The
Medway towns of Chatham and Rochester had their own punk-inspired garage
scene, spearheaded by the Prisoners and The Milkshakes. Having already
checked out the latter group at the fabled Medway Indian Club a couple
of years earlier, Goulden bumped into to their bass player Russ Wilkins
(then working in an electrical shop) in late ’85 and asked him
if he’d like to join his new band. Wilkins agreed, suggesting
that fellow former Milkshake Bruce Brand would make a suitably unhinged
drummer to complete the trio.
“Russ
and Bruce were from the immediate generation that was influenced by punk.
They had this fuck-off attitude,” says Goulden. “They’d
sussed the music business quicker than I had and wouldn’t be told
what to do”.
Following
a few gigs (including a particularly drunken foray to t he Edinburgh Fringe
Festival which convinced Goulden to give up the sauce), the three-piece
settled on a name (which Brand hatched). Then they found a suitable venue
in which to record: Upchurch Village Hall.
“We
set up in the kitchen with the service hatch open”, says Goulden. “We
had two condenser mikes set up on the other side of the hatch itself in
the hall and we used a Tascam 8-track with a 12-channel mixing desk. The
hall had a wooden floor, a metal roof and loads of windows. The reverb
was incredible.”
The
two-day session ended up sounding like Joe Meek recording The Kinks in
a cave. Opener You’re Gonna Screw My Head Off ends with a juddering
wall of scything reverberation setting the tone for what follows. Costing
a princely £86 (including the artwork, featuring the band playing
on the remains of a burnt out caravan on the Isle of Sheppey), the album
showcased Goulden’s caustically English brand of songwriting. His
vocals are low in the mix, the anti-Yuppie anthem Young, Upwardly Mobile…And
Stupid adding menace to his already biting lyrics. Wilkins and Brand bash
their way through proceedings with glee.
“We
were playing rather than MAKING A RECORD – which is what everyone
else was trying to do in the ‘80s,” says Eric. “When
you listen to John Coltrane or Ornette Coleman they’re playing and
cutting loose. That’s what we were trying to do.”
Released in February 1986 on Wilkins’ own Empire label,
the gigs that followed matched the album’s “juvenile sense of fun”.
One ended with “a skinhead throwing a hippy at us on-stage”.
Despite
favourable reviews as well as airplay (notably Andy Kershaw on Radio 1),
Goulden admits the album sold “less than 2,000 copies”. Still,
the Combo soldiered on and recorded a second album, It’s Combo Time.
Then, while driving home on the M25 from a gig in Bristol, their van struck
a “party –goer on pills walking down the motorway in the pouring
rain”, according to Eric, killing him instantly.
Goulden: “Russ
and Bruce were asleep in the back of the van, I’d just closed my
eyes. The next thing I knew the driver sounds like he’s having a
hysterical fit, there was this glass shower and the van was spinning until
the wheels ended up in the storm drain. It was like ending up in one of
my songs at the time.”
The
trauma marked the beginning of the end for the Combo. They split in January
1987. “We couldn’t carry on after that. We almost didn’t
even like each other any more. Of course, we do now”, ponders Goulden. “Maybe
it’s time to reform the Combo.”
INTERVIEW:
PHIL ALEXANDER |
