denise, the other man was her son who was wearing his night club security man uniform. I think the gig went all right - some laddish twat asked me if I'd got bodyguards (I don't think he was enjoying it), but I hadn't so, I told him to fuck off.
It's always a pleasure to play in Hull, even when the venue's a complete toilet which is usually the case. But not this time - the Springhead is one of Hull's big out-in-the-suburbs pubs which would normally have been converted into a discount clothing warehouse by now. In the seventies you would have been guaranteed to see a band in there every Saturday night, performing David Bowie covers and possibly going out on a limb with a note for note copy of Reeling In The Years. It's a shame those days are gone - most of the bands that play the Springhead now are tribute bands. This trib business is getting worse, promoters are constantly telling me that people ring them up because they don't think it can possibly be me that's been booked, I must be a tribute act. But I've also been told that the public prefer to see tribute bands for the simple (to the point of idiotic) reason that they'll be assured of hearing good music. I suppose that makes sense in a way - a tribute me would take much more care over the historic detail and you wouldn't get those sticky patches where I have to fight my way out of a risk that hasn't quite come off.
I'm sure there's loads more to say about this wacky, laugh-a-minute on-the-road saga but it's going to have to wait because I've got a night off so I'm going to see Two Lone Swordsmen in Manchester.
* * * * *
October 22nd 2004
Anyone who turned up at the Shed in Leicester last Sunday only to find that I'd cancelled probably feels entitled to an explanation, so here it is. (And I hope it doesn't read too much like a police constable giving evidence.)
I arrived sometime just after five o'clock and met the manager, a man called Keith. He told me they had sold no advance tickets so they'd been obliged to book three support acts. Keith put me in mind of Peter Kay in Phoenix Nights but without the wheelchair. There was no one else there apart from one of the support acts, a bald middle-aged man in sunglasses sat finger-picking on an acoustic guitar and doing his best to look charismatic in the manner of - I don't know - Jose Feliciano. The support acts were all big fans of me and my work apparently. That's an old story - it was the same last week in Winchester - when I walked in they were set up on the stage practicing their harmonies. They didn't say a word to me, hardly acknowledged my existence. Later on, about the time I should have been starting my set, I came back to find them in the middle of a five part accapella harmony rendering of Is She Really Going Out With Him by Joe Jackson. At first I thought the room was empty but the audience were there, cringing against the back wall of the venue. Support acts that are fans are usually just saying that to get on the bill because they think I'll pull a lot of people who'll thrill to their middle of the road naffness. I quite often see the support acts walking out while I'm playing.
Back in Leicester I got the gear in and set everything up in semi-darkness because the soundman hadn't arrived yet and the light switches for the stage were locked up and only he had the key. The Shed is what I call a rockbox - the industrialisation of rock or pop music. Rockboxes quite often have a built-in drum riser that can't be moved. Rockboxes are nearly always painted black. Rockboxes are generally dirty places with cigarette ends and bits of gaffa tape all over the stage and the reek of last nights rocking - stale beer, cigarette smoke and disinfectant. Rockboxes boast of putting on forty bands a week, they exploit the local youth under the thin disguise of giving them a helping hand by selling them tickets to pass on to their mates to see them do a twenty minute set on a bill with five other bands, when the bands aren't onstage they comprise most of the audience and what meagre amounts they earn they spend at the bar on over-priced lager. Rockboxes are dedicated to keepin' on rockin' and everything works to a formula.
Here are some reasons why I think the Shed in Leicester qualifies as a rockbox:
  *Mains plug sockets along the front of the stage.

*A plastic banner advertising the Academy Of Sound chain of music shops festooned across the front of the stage.

*Microphone cables for the drum kit permanently gaffered to the floor and ending up in an untidy knot in the middle of the stage right where someone like me who hasn't got a drummer might want to put their amplifier.

*A large vending machine next to the stage offering everything from Kit Kats to Pot Noodle.		  
The soundman finally arrived and by this time the place was full of support acts, some of whom started an impromptu hootenanny with their acoustic guitars while others, on the instruction of the soundman, started to pile their equipment onto the stage. I asked them nicely if they wouldn't mind putting it to one side so that I could get on with the soundcheck. I even offered to help because the soundman wasn't ready - in fact he seemed to be running around trying to find a light bulb though he had managed to put the stage lights on so that we could see what we were doing. Eventually he climbed on the stage and the first thing he did was surreptitiously move the bar stool on which my bass synthesiser was sat, just ever so slightly but enough, in retrospect, to make the point - the I'm in charge here point. Not that it bothered me but I noticed it.
I always use my own vocal mic - for the technically minded it's just a straightforward Shure SM58 - it's probably no better than what most venues supply but it isn't covered in somebody else's flu germs. The sound engineer, who incidentally was a young man with the dull-eyed sniffy look of a young man on a cocaine comedown, took this as an opportunity to point out the Beta 58s are much better (possibly pronounced bedder) - 'they kick ass' is what he actually said. It went through my mind that they weren't going to kick much ass going through a cheapo JBL PA system from the Academy Of Sound but I didn't say anything. I told him what I needed, which is very simple - again for the technerds: DI box for the acoustic guitar, DI box for the keyboard, mic on amplifier and one vocal mic (as discussed). It's a simple set-up and I know exactly what I want which is very easy to achieve. I can soundcheck in fifteen minutes and most sound engineers love me for it.
While I was waiting for him to get ready I started tuning my guitar. Suddenly he barked at me, 'Right, play that guitar'. I said 'I'll just finish tuning it if that's all right.' He didn't reply, just put Green Day or something through the PA at great volume and then started equalising it in a very violent manner - it was all a bit macho. When he'd finished that I was halfway through tuning my other guitar. He barked at me again:
'Play that guitar you've got in your hands'
'I'd prefer to start off with the acoustic if that's all right with you,' I said. And the answer came, 'Do what you like'.
We clearly weren't establishing a good rapport so I thought the best thing would be to go over to the desk and talk quietly to him about what I needed. I said, 'Just a minute I'll come over and talk to you'. As I put my guitar down he said, 'Oh, leave the stage then - I'll soundcheck someone else instead.'
I was not going to get riled, I went over to him and said, 'Before we start I think it would help if I explained what I need' 'You can if you like,' he said and looked through me with an expression of dumb insolence while I told him what I tell every sound engineer I work with. It was difficult, he definitely wasn't meeting me halfway but I perservered, I even smiled and suggested we should probably be able to sort it all out in ten minutes.
I got back on the stage and started playing again while he went through his violent equalisation routine. Then I saw him fiddling with the effect rack so I stopped playing and asked him if he was compressing my guitar (I really don't like my guitar being compressed - it fucks up the dynamic). 'I might be,' he said.
I asked him if he could put the guitar in the monitors, then realised that the monitors were pointing anywhere but at me so I asked if it would be possible to angle the monitors towards me. He said we could do that afterwards. As what comes out of the monitors is solely for my benefit, so that I can hear myself, the logical course of action is to put them in the right place before you start. God knows, he'd spent a full five minutes placing a mic in exactly the right position in front of my amplifier. I said I'd prefer it if they were moved now. It would have been his job to do that but he said, 'you can move them if you want to.' So I did. When he turned the guitar up in them it sounded dreadful, not like my guitar at all. During this the impromptu support band hootenanny was going great guns with a version of Freight Train - he really should have told them to keep quiet but it was obvious that he didn't care. He started with the violent equalisation again and it sounded even worse. He didn't ask if it was OK but it was obvious that he'd finished so I stopped playing and said, very tentatively by now, 'It sounds a bit strange up here.'
'I can sort that out with the equaliser,' he said, 'just play.'
I did, and the sound got even worse. I said, 'I think you should come and have a listen to what's coming out of these monitors,' to which he replied, 'I don't need to listen.'
I'd kept it together until then but I'd reached the breaking point. 'Fuck this,' I said, 'I'm getting out of here - I'm not going to be treated like this by a cunt like you, you can stick it up your arse, I'm leaving.' His only reply was 'Fine, who's next to soundcheck.'
And then the owner (Peter Kay in Phoenix Nights minus the wheelchair) came rushing into the room in a glorious clubland moment, all glasses, short legs and comb-over, with a wagging finger and stentorion Leceister accent: 'Now then you're in my place now and I'll ask you to moderate your language.' I told him to fuck off.
As I was packing up my gear the soundman came up and said, 'I bet you want to hit me.'
'No,' I replied, 'I'd prefer to sit you down and talk to you about your attitude - do you want to hit me?'
'No, not really,' he said.
'It doesn't surprise me,' I said, 'nobody matters that much to you.'

The following night I played at The Marrs Bar in Worcester, and what a difference. Everybody was relaxed and friendly and it was completely easy and enjoyable. I talked to the owner afterwards, a man who is of course called Brian Marr, and he told me that as he plays in bands himself he wanted to run the sort of club he'd like to walk into as a musician - 'a decent PA rig, a good stage and a bit of respect when you arrive.' I'm looking forward to playing at Marr's Bar again. And it's the same with the Social in Nottingham, even though I nearly froze to death onstage under the air conditioning and had to finish by ten o'clock to make way for a club night. Everybody was charming and helpful, and it was a great gig.
There's loads more to report but I've got to think about getting to Newcastle so it'll have to wait.
* * * * *
October 28th 2004
I had an email from a couple of blokes who come from Newhaven, same as me. They say never mind going on about shit gigs like the Shed in Leicester - what about the good ones like Brighton and Hastings (which was totally sold out three weeks in advance). I think they've got a point so I'm going to try and dredge up the memory of them from my tour-addled brain:
I was a bit worried about playing in Brighton because it's so hip and trendy at the moment that the audience were sure to think I was old hat, not cutting edge enough. So I did some of my more challenging material and felt the room freezing up on me. I couldn't see anybody because the lights were shining in my eyes - there was just an inky blackness in front of me that applauded when I reached the end of each number. When the lights went on I was surprised to find that this groovy cutting edge audience were a bunch of old gits nearly as old as I am, dressed in badly fitting T shirts. I hope no one takes that personally because I really liked them. I wish they'd get a decent PA system in the Albert though.
The Electric Palace Cinema in Hastings was an absolute triumph. It's not often that I get a sell-out, and especially not in advance. As it was a cinema Karen came down and did some live projections - like the visually enhanced thing that we did at the Tate Gallery and Norwich Arts Centre, except a bit more free-form. We had a great time with it all. As I finished Continuity Girl I heard an audience member saying to a friend how great the sound was, and then he said it to me. I'm sure the people on the front row were getting covered in spit that seems to spray out of my mouth from time to time along with the lyrics, and they were close enough to see every idiosyncracy of my guitar playing and catch the fear (I'm scared silly most of the time). At the end of Whole Wide World I turned round in time to see the young me performing the same number silently on the screen, wearing a jacket made of candlewick bedspreads and hacking at a Top Twenty guitar covered in Green Shield stamps, with Ian Dury on drums, Davey Payne on saxophone and Denise Roudette on the bass. 'I was a good-looking boy in those days,' I said, and some women in the audience agreed with me. I'd nominate the Hastings gig as a personal best but I know a lot of credit has to go to Miss Karen Hibberd who, in the guise of Melody Salad is doing projections for the Barefoot Doctor these days. Also Luci was there and she filmed the event, not that we've had time to look at it yet.

30th October 2004
JOHN PEEL

I started listening to John Peel at the age of fourteen, back in the late sixties when John Peel's Top Gear was a two hour Sunday afternoon programme on Radio One. I used to hop off from the family Sunday dinner as soon as I possibly could, lock myself in my room and tune in on a huge 1930s Bush radio that smelled of burning dust. I heard groups that I'd never heard of - Led Zeppelin who were like nothing on earth, Ten Years After, Blodwyn Pig, Tyrannosaurus Rex, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Juniors Eyes, Blossom Toes, The Idle Race, The Misunderstood, McKenna Mendelssohn Mainline, Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band, Link Wray, Principle Edwards Magic Theatre, Family, The GTOs, Mandrake Paddle Steamer, Free, The Edgar Broughton Band, The Third Ear Band, Spooky Tooth, Traffic, Wild Man Fischer... Some were great, others didn't stand the test of time. some went on to higher things, others disappeared without a trace. But the one thing they had in common was that they were unlike anything that you'd hear on any radio station at any other time. These bands were almost entirely unknown at the time.
A few years later, though I could never have dreamed of it , John Peel was the first person in the world to play one of my own records. I remember listening in shock. It was April 1st 1977, the day A Bunch Of Stiff Records came out. The track he played was Whole Wide World.
I recorded two sessions for John Peel and over the years he has occasionally played one of my records - I think the last time was back in the mid-nineties when he played a Hitsville House Band track and commented that he was glad I was still making good records. The other year, asked about me in an interview about punk, he said that he knew I'd made some good records but he'd be hard pressed to name any of them. I can understand that. I think it must have been extremely hard work being John Peel - every band, every record company in the world hitting on him to play their tracks. I've been told he housed his record collection in an aircraft hanger - I can hardly take that idea on board. A few weeks ago I was in HMV on Oxford Street in London, not looking for anything in particular, just browsing. After about twenty minutes I was overcome by the vastness of it all and had to leave. I felt very sad indeed because I'd suddenly realised that there was more music in that shop than one person could listen to in a lifetime.
With the death of John Peel the world has lost an important champion and archivist of music that would otherwise have just slipped through the net and gone un-noticed.I just hope that he's managed to take the best of his collection away with him on some sort of celestial mp3 player and is busy enjoying it somewhere in peace.

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