22. a bridge quite far
Everyone hates the lead singer.
Everyone wants to be one. But they're not and you are. So they hate you.
If you're bad at it, they despise you. If you're good, they resent you. Same if you're good looking, for attracting the girls they can't.
They don't hate you so much if you play guitar as well as sing. Everyone admires the guitarist and the drummer. Everyone knows they can't do that. But they all think they can sing, especially when they know you can't.
Even good lead singers need thick skins like stand-up comedians. Bad singers have to be really arrogant or pretty stupid. No wonder they hate you.
*
No-one liked me tonight. But they didn't rate the rest of us either!
You could imagine someone seeing us on stage, then hiring us for a party if they didn't have to pay. It's what happened at Imperial College. In your wildest moments, you could daydream of someone offering us a bit more than petrol money.
But if they did, it would be in Oxford or London, or Reading in between, not the wilds of Shropshire. What the hell were we doing out there on Saturday 12 February 1977? Who did we know from a village called Ironbridge?
Years later, when I became a sport anorak, I discovered it's where Billy Wright was born, the old England football captain. Back in '76, we didn't even know that's where we'd been!
We played at a tennis club called Court Centre, which we thought was in Telford (it's not far). I think we did see the actual bridge, but it was unsafe at the time, so we certainly didn't cross it. I presumed it was built by the engineer Telford (the town's named after him), but in fact it pre-dates him and he learned from it. It's the first one made from cast iron, which I thought wasn't strong enough for bridges.
Court Centre looked like one of those new-build social clubs that were everywhere at the time (Borocourt Hospital had one). As I say, for the life of me I can't imagine who wanted us to play for them. Presumably another mate of Patrick or Harry's - but why there, and why pay us?
Because they did pay us. Fifteen quid wasn't travel expenses, it was a fee. And you could say maybe we justified it - but only because fifteen wasn't a lot even then. Another gig where the audience could happily have lived without us.
*
The trip itself started well enough, in an unforeseen way.
Again we went in various cars. I'm pretty sure I was in the back of Harry's, because I remember sitting on the left and seeing Bill in the front passenger seat, which was on the right, so I presume it was Harry's left-hand-drive Renault.
My girlfriend came to some of our early gigs, and she was in the back with me this time. During the drive, she needs a rest, so she lies with her left cheek on my lap. But she's not sleepy, and before long she decides to engage in an activity that caught me by surprise. Took her a while to undo my zip.
It was never a serious enterprise. We both struggled to avoid giggling (easier for her). At one stage, she turns her head to her left to grin up at me, and I'm trying to keep a straight face when Bill includes me in a conversation. I have to admit it crossed my mind to say something really naff like 'I hope they know I'm coming', but that would've led to some uncontrolled spluttering.
*
Different kind of excitement when we arrived. The guitars didn't turn up!
Patrick was delayed somewhere (no great shock, since he was often late) - and in the days before mobile phones, all we could do was stand around and wait. Might end up acappella with drums. No-one in Ironbridge would've wanted to hear that - but it would've been back to the original idea of a deliberately bad band.
No, Pat's car made it in the end - and whoever hired us got their money's worth, in quantity at least. We did two sets. Quite long ones.
Twelve numbers in the first, then exactly the same order in the second, plus an extra four at the end. We played Johnny B Goode three times!
The usual suspects were in there, plus yet another Chuck Berry song we got through the Rolling Stones. Little Queenie is on their live album Get yer ya-ya's out (grown-up title, ay?). It chugs along well enough, but Harry slowed it down and made it sleazier and sexier. Trouble is: the chorus is something you need to sing in tune, hold a note, which is beyond me even today.
Several gigs later, Patrick came in on backing vocals. Go go go, little queenie. Doesn't seem much, but I had to talk it as usual, and it never sounded quite right. I didn't mind singing about seventeen-year-old girls (you dirty old man, Chuck), but telling one to go-go-go was hard to do. Still, Harry's arrangement was too good to leave out.
We could hear it back, too. Because this was the first gig we taped.
I've still got the cassette, and others from different gigs, plus a recording session. Luckily I sold my double-deck cassette player (someone wanted it as late as 2023) - so I never have to hear them again!
There's a line on the tape. Just before we played Honky Tonk Women for the second time, I announced 'I'm going to put my Mick Jagger hat on.' He wore a top hat for the Stones' Rock and Roll Circus.
No wonder people hate lead singers. Someone in the audience is pretty scathing. 'Mick Jagger!' he snorts. Don't blame him. That line could only have gone down OK at Borocourt.
The band was in headgear that night, and we've got pictures to show it. Someone took a few black-and-white snaps. As well as my top hat, Patrick's in a bowler and Harry in the cap that featured in photos for the poster.
Bernie's bare-headed, but at least he's there. This time someone took a picture of him too, in a loose striped shirt. It's Bill that's missing now, something that happens a lot with drummers because they're sitting down behind the others.
I decided on a white shirt this time, with a pinstripe waistcoat. My hair's grown quite a lot. In one shot, I could pass for a mature Bob Dylan, which I wouldn't call a compliment.
For once. Patrick hasn't made an effort. Collar of his check shirt showing over a pale sweater.
But looking at the photo of the four of us, the thing you notice is that we're not connected. To each other or the audience. Harry's staring out into the room but really into space. Bernie's turned away from him towards the side of the stage. Patrick's got his head down looking at the guitar, tongue literally in cheek. Me, I'm staring down into the mike again.
Photos don't always tell the truth, but it was that kind of evening. We're not looking at the audience or each other because it's not going particularly well. We played those two sets, but not many people danced, and I'm glad I didn't keep the cassette, because the applause can't have been much.
So not a great night. Again.
Three of our last four gigs hadn't been enthusiastically received. A lot of people didn't want to hear Chuck Berry and Stones covers, or we didn't play them well enough.
But as I said before, we didn't mind that.
You'd think we should have. A live band feeds on applause and dancing. But it's interesting that we could live without it. Because we were really playing for ourselves.
You can do that in a room just the five of you, but you want an audience looking in. Even people that don't rate you are better than none at all. Odd.
Also, it was still great just being a band. Even hefting gear and setting up was an adventure. Unscrewing the legs of my tripod and sound-checking the mike. The novelty never wore off.
Before we set off back to Oxford, Harry did have a bit of a grumble. The fifteen pounds didn't cover all our petrol from this and other shows, so we were essentially paying to play. But my reaction was So What? First of all, it was only a quid each. Secondly, we didn't start all this for the money. We never expected to be paid at all, and any gig after the first one was a bonus.
Still, Harry had a point. So I had another think about possible events and venues. Before the next rehearsal, I came up with something I never thought I'd say.
How about a residency somewhere?
They laughed in four different ways.