With tears in my eyes and a throbbing scrotum, I leave my pal’s house, successfully negotiating the opulence of the carpet. Notwithstanding Amanda’s ill-fated drumming efforts, I have been buoyed by the visit, and not just because I have spent some time in the company of Julian and his lovely girlfriend; my forgiving nature is already surfacing. I limp away but am rejoicing. The Liverpool Stadium dream may have just risen from the ashes.
*
After I finish work on Saturday, Julian calls me. He has a couple of tickets for the Mott The Hoople gig at the Stadium tonight.
‘Do you want to go?’
‘Is the Archbishop of Canterbury religious?’
We rendezvous at Grove Road Station and within the hour have reached Liverpool via the underground.
Mott is one of the great bands, a fantastic live act with real stage presence and great songs. They are enjoying a new lease of life thanks to David Bowie’s ‘All The Young Dudes’, which has just been a big hit for them in the singles chart, so tonight should be a memorable occasion.
As we approach the Stadium, the crowds build. By his own sartorial standards, Jules is dressed casually for the concert in denim shirt and jeans with white plimsolls. This is similar to my own gear, and from the neck down, we look like twins.
‘Looking forward to the gig Tom?’
‘Bloody right… I’m not too sure why I didn’t get tickets myself. Their Rock and Roll Circus here was fantastic.’
‘I thought it might help rekindle that whole wanting to be in a band again.’
‘Wise words Jules; I think you may be right.’
Across the road, outside the off-licence in St Paul’s Square, we see a young lad grab another by the scruff of the neck and start pushing him against the shop window. They both look about fourteen or fifteen, and the perpetrator’s face is etched in aggression. His hair is short, his image inspired by the skinhead, clothes sharp and pressed. If he keeps this up, the glass will smash and cause serious injury. Julian acts on impulse.
He shouts, ‘Hey you! Leave him alone.’
The assailant lets go of his victim and turns to face us. I am starting to think that my friend’s intervention has not been the smartest move. We may well be the next target.
‘I only want one of ‘is fuckin’ fruit gums.’
As I muse that the violence is a little disproportionate to the issue, Julian finds himself cast as Henry Kissinger, negotiating with both parties.
He tries to reason with the lad who has the sweets. ‘Why not give him a fruit gum?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Come ‘ed, giz one,’ says the attacker.
‘No fuckin’ chance... well...’
Jules spot an opening. ‘Yes?’
‘E can have a green ’un.’
‘I don’t want a fuckin’ green ‘un.’
‘Any other colours?’ Kissinger probes.
‘Maybe...’ The fruit gum lad is weakening.
‘Which?’
‘E can have a red ‘un.’
Jules mediates. ‘Is that a deal?’
‘Yeah ok, it’s a fuckin’ deal.’
The peace accord has been reached. Julian looks at me and shrugs.
We carry on towards the Stadium. I reflect that the Rowntree’s Fruit Gum plot I have just witnessed is unlikely to form the basis of a sequel to the French Connection.
It is great to be back at this venue and to stroll past the brick pillars under the corrugated canopy and enter the foyer. The smell is so evocative, and my lungs fill with an almost sickly air of burning joss sticks and Embassy Filter cigarette smoke. We show our 70p tickets and head for a seat in the centre section about twenty rows back.
Within a quarter of an hour, the support band Home are on stage, and they perform a decent set, but everyone is here for the main act. In the interval, I head for a pee in the gents near the foyer. On the way back, I am amazed to see the members of Mott walk past on their way from the dressing room, all glam rock outfits, shades, guitars, and attitude. I even shake hands with Ian Hunter and pat Mick Ralphs on the back. I do not need to see or hear any more. This is enough to convince me. I want this. I want to be a rock and roll star, and I want to play this venue.
I return to my seat and am telling Julian about the encounter with the rock dudes when the house lights go down. The crowd sends a roar up to the rafters as the sound of Gustav Holst’s Jupiter from the Planets Suite plays over the PA, and the band, as cool as shit in the fridge, make their entrance. They strut on to the stage and undertake a last second sound check. Buffin hits each drum and cymbal in sequence. Overend Watts plays a bottom E note on his bass, shaking the auditorium like a mini earthquake. Verden Allen gets his Hammond organ to wheeze a few asthmatic chords, while Mick Ralphs presses a floor pedal with his foot before unleashing a bar chord that has more fuzz than the average Eduardo nude. Finally, Ian Hunter approaches the microphone.
‘Evenin’ Liverpool,’ he shouts.
This is our fantasy playing out before our eyes. The front man bawls ‘1-2-3-4’, and Mott launch into their opening number, ‘Jerkin’ Crocus.’ The combined sound of their instruments is nothing short of immense, and the audience is putty in their hands from the very first note. They mix the heavy stuff with quieter moments, in a way no other group can manage. Hunter’s song writing is going from strength to strength and is a real inspiration.
When they play ‘Rock and Roll Queen’, a couple of big guys in the row in front decide to get a better view by standing on their seats, which is not the best idea. The seating is not exactly the Royal Box at the London Palladium. They are the flip-up type with a wooden backrest, which inevitably give way when the lads climb up to use them as a trampoline. This seems to inspire the people around us to go wild and soon everyone is jumping up and down. The Royal Albert Hall banned Mott last year after their fans ripped up parts of the auditorium, and for a moment, I think the same may be about to happen at my beloved venue, but fate intervenes because the next song is ‘Sea Diver’, a slow number that allows the nutters to calm down.
The gig is brilliant, a band playing at the top of their game, in synch with their dedicated fans who call Mott back for three encores. At the end of the concert, nobody, including the band, wants to go home. There is a strange mixture of resentment and euphoria as the people pick up their jackets, handbags, and belongings to stream towards the aisles and the exits. The house lights are now illuminating the way, destroying the magic of the venue on the spot. The Liverpool Stadium is nothing short of a dump. Yet it is a wonderful, magnificent dump… provided nobody turns the lights on.
We begin the ten-minute walk to James Street, Julian and I sharing our favourite moments of the gig. We both agree that ‘All The Young Dudes’ is a classic that will stand the test of time. The closer we get to the station, the sparser the number of people in the vicinity. I glance and notice there is a crowd of about a dozen young lads now following us, two of whom are the fruit gum pair. Their aggression has not dissipated. They start hurling insults in our direction and the only positive I can gleam from this situation is they do not appear to be carrying any lethal weapons like a blade. It seems that long haired Mott The Hoople fans are their antithesis, and that Julian’s Henry Kissinger intervention over the fruit gums was far from appreciated.
‘Are ‘yous a pair of fuckin’ girls or wot?’
‘De one on the left looks like a fuckin’ pansy.’
‘Der dressed de same.’
‘Let’s fuck ‘em over.’
I steal a look at Jules. My own body may be busy preparing the adrenaline to enable me to run like buggery from this confrontation, but Julian remains remarkably composed. He suddenly spins around and crouches like a Japanese warrior, his two hands extended in a Karate pose. His action stops the gang behind us in their tracks. Their faces are a picture of confusion as he invites a challenge.
‘Right,’ he barks, ‘anyone one of you… come on… I’ll take any one of you on... just one. Com
e on, which one of you is man enough?’
The lads look at one another, unsure how to respond. This is clearly something that does not normally happen. With none of them willing to take on this apparent martial arts expert, they walk away in the opposite direction, defeated and not a little dejected. My admiration for Julian reaches a new high, courage now added to the list of his many attributes.
‘Bloody hell Jules, that was fantastic. I was shitting myself.’
‘So was I… in fact…’
‘You’ve shit yourself?’
‘Not quite, but I hope there’s a Gents at James Street.’
We both manage to laugh. It helps relieve some of the tension. We reach the sanctity of the underground station, glad to be intact and in one piece. The evening may have ended on a bit of a sour note, but we have come out of it unscathed, and in a piece of supreme irony, a guy with his girlfriend in the station lift offers me and Jules a fruit gum. I have a green ‘un’ and Julian a red ‘un. They leave a rather unpleasant aftertaste.
More significantly, things are much clearer now in my head. Thanks to Mott The Hoople, I definitely want to play the Liverpool Stadium again.
*
It is Monday evening, and I am with Ged and Brian at the Seacombe Ferry hotel. In keeping with his customary deference towards Julian, the pub manager has given us a private room upstairs; one dominated by a faded portrait of the ever-cheerful Queen Victoria and a supporting cast of framed maritime charts. The roof beams, wall panels, and tables are all dark walnut, while the floor covering and studded leather seats are a deep shade of maroon. It is not a place to recommend to the suicidal. The room is large enough to house a championship-size snooker table, brightly lit up in what is otherwise a gloomy spot, and it is free to use all evening. Ged is holding a cue and is ready to challenge all comers.
‘Right, which of you clowns wants to get their arse whipped?’
‘That’s a bit rich.’ I say.
‘What is?’
‘You calling anyone a clown, wearing those pants.’
Ged has a pair of green and black harlequin trousers straight from Billy Smart’s Circus.
'Fuck off soft lad. The chicks won't be able to resist me in these beauties.' He rubs the crotch of his pants, as if trying to make a genie appear.
‘You’ve more chance copping off with that snooker table.’ This comment of mine comes true, sooner than I think.
Brian accepts the offer to have his arse whipped, though I am unsure at first if he has interpreted the question on a literal basis. The snooker gets under way, and Ged is as good as Brian is bad, and he quickly races into a lead. He adopts a shagging position on top of the table and attempts to pot a difficult black. He has one leg of his ludicrous trousers draped across one end just as Julian enters the room carrying a tray with three pints of bitter and a Cinzano. Jules looks ready for business with a smart shirt and tie, framed by a well-groomed brown leather jacket and Amanda-styled hair. He looks more like the manager of the band rather than its bass player.
‘Fuck me, I’m stuck,’ cries Ged.
We initially think he is joking and ignore him.
‘No, I’m really stuck to the table. These fucking pants have snagged against the side pocket. I can’t move.’
We fall about laughing, and I nearly spill my pint.
‘And that’s a great shot,’ I jest. ‘He’s only gone and potted the pink.’ I know it is an obvious line, but it still earns a few laughs from the other lads.
‘Listen man, let me help,’ offers the big-hearted Brian who stretches his own substantial frame over Ged’s body in an attempt to free the trousers. Unfortunately, Brian suffers a back spasm and has to lie there motionless, Ged aking all of his considerable weight.
‘Fuck me Brian, what the hell are you doing?’ he howls.
‘It’s my back man, it’s gone.’
‘Well go and find the fucking thing, you’re killing me.’
Brian groans, ‘I’ll wiggle my body; it might free the nerve man.’
Julian and I are then witnesses to the simulation of a Roman orgy as Brian writhes away on top of Ged’s prone body, the pair of them making obscene noises at the same time. With impeccable timing, the barmaid from downstairs enters to gather some empty glasses, at the very moment that the two emit a collective moan as though signalling the end of a particularly brutal sex act. This is not the big-bosomed woman from behind the bar, who would probably remove her blouse and join in the action. This is her colleague, a miserable, thin-lipped woman with a grey ponytail who looks on in disgust.
‘Good God,’ she cries, ‘so this is Rock and Roll?’
Although Julian steps in to try to explain things, what she has witnessed has unsettled her and she cannot wait to leave the room with a tray of empties and a disturbed look on her face. It takes all the strength that Jules and I can muster to eventually get Brian back to his feet and disentangle the clown’s pants from the snooker table to free Ged. We lay there for a minute or two getting our breath back. Ged feels himself to see which internal organs the experience has pulped.
I am the first to recover enough to get the real agenda under way. ‘Listen guys, we went to see Mott The Hoople at the Stadium on Saturday and it was fantastic. We both came away thinking the same…’ I look at Jules.
‘That we don’t like fruit gums?’ says Julian, winking at me.
Ged and Brian swap a puzzled stare.
‘Yes, but more significantly we want play in a band again. Anyway, I’ve been a doing a bit of thinking and reckon that we don’t need a dollop of cash to get the group back on the road. We can do it on the cheap.’
‘In what way?’ says Ged.
‘Well for a kick-off, not all the gear was damaged at the Ship and even the stuff that was, I bet a lot could be repaired.’
‘Come on soft lad, the neck on my Watkins was snapped off.’ Ged counts his rib cage for the second time.
‘OK, maybe not the Watkins, but we’re all earning a few bob now, and I’ve got £50. We should be able to get the cash together to buy the equipment we need. Six months ago, we’d have loved to be in this position.’
The guys look interested.
Julian speaks first. ‘I think we have to do it.’
‘Why not?’ says Ged, coming to terms with the realisation that he is going to live after all.
Brian nods. ‘Far out man.'
We take that as a yes.
It seems that the road to rock and roll stardom is a shaky one. We have experienced more lows than highs so far, but in this optimistic frame of mind, I consider this a good thing. Given these matters average out over a period, it suggests there are good times ahead.
I pick up a snooker cue and say, ‘Anyone fancy a game?’
Julian takes up the offer, and I proceed to win the frame. Things are looking up already.
*
In the next few days, we spend every spare hour working on the practicalities of getting the band fully equipped again, albeit on a shoestring. The first task is to assess the state of our existing gear, dumped in Julian’s garage last June.
Starting with Ged’s guitar, we have to concede that the Watkins is a total write-off. It also seems that his Vox AC30 is kaput, though there is better news about Julian’s stuff. On close inspection, both his bass and amp have only superficial damage. With a machine head here, and a volume knob there, he will soon be ready and able to gig. The neck of Brian’s SG copy has been separated from the body of the guitar, but it looks repairable, because they are carved from different pieces of wood. The state of his amp is somewhere between the extremes of the Vox and the Sound City, so we will have to see if it can be made gig-worthy again. However, we will need to start from scratch with the PA. Despite a couple of surviving microphone stands, it is a write-off.
Finally to my baby, the Olympic by Premier drum kit. The floor tom and snare have survived reasonably intact. The hi-hat, small tom-tom, cymbals, and stands are all so b
adly misshapen or dented that they are probably beyond repair. The bass drum is nowhere to be seen. I do recall it coming off worst of all in the mêlée. The hunt for new and repaired equipment begins here. Julian suggests an egalitarian approach to funding, all agreeing to put £50 in for starters. This is typically selfless on the part of our bass player, as he is likely to have the smallest outlay.
It transpires that our aggregate £200 covers the cost of all repairs and second hand purchases with the exception of the PA. As it turns out, I have no need to get the second hand kit from the man in Rushforths, because I manage to get an odd tom-tom and cymbal from Strathconas for a tenner and Brian's mate has a dilapidated old kit, the best parts of which are the bass drum and the hi-hat. I then solve the problem of having multi-coloured drums by covering them in Fablon, using a matt black print to homogenise the appearance. A couple of improvised necessities, including a taped cloth at the corner of the snare to dampen the excessive echo and a few house bricks in the bass drum to stop it shooting forward every time my foot hits the pedal, and I have the finished article. It may be a crossbreed in terms of origin, but my emotional attachment to this set is certainly much greater than the original Olympic kit. I guess that is a lesson for life.
Amanda, of all people, has found us a place above a garage where we can practice. Apparently, there are no residential houses in the vicinity, so I should be able to pound away on my skins while the boys turn up the volume on their amps a notch or two. We now just have the PA system to sort. Ged points out that any decent venue will already have a PA system, and if it doesn’t, we don’t play the ‘fucking’ gig. This will save us money as well as providing a safeguard against concerts in crap places. Consequently, we only have to stump up a little bit more cash to buy a couple of cheap microphones that can be plugged into Brian’s amp for practising purposes.
It has taken less than two weeks, but the revival is complete. We come up with a new name to reflect this new dawn. Again, the origins are vague, but we decide upon Plain Truth as our new identity. I can already hear the announcer at the Liverpool Stadium.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s time for the Truth, the Plain Truth, and nothing but the Plain Truth.’