Sweet, Certain Surprise.

The recent sad demise of John Martyn made my eyes mist with nostalgia for the many times he’s seduced my sensibilities through both recorded and live mediums. His skilful mastery of the amplified acoustic guitar and gravel soaked, free flowing vocal style, hooked me from the first moment I heard him. Although, I came very late to appreciate his skill; he’d already enjoyed a career of almost 20 years before he was inserted, quite readily, amongst my sphere of musical influences.

He'd arisen in the London Folk scene of the mid-sixties, impressing the cognoscenti right through to the height of his popularity with the release of 1973’s ‘Solid Air’; continuing on this glorious plateau until 1977’s ‘One World’ whereupon, like his marriage to wife Beverly, his career trajectory and popularity went into a declining arc. So it wasn’t until the difficult mid-eighties period, where there appeared to be no place left for his brand of elegant meandering and wistful folk-rock styling, when he would finally become indelibly installed into my consciousness.

It was late July 1984 and I can still recall hitchhiking with friends Marc and Nicola to ‘The Elephant Fayre’. A weekend rock festival held in the grounds of a stately home on the outskirts of Plymouth at Port Eliot, St. Germans in the stunning county of Cornwall.

Leaving on the Thursday evening it had taken us 24 hours to reach the festival campsite. Nicola had realised her mammoth mistake about halfway down, having struggled to get lifts all night long and most of the next morning accompanied, as she was, by us two big strapping geezers. She rather gleefully abandoned us at a service station near Bath when she was offered a ride the rest of the way to the ‘Fayre’ on the back of a rather forbidding Hells Angel’s Harley-Davidson. Nicola was at that stage in no mood to compromise whilst Marc and I, still within earshot of the aforementioned Hells Angel, were in no position to argue the wisdom of accepting lifts from large greasy, lank haired strangers.

Consequently, Marc and I having finally reached our destination on the Friday evening were relieved to find a thankfully unmolested but remorseless Nicola waiting patiently, with other mutual friends, for us to arrive with the tent and sleeping bags.

With darkness fast approaching, we hurriedly erected the tent on the only clear spot remaining for us: on the side of a hill with an alarmingly angled slope! This proved later to produce the hilarious result that we’d wake up each morning in our respective sleeping bags all scrunched together at the lower end of the tent.

Now that camp was precariously but expediently established we finally went off to explore the festival grounds. I was particularly keen to see a new and promising band called Prefab Sprout who’s album ‘Swoon’ I’d been playing non-stop since seeing them earlier in the year at a local gig in Brunel University’s Union Bar.

The Sprout’s set was very impressive and I wasn’t disappointed in the slightest by my second exposure to their quirky and loose live sound, even making allowances for Paddy McAloon's and Wendy Smith’s shaky vocals in this less than intimate of environments. Frequent listening to their recent album had already proven to me that they were more of a force to be reckoned with in the studio anyhow, and that the real gems in their repertoire lay in the sublime eloquence and outstanding poetry of McAloon’s lyrics. With lines like “Words are only trains, for moving past what really has no name” and “Man made the neon and he learned how to fly, but God made the stars when he fashioned the sky” he’d caught my imagination in a way very few other songwriters could.

Having seen the Sprouts I feared the rest of the weekend would be a musical anti-climax, however (unbeknownst to me at that point), by far the most outstanding and memorable performance of that weekend was still yet to come.

Sunday morning arrived yawningly sleepy and severely hung-over. We were all still a little groggy from the copious amounts of very cheap ‘scrumpy’ cider, we’d drunk directly and continuously from brown plastic demi-johns the previous evening. Our burps still tasting resolutely of alcoholic apples we’d found a quiet spot on a hillside, high above the main stage to while away the rest of the day. Later, having drunk a strong brew of ‘magic mushroom tea’ for lunch we continued to laze around in the brilliant sunshine, laughing, joking and horsing around but not really paying attention to the artists or what was actually happening on-stage.

I must’ve drifted into some sort of reverie whilst soaking up the warm rays of the mid-summer sun, lying back enjoying the smell of the fresh green grass of a typical English meadow. I hardly noticed the new act that appeared on the stage to entertain us, lost in delightful psilocybin induced hallucinations as I half closed my eyes squinting through my shades at the bizarre shapes formed by small fluffy cumulus clouds gently moving high above in an azure sky. The sound of guitars drifted from the main stage, it sounded like about three different, distinctly separate guitars actually, and then those gruff, yet somehow smoothly slurred, warm and honeyed vocal tones came drifting through the microphone along the wires to be equalised by the sound desk, through the amplifier and then out of the immense speakers to arrive promptly at my ear-holes and pervade deeply into my senses.

“Wow. This band is amazing!” was my first thought. I kept my eyes closed and continued to thoroughly enjoy the excellent sounds that seemingly washed over, through and all around me. I think it was two or even three songs into the set when I finally opened my eyes to further investigate exactly who it was that was enthralling me so much.

When I did I was shocked. There was John Martyn with acoustic guitar, completely alone and seated at the front of the stage, plugged into an array of effects pedals and electronic gadgetry by his feet. In my minds eye I’d envisioned a whole band of at least five people, such was the intensity of the polyrhythmic tunes that had engulfed my ears, but no just this one guy on guitar and vocals making all of that noise. I sat open-mouthed and amazed as John continued to entrance me and the rest of the festival audience with a set consisting of one incredible melodic song after another. He managed to somehow throw syncopation into the mix that sounded like a full percussion section playing along simultaneously, but was in fact just the odd slap from his hand or thumb against the guitar body or the click of his plectrum against the hard steel strings echoing continually via these effects boxes.

I later discovered that the secret of John’s particularly complex yet fluid ambient style was ‘Echoplex delay’, an effect he’d pioneered in electric folk music and was still using with devastating results.

That was why I thought I’d heard three distinctly different guitar sounds emanating from his single solo amplified acoustic guitar. That effect plus his skilful, super fast and lithe fretboard fingering produced a sound the like of which I’d never heard before, and boy was I hooked!

After that I collected every recording of his that I could lay my hands upon. The album ‘Solid Air’ is, in my humble opinion, a singular piece of recording perfection without even one duff track. Forty five minutes of mellow loveliness in which one can immerse oneself as if bathing in a vat of warm translucent caramel. I have particularly delightful memories of listening to this album on my first trip to Thailand, chilling with a ‘Sony Discman’ and a ‘thai-stick’ spliff in a hammock on a (virtually empty) tropical beach paradise. Life simply doesn’t get much better than that!

Many years later I found myself invited to a gig at ‘The Mean Fiddler’ in Harlesden. One of the resident soundmen there was a guy called Dave Florence, an Australian fellow affectionately and latterly known as ‘Aussie Dave’. I was, around that time, the manager of a rock band that regularly played there and ‘Aussie Dave’ had been so impressed by them that he’d offered to become the band’s resident soundman too. Thereafter he’d come with us to every gig venue at which we played, ensuring that our sound was the best imaginable despite the ambient, architectural or acoustic limitations he would be challenged with. Subsequently Dave and I developed a strong and lasting friendship and it was through this friendship that I received a phone message from him one day informing me that he’d put me on the guestlist for a forthcoming John Martyn gig at the ‘Fiddler’. I was naturally completely thrilled.

On the night of the gig it was rammed-full to the rafters, and I was grateful to Dave that he allowed me the privilege of watching everything next to him from behind the sound desk. The whole evening was absolutely amazing and John Martyn was on fine form, playing for at least 90 minutes, and even then being called back for a couple of encores. I’d taken the liberty of bringing my prized original ‘gatefold-sleeve’ copy of the ‘Solid Air’ LP with me, in the hope that Dave would be able to get it signed for me. Once all the commotion had died down after the gig Dave disappeared backstage with my album and a black marker pen to see if he could get John to sign it for me. I was absolutely bowled over when 10 minutes later Dave reappeared with the sleeve of this magnificent vinyl recording duly signed ‘To Rudi, One World! John Martyn’. It was a wondrous and breathtaking moment and I thanked Dave profoundly offering to buy him several beers later in gratitude.

“That’s not all”, he announced “He wants to meet you!”

“No way!” I said

“Fair dinkum mate.” Aussie Dave responded.

He gestured for me to follow him and, somewhat dazed, I did. We made our way backstage and Dave negotiated with security to let me have a backstage pass. As we approached the all too familiar dressing room door I turned to Dave.

“Hang on, I don’t know what to say to him”, I was confused and my brain just wasn’t functioning the way it should have been, addled at the prospect of meeting one of my all time favourite folk rock heroes.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something”, said Dave .

He opened the door with one hand and with the other planted firmly between my shoulder blades forcibly pushed me reluctantly into the dressing room.

I half stepped half stumbled blindly into the smoke filled room and was confronted with several seated people all of whom had stopped mid-conversation to stare at this sudden bumbling intrusion. In their midst sat the unmistakable figure of John Martyn.

“Er, Hi John…thanks for this” I vaguely waved the album at him.

“Oh that’s yours is it? My pleasure son, always nice to meet a true fan”, he answered in warm rounded-vowel tones of a pure London, almost ‘Cockney’ accent. “Take a seat”.

I looked around and saw a particularly moth eaten armchair, reeking with the sweat of thousands of spent musicians, and proceeded to sit down. My brain was stuck for ideas on what to say. I was desperately struggling to think of how I could adequately show my appreciation for this man and his music, whilst internally I was feeling like a befuddled and tongue tied 14 year old confronted with asking the girl of his dreams out on a first date.

“Excellent gig” I blurted out.

“Thanks” said John “Glad you enjoyed it!”

I could smell the heady aroma of marijuana in the air, several of John’s entourage were smoking joints and I could see that John himself had a roach between his fingers smouldering away. This gave me an idea of how better to proceed.

“Do you mind if I skin one up?” I asked.

“Course not” John nodded “The more the merrier!”

That’d made me feel slightly more comfortable. Rolling joints was one of my specialties and I just so happened to have three distinct types of cannabis with me. Moroccan; Soft Afghani Black and some Jamaican Sensimilia grass. I got out my large blue Rizla rolling papers and started to make a complex lattice work using John’s, freshly signed LP as a handy rolling surface. I was going to roll John one of my special around the world ‘Camberwell Carrots’.

Whilst I busied myself I listened to the conversation that John was now having with one of the entourage sitting in the room. It quickly became obvious that the four other people in the room were all Scottish. They were evidently friends of John’s from Glasgow. I knew from reading the liner notes on his albums that although John was born in Surrey, he’d spent his formative years, after his parents had divorced, living with his grandma in Glasgow. Subsequently he’d come back to London in his late-teens to become involved in the burgeoning London folk scene of the mid-sixties.

As I listened I realised that something a little strange was going on. When John spoke to his Glasgow friends he’d do so in a broad Glaswegian accent, using vernacular such as ‘blether’ and ‘scunnered'. Then in the same moment he’d turn to one of the backstage crew who’d just entered the room with a logistics question and answer him with a ‘Mockney’ London accent much like my own. I listened intently for a while bemused by this spectacle, when John had spoken to me he’d used the London accent and then switched back seamlessly to a Glaswegian accent to address his friends.

In a way I could relate to this, I have a talent for mimicking accents and often unconsciously do so when speaking to someone with an accent vastly different from my own. In fact I shared a flat for a while with a Scottish guy and rarely spoke to him in my true accent. So although John’s accent switching trick was familiar to me, it was nonetheless amusing to hear someone else doing it for a change.

I quickly finished rolling the vastly oversized joint, which I duly lit and then passed to John once it was well stoked. The rush hit my brain immediately after just a couple of short tokes, so I knew it was worthy of this legendary toker’s approval.

John accepted the oversized spliff from me eagerly and winked conspiratorially as he joked to his friends “Thanks man, but could you not have made it a wee bit bigger?”

His friends chuckled as John drew a deep lungful and then exhaled long and hard sending a billowing cloud of pungent thick grey smoke across the room.

“Woooooooooo” rasped John breathlessly “That’s nice and strong too, excellent work son!” He grinned at me and nodded his approval.

That felt good. As tongued tied and socially inadequate as I was in this great man’s company at least I was able to get him well and truly stoned.

I sat there for a while listening to the stories and memories from his Glaswegian friends, commenting politely now and then when I felt it was appropriate. My ‘mega-joint’ and several others were passed around sequentially in a circle and I finally started to feel comfortable amongst them as we all became more and more stoned together, chatting, laughing and joking.

After a while the harshness of all those doobies, made my mouth feel dry and I realised that I was the only one in the room without a drink. Not wishing to plunder John’s fast diminishing ‘rider’ I made my excuses, shook John’s and everybody else’s hand and left for the front-of-house bar in search of a thirst quenching pint of Guinness, pausing briefly to collect my newly signed copy of ‘Solid Air’ from beside the raggedy armchair.

I found Dave a little later, still behind the mixing desk and presented him with several bottles of beer that I’d just acquired from the bar. The grin on my face was akin to what our American cousins would call ‘shit eating’.

“Thanks Dave” I said "What an incredible evening. I can’t think of any way in which it could be improved upon.”

“I can”, smiled Dave as he reached over to the large silver TEAC machine next to the mixing desk and ejected a shiny new cassette which he then handed to me with a wink and a smile “Here's something nice to listen to on the way home.”

"That'd do it Dave", I sighed "That'd do it..."

Well Sometimes I Go Out, By Myself, And I Look Across The Water...

From: RudiS95@zonnet.nl
Sent: 12 October 1999 21:26:46
To: Paul230T@xtra.co.nz

Dear Paul,

I've just got back from Egypt where I spent a week diving at a place called Da’hab by the Red Sea just an hour from Sharm El Sheik. Well what an amazing week!! Obviously not long enough, but it felt like a month anyway!

Where do I start? At the beginning I guess.

Well I went with a guy called Tony De Vries he’s a 'Saarf Efrikaan' who works here in Holland and with whom I have become friendly as we frequent the same bars in Amsterdam and regularly bump into one another on a Friday night. Often we deliberately meet up in a larger group with other expats of mutual acquaintance for a night out. Anyway, he told me a while ago that he was planning to go to the Red Sea because his brother works as a Diving Instructor there. So, as it has long been an ambition of mine to dive in the Red Sea, I expressed an interest in going with him and before I knew it everything had been arranged and I found myself together with him on a plane to Egypt.

Anyway we arrived at about midnight, having suffered a five-hour non-smoking charter flight from Schiphol, with seats made for extremely skinny people with really short legs. Then after the mad chaos and general confusion of immigration and customs we enjoyed a 1-hour taxi ride with a crazy Arab, his constant veering and swerving from side to side making it impossible to decide exactly which side of the road he was meant to be driving on.

Upon arrival in Da'hab Tony’s brother Phil and his girlfriend Sarah (also a Diving Instructor) met us, and I was shown to my stable. I say stable because that is exactly what it was. No window, a tin roof with a wooden door, gravel floor with rugs over it and a couple of mattresses, in a block of about four others all the same. It was actually pretty good though for $1.5 U.S. a night. As you can imagine however, at 40 degrees C desert heat daytime and 32 degrees C night-time it actually doubled up as a sauna. Good for me though, as I must’ve sweated off at least 20 lbs. I took a hammock with me which I managed to hang diagonally across the room and slept in that which was maybe slightly cooler than the floor.

Next day Phil introduced me to his fellow Diving instructors and got me an excellent deal on a Rescue Diver Course plus four FREE recreational dives of my choice. Which means that now I’m a qualified Rescue Diver and the next stage takes me onto Divemaster where I can actually earn money taking people on guided dives…roll on Thailand

Anyway I digress… the Diving there is fantastic some of the best and most colourful reefs in the world with some of the most amazing fish-life anywhere. Over several dives we saw some amazing fish and sea-life. The Napoleon (or Humphead) Wrasse we came across was of considerable size and an awesome sight. It must’ve been at least a meter in length; it followed us for most of the dive on my second day there. Also there were many Blue Spotted Rays and Surgeonfish in the sandy stretches at 15 metres depth and in amongst the beautifully exquisite, delicate corals we saw Striped Butterfly Fish; beautiful yellow Angelfish, bright red Coral Grouper and a Spanish Dancer Nudibranch.

Whilst diving in what is called the Eel Garden, we came across a striking scarlet Hurghada Starfish as well as intricate Anemones and Urchins. Sometimes the small stuff is much more interesting than the big stuff and it’s great to just hang out of the current, behind a rocky outcrop or coral clump observing the smallest of shrimp going about its daily routine.

By far the best recreational dive I did was called The Blue Hole.
You enter it via a rock formation called The Bells which is essentially a vertical chute down to a little archway at about 30 meters. So, you jump into this chute and dive headfirst towards this archway, kicking hard with your fins all the while. I was descending so fast I could feel the water rushing past my mask and face. Then just as you approach the 30 meters mark you level out and go under the archway, the momentum you’ve gained makes you swoop back up again in a wide arc and you come out on the other side of the archway feeling a little like a human log flume. Once you have gained your composure you see why it’s called The Blue Hole as you look about you, suspended in complete nothingness all you see is blue ocean and behind you a sheer vertical wall of rock going on for about 800 meters below you and all around you. There isn’t any sea life or anything else visible just solid blue emptiness fading into the distance. The rest of the dive is spent drifting slowly back up this sheer rock face towards the surface. As you come up to around 15 meters there is enough light for life to thrive and only then do you start to see creatures in amongst the nooks and crannies of the coral. This was by far the best dive I did because of the exhilaration from the fast descent and the incredible seascape at the start. What an amazing experience that was dude!

The dive training I did was also great fun. The Rescue Diver course is hard work but also very enjoyable. I had a great instructor called Rob; he’s from Adelaide in Australia. He was an excellent diver and I learned so much from him.

During my recreational dives I met Valerie a 30+ year old tall busty brunette French girl who is taking a year off work to do some travelling. Obviously I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to practise my French so I started chatting to her and also helped translate some of the Dive Briefing for her. Well Paul, I’m not joking, she would not leave me alone afterwards. Every time I saw her she said “Rudi come have dinner with me” or “come have some breakfast”. In the evenings it was “I’ll buy you a drink if you come and talk to me for a while in French”. I think she was grateful to have someone who could speak to her in her own language, because her English really wasn’t that good. She also volunteered to help me on my Rescue Diver course where I needed a 'victim' in the rescue scenarios (you have to rescue an 'unconscious' diver and carry them to the beach where you perform simulated mouth to mouth and CPR on them). “I would love to do that for you Rudi” she said in her sexy French accent, and she did. Actually I think she enjoyed it a little too much!

That evening I’m walking along the beach and I notice this bar that I had walked past many times before and was always attracted by the music. Always mellow Blues, Jazz, Folk, Reggae or Ambient dance music. I had never entered before because despite the excellent music it was always empty. Anyway as I stroll past smiling to myself because they are playing John Martyn’s ‘Solid Air’, I notice Valerie inside talking to another woman (a Senegalese woman who turns out to be the owners wife). So I yell “Hi” from the beach and wave. Valerie looks up and says “Hi” and calls me over, asking me as usual if I’d like to join her. Well of course I do and we get chatting and I tell her that I’ve always wanted to visit this bar coz every time I walk past the music is so good. She say’s that that is exactly why she’s there, and that she’s leaving the following night to carry on travelling round the Middle East and Africa. So this was her last chance to visit this bar where she has always loved the music. I tell her I knew she was a woman after my own heart because of that, and the fact that she laughs at all of my jokes. Anyway, we have quite a few drinks and talk for hours about everything under the sun. Well to cut a very long story short we ended up on the roof that night under the stars in the big desert sky and got very cosy under my blanket together. It was a very romantic setting and the atmosphere, the alcohol and the conviviality all conspired to create a quite lovely conclusion. I’ll leave you to imagine what that was! ;?))

Anyway before she left the next day she insisted on giving me her phone number and her address in Paris. But alas, I don’t think I’ll be contacting her. Don’t get me wrong she was a lovely girl and very attractive and everything, we had a fantastic evening together and I thoroughly enjoyed her company and conversation. It’s just that the whole evening was so perfect and it felt like it was just supposed to happen that one time, a unique experience. If we were to meet up again we’d never be able to better the circumstances or ambience of that one evening together. So I’ve decided to leave it there in Egypt, under the desert stars forever, as a perfect memory. Besides, I’m mature enough now to know that holiday romances never work out in reality. Humdrum day-to-day existence can never be as good as the fantasy created in the mysterious lands of faraway places.

It was handy that I made some other friends anyhow as Tony was mostly busy enjoying 'family time' with his bro. I felt a bit like a 'bacon sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah' a lot of the time around them. Tony's only just qualified as a diver so we couldn't dive much together anyway, he's limited to much shallower depths than I'm qualified for. I did manage to squeeze in one shore dive with Tony and his bro though and we actually had a great time together. On the plane home Tony told me about all his brothers exploits as a diving instructor, you wouldn't believe what goes on, really.

So, buddy as you can see I had a very relaxed but full and interesting holiday in Egypt. I hope things are still going well for you in New Zealand and I’m looking forward to hearing all your news by return.

All the best,

Rudi

Make Poverty History.

I remember precisely where I was on July 2nd 2005. I spent most of the afternoon and the whole evening at Hyde Park in London. The largest rock concert of all time 'Live 8' was happening, an immense global event, featuring some of rock and pop's biggest and most famous acts, and I'd been fortunate enough to snaffle some tickets. This was in complete contrast to the first ‘Live Aid’ concert twenty years earlier in 1985 when I'd had to settle for spending the day glued to the TV and taping the whole event from the radio coverage, even though it was happening only twenty miles away. So, I was feeling somewhat pleased with myself.

I'd decided to take my Dutch friend Marc along with me. Marc and I have been friends since my earliest days in the Netherlands, and I can confidently say he's my oldest and dearest Dutch friend. We met because we both worked for the same company in Rotterdam, and in fact Marc still does. On Marc's first day in the office he walked in wearing exactly the same jacket as me; same colour, same style. This was an excellent ice breaker and upon further investigation we discovered that we shared similar tastes in many things. Thus a connection was forged and a solid friendship began which has since stood the test of time.

One of the things Marc and I have most in common is an intense interest in music. Marc plays bass and has played in almost as many bands as I have. One of Marc's biggest musical influences is the band Pink Floyd. Dave Gilmour is Marc's very own personal hero. I would go as far to say that Marc is the biggest Pink Floyd fan I have ever met, and I've met quite a few over the years. So it was with this in mind that I'd invited him to attend 'Live 8' with me. I'd actually promised him that I'd take him as soon as it became clear that I might just be able to get some tickets. So when, incredibly fortuitously, I actually received some tickets in the post I rang him immediately. The pure ecstasy in his voice at the prospect of seeing the four original surviving members of Pink Floyd, reunited after 24 years, was such a beautiful thing to hear. I had a lump in my throat when I told him and I felt a joy in my heart knowing that it was such an easy thing for me to be able to fulfil this dream for him.

Before too long we found ourselves in Hyde Park for the big day, all around us were many smiling, expectant faces and everyone waited patiently as we were all herded into a holding pen where we'd have to stay until they finally opened the turnstiles and started to let us in. Surrounding us was an atmosphere of enthusiastic anticipation while we waited in line to be checked by security. The bubbling murmur of excited voices made us curious about exactly what sort of momentous day lay before us.

As we approached the gates I knew that I’d have to show my ticket and therefore started to reach into my back pocket. Panic gripped me when I realised there was nothing there. My heart started pounding and my mind raced as I checked the other pockets, there was no ticket in any of them. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!!" I quickly tried to make sense of what was happening.

"Marc, I think someone has pick-pocketed my ticket," I said, my eyes wide with alarm.

"You’re joking!" Marc responded with disbelief.

"I dunno it's just gone!" As I spoke I was double checking every pocket.

"Have you checked everywhere?"

"Yes! It's gone, I'm certain."

"Oh shit! It's not here with mine is it?” Marc checked the envelope I'd given him earlier containing his ticket. "No look there's only one here. What the fuck have you done with it?"

"It was in my back pocket, I'm sure," I said, desperately trying to remember what I’d done with my ticket. "Some bastard in this crowd must've stolen it without me noticing." 

I felt sick to my stomach as these words echoed inside my head and I realised their significance. My whole day would be ruined; my one chance to be a part of this historical day had disappeared in an instant. Dark thoughts quickly enveloped my brain as I silently cursed whoever had been clever enough to steal my ticket from under my nose. I was standing on the lip of a precipice looking down into the boiling flames of a fire-pit from hell and feeling the inexorable pull downwards.

We were close to the turnstiles now. Within a couple of minutes I'd have to show my non-existent ticket to security and face expulsion. Marc, seeing the disappointment on my face and sympathising with my plight, offered me his ticket like a true friend. I thanked him, but I wasn't about to allow him to miss this phenomenal day. I'd just have to accept the consequences of my negligence and step aside. I folded my arms across my chest in resignation, shaking my head. Then I felt it, under my T-shirt, tucked into my waistband under my belt…where I'd put it…for SAFE KEEPING!!

I quickly pulled out the envelope containing my ticket and let out a huge sigh of relief. Oh what a stupid twat I was, oh my God how utterly inane! Marc was grinning. I had been saved from the pit at the last moment, it felt as if a huge eagle had swept down and picked me up from the edge of the precipice and now I was soaring up into a bright blue sunlit sky. Every little bit of tension that had so suddenly enveloped my back, neck and chest was now instantly released. The day was saved. Internally I scolded myself for being so quick to blame someone else for my own foolishness. How quickly darkness can fill our thoughts; how readily we seek to blame faceless villainy for our own shortcomings. There was indeed a lesson to be learned.

I showed my ticket to the security man, he tore off the stub and waved me through the turnstile. I was then greeted by one of his colleagues, frisked and had my bag checked for glass bottles, bombs and heaven knows what else. Then we were in. Marc and I strode purposefully toward the stage to claim our spot amongst the throng as the 250,000 strong crowd slowly built up. The sun was shining on and off, as big white cumulus clouds scudded gently across the sky. It felt great to be there.

After a short delay the biggest concert the world had ever known kicked off and it's difficult to describe the varied feelings of emotion that welled up inside me when Paul McCartney took the stage with U2 to kick off with “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band”. As soon as I heard the words "It was twenty years ago today…" and the special poignancy those lyrics now held, alluding to the first 'Live Aid' concert, tears filled my eyes and I felt immense pride; proud to be a part of this; proud to make a stand against world poverty; proud to be British; proud to be old enough to remember the first one and above all proud to be a part of history.

The rest of that afternoon Marc and I watched, danced, cheered and sang along to nearly all of the numerous groups and solo artists that took to the London stage. Once or twice we went to queue for one of the port-a-loos to relieve our bulging bladders or buy some food & drink from one of the many catering concerns on site, missing part of an act in the process. Occasionally we sat an act out because they didn't particularly interest us – Snoop Dog and Mariah Carey spring to mind. These were also prime opportunities to rest our aching legs, neither of us being used to standing for a whole day. Highlights for Marc, I think, were Velvet Revolver and Sting; and for me Bob Geldof (re-living his 'Live Aid' moment during “I Don't Like Mondays”), Annie Lennox and Joss Stone.

We also watched, with interest, footage shown on the giant screens to the sides and at the rear of the stage of the other 'Live 8' concerts going on simultaneously that day, in other parts of the world. It felt as if there was a real force for global change and finally we lesser-mortals had the attention of the most powerful leaders in the world: the G8. It felt like a real 'people-power' moment similar to that which we'd witnessed in the 90's after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the subsequent decline of Communism in Eastern Europe. Sadly, in retrospect, although the movement had some initial successes in its endeavour to eliminate poverty, since then it appears that what we were actually given by the G8 was mainly rhetoric and platitudes. In some instances promises, assurances and pledges made at that time have entirely failed to materialise. In my opinion this is a great and abiding shame. Of course in the current economic climate nothing will change; and if anything, more of the promises made that day are likely to be broken.

As the evening fell and the skies above London began to darken, Marc and I started to edge forwards in the crowd to get an optimal position for what would surely be the biggest highlight of the whole day: Pink Floyd's reunion performance. Slowly over the course of two or three hours we occupied spaces left by people in front of us as they moved back for toilet or refreshment breaks.

We both thoroughly enjoyed Robbie Williams and after years of completely misunderstanding my reverence for this British cultural icon, Marc finally got it. He could at long last see, hear and feel for himself what an incredible performer that guy is. Robbie truly held the entire audience in the palm of his hand with his inimitable charm, overwhelming panache and unbelievable charisma. His showmanship was on top form as he pleased the crowds with some of his greatest hits, having recently returned to the U.K. after a prolonged stint of living in America. He certainly didn't disappoint anyone.

After Robbie Williams' awesome performance we made the most territorial gains as the youngsters vacated their forward positions which were eagerly filled by 30- 40- and 50-somethings, like us desperate for the prospect of a better view of The Who, Pink Floyd and finally McCartney's grand-finalé. As we neared the barrier, which was the closest point we could get to the stage without a V.I.P. pass - excluded from the 'golden circle' as we were - competition grew fierce amongst the restless crowd. Many of the positions we tried to occupy were strenuously defended by people who'd been camped out there for the whole day. More than once we were threatened with violence by drunken or drugged-up louts, fiercely guarding their metre-square patch of turf whilst we stealthily inched forward into any free space which became available.

The Who provided some welcome relief from our stressful machinations. Happy with our hard won emplacement, two rows away from the barrier and slightly off-centre to the left of the sound-desk tent, Marc and I settled in to watch one of the hardest working bands in show business. Because only Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend remained from the original line-up, the band on that night was supplemented with Steve White (Paul Weller's drummer) and Damon Minchella (Ocean Colour Scene's bassist). Despite this, and the fact that they were at that time celebrating 41 years in the business, they put on a performance worthy of the British rock stalwarts they truly were. Both Marc and I watched entranced as Daltrey swung his microphone and Townsend windmilled his way through “Who Are You” and “We Won't Get Fooled Again”. It was mind blowing to see them in full throttle, remaining almost as vigorous and energetic as they must have been in their youth. These two men who have inspired so many to learn instruments and start bands of their own were equally inspirational to me and I personally hope that I have as much energy and verve when I reach their age.

After the compelling delights provided by The Who, Marc and I held our premium position and I could see that Marc was barely able to contain his excitement with the prospect of all his dreams coming true in the very immediate future. There was a delay on stage and it was already becoming clear that the concert would over-run by a couple of hours. This precipitated a tension in the air as the Hyde Park audience wondered whether they'd be able to get a tube train home. The build up was excruciating and you could feel a tangible electric buzz from the masses of Floyd fans, old and new, waiting for the magic to begin.

An immense roar arose from the patiently waiting crowd as the familiar sound of a heartbeat which started the song “Speak to Me/Breathe” was heard through the giant P.A. system and a reunited Pink Floyd took the stage for the first time in 24 years. Marc's face was a picture, like a five year old boy faced for the first time with a jolly, bearded real-life Santa Claus; the delight and awe was only too evident. He was completely enraptured, caught up in a single moment in time; for him nothing else mattered except for the “right here and right now”. For me too the moment felt enormously significant, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see these massive British rock legends do what they do best.

I was thoroughly entranced from beginning to end. The four all-too-familiar songs were executed perfectly. Roger Waters’ tribute to Syd Barrett at the beginning of “Wish You Were Here” caused a lump to rise in my throat. More tears started to well up when the four great men took a final bow, arms around each other in a symbolic display of unity. A greater and supremely worthy cause had motivated them to set their differences aside, just for once. They provided a few moments in time which, I'm sure, for everyone there will be remembered forever. Looking back these moments take on a particular poignancy; the recent death of keyboardist and founding member Rick Wright ensures that this magic will never be repeated.

After Pink Floyd had left the stage Marc looked disappointed and yet overwhelmed at what he had just witnessed. He thanked me again for enabling him to be there and seemed lost in wistful reverie. Although the show still wasn't over we felt that we'd already witnessed the highlight and our aching legs and feet longed for the chance to rest a while. This was of course impossible, we were completely packed in like sardines in the middle of the crowd and the proximity of others meant that sitting down wasn't an option. We resolved to ignore the aches and pains and watch the show's finalé as Paul McCartney was due back on stage; a nice way to round off, I thought, with the same person who had begun the whole event.

The world’s most celebrated, bass playing, rock 'n' roll icon finally reprised the whole show in his own highly professional and unforgettable style. I remember thinking how tired he must have been having spent the whole day on site knowing he'd have to remain fresh to complete his act. He was joined briefly by George Michael to help sing backing vocals on “Baby You Can Drive My Car” which elicited another huge cheer from the hordes of exhausted onlookers. Another poignant moment was McCartney's piano rendition of “The Long and Winding Road”, the lyrics of which now appeared to be about “The Long Walk to Justice” a march to Edinburgh, close to Gleneagles where the G8 summit was being held, taking place in 4 days time. I'd vowed to become involved in this as testament to my commitment to this cause, Marc unfortunately had to return home to the Netherlands but I'd be accompanied this time by my brother and his wife.

The whole cast of musicians appeared on stage for the extended coda finalé of 'Hey Jude' with Bob Geldof centre stage and once again there were more echoes of 'Live Aid' from twenty years previously. Then swiftly it was all over. As we began to leave Hyde Park, bowled along by the thronging masses I told Marc that I'd have to sit down just for a while by the gates to relieve my aching feet. We were both comprehensively tired and even though we'd been told that trains would keep running later than usual, there was still a sense of urgency to get out of town.

A few days later my brother, his wife and I were returning from Edinburgh on an early morning shuttle flight having attended “The Final Push”, a concert at Murrayfield to mark the end of “The Long Walk to Justice” featuring amongst many others the legendary performer that was James Brown. Although fatigued from very little sleep we were all quite buoyant upon arrival at Heathrow. The day before it had been announced that London's Olympic bid, against Paris, for the 2012 games had been successful and it seemed that, just for once, everything was right with the world. Making our way from the arrivals hall into the terminal we noticed that there were more policemen than would normally be seen at the airport and a strangely sombre atmosphere was pervading the place. My father picked us up in his car and immediately told us that, whilst we were airborne, terrorists had bombed several tube trains and a bus that morning in central London causing horrendous carnage. We all fell silent in a state of complete shock; there had been a threat that something like that might happen but nobody believed it really could or would.

I'd felt personally spoilt over the last week; I'd had the incredible fortune of being able to witness, first hand, live performances from some of the most celebrated rock and pop musicians ever. For someone like me, wholeheartedly interested in that genre, it had been a veritable orgy of delight, but right then I had the overwhelming feeling that the party was well and truly over.

A Page From Rock History.

March 1981. Rudi was walking with Giles back to his house. After school he’d popped into the Chelsea Coffee House as usual and Giles was there. Giles was a year older than Rudi, he was at the same school and they both attended the same youth club, which happened to be located a couple of doors down from Giles’ house. Giles was above average height with a round cherubic face. Rudi’s girlfriend, Ash, thought Giles was lovely, this made Rudi a little jealous but he didn’t let it show. Rudi had become great friends with Giles’ sister Harriet and it was Harriet that Rudi was on his way to see. Harriet was a no-nonsense; mature for her age, artistic type. She was petite and pretty but not in an obvious sort of way. Harriet had asked Rudi if she could borrow some of his clothes for a Japan gig she was going to be attending. Rudi had a black Adidas kit bag with him, which contained a few choice articles from his wardrobe he thought she’d like.

Japan were about to become huge. Their latest album Tin Drum, was incredibly their 5th, and to date they were a little known cult New Wave attraction but the times were about to catch up to Japan’s unique style, the age of the New Romantic was upon them. The well crafted and haunting song ‘Ghosts’ was a perfect vehicle to showcase the stunning voice of David Sylvian the band's vocalist, and was highly unusual in chart hit history in that, like Minnie Riperton's 'Lovin' You' several years previously, it featured absolutely no drums. It was the standout track of that album and it was about to propel ‘Japan’ to stardom…just in time for them to split up.

Giles and Rudi had just passed the hall above the church where they both attended the youth club and were nearing Giles’ house when Rupert, Giles’ brother, appeared looking excited. He had just left the house and was bounding towards them.

“Hey, you’ll never guess who’s in the house”, blurted Rupert.

“Who?” said Giles.

“Only…THE Jimmy Page!” Rupert exclaims.

Rudi looked at Giles in utter disbelief.

“No way!” Giles retorted cynically, shaking his long curly ginger locks. “What, right now?”

“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen with Mum, he came to see how she’s getting on with the paintings she’s restoring for him apparently”, Rupert assured him.

“Bloody hell!” Giles gushed excitably.

“Bloody hell!” Rudi concurred.

Jimmy Page was the renowned lead guitarist with rock legends Led Zeppelin. He lived locally and Rudi had seen him before buying petrol from the petrol station where Rudi worked at the weekends. To be fair he’d not known who Jimmy Page was on sight. It was only afterwards when a co-worker pointed it out, that it registered. Now perhaps Rudi would get the chance to meet him properly.

Life for Jimmy had been tough recently. Only about six months before John Bonham, the band’s drummer, had been found dead at Jimmy’s house after a day and night of heavy drinking whilst rehearsing the new album. He had asphyxiated on his own vomit. Because of the band’s reputation as rock ’n’ roll hell raisers, media speculation abounded at the time that drugs had played a large part. This proved to be unfounded. Speculation was also rife amongst media and fans alike that perhaps Jimmy’s dabbling in ‘the occult’ had something to do with John’s death that evening. Understandably as a result of all this Jimmy had been feeling the stress lately and was deliberately maintaining a low profile.

Giles and Rudi strode hurriedly toward the front door. Giles was barely capable of getting his keys in the lock fast enough, unable to contain his excitement at the possibility of meeting one of rock’s true legends. They both stepped inside and stopped as the door shut gently behind them. Giles was listening intently. There were audible voices coming from the kitchen along the hallway, one of them was unmistakably Jose - Giles’ mum. The other voice was male but otherwise indistinguishable from behind the closed door.

“What should I say to him?” Giles asked Rudi.

“I dunno” Rudi shrugged in that way only fifteen year olds can. “Why don’t you just ask him to sign an album?”

“Good idea!” The frown lines on Giles’ forehead relaxed. “Let’s go and get one first” Giles said as he started to mount the stairs.

Rudi followed. As they marched upwards Rudi quietly cursed the fact that he didn’t also have a Led Zeppelin or even a Yardbirds album handy for Jimmy to sign. He thought about running the mile home to pick one up or, running the half mile in the other direction towards the town centre, to pick up an L.P. from Revolution Records his favourite record shop. Then he realized he probably didn’t have time to do all this. As they reached the top of the stairs Harriet appeared from out of her bedroom.

“Harriet, Jimmy Page is downstairs” Giles beamed expectantly.

“I know” said Harriet nonplussed.

Giles disappeared into his room to seek out a suitable Led Zeppelin LP.

“Hi Harriet” said Rudi “I’ve brought some clothes for you to look at”.

“Great!” smiled Harriet, “You’d better come in. Excuse the mess won’t you”.

The room looked immaculate compared to Rudi’s own bedroom that he grudgingly shared with his younger brother, and refreshingly feminine too. As the only girl amongst several brothers Harriet had the luxury of a whole room to herself.

…

A couple of minutes later Giles walked in holding a record.

“This jacket might work, with a hanky in the top pocket, but you’ll have to roll the sleeves up because they’ll be too long otherwise” Rudi was in the process of helping Harriet on with a 1950’s style second hand jacket he’s bought from a charity shop weeks earlier. It did look a bit odd over her convent school uniform though.

“Ha ha” Giles laughed “You look weird! That’s a men’s jacket”.

“Shut up Giles” snapped Harriet “What would you know about fashion?”

“I’ve got this album, Rudi” Giles showed Rudi the cover of Presence by Led Zeppelin “Will you come down with me and ask him to sign it?”

“Only if I get to keep it afterwards” smiled Rudi

“No bloody way!” Giles countered. “Harriet?” Giles looked at his younger sister entreatingly.

Harriet smiled “Are you too shy to ask him yourself Giles?” she teased.

“No, of course not” Giles answered unconvincingly.

“OK then we’ll come down with you for moral support” Rudi offered.

“Yes let’s” Harriet effused enthusiastically.

The three of them trundled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Giles’ mum was at the table and Jimmy Page sat opposite, they were drinking coffee from large brown mugs and chatting animatedly.

“Hi mummy” Harriet started “just going to make a coffee for Rudi.”

“Ok dear!" Harriet’s and Giles’ mum smiled at Rudi “Hello Rudi, how are you?”

“Hello Mrs. H., I’m very well thanks” Rudi smiled back and tried to sound as polite as possible.

“This is Jimmy” Mrs. H. gestured towards Jimmy Page “I’m doing some work restoring some of his Aleister Crowley paintings” She gestures with her other hand toward a painting on an easel in the corner featuring a demonic looking creature with what appears to be a giant red engorged penis.

“Hi Jimmy!” Rudi grinned inanely at the 'rock legend' and shook his hand.

It felt weird… Rudi didn’t have a clue what else to say, he was completely in awe of this man because of his colossal acclaim. The fingers of the hand he’d just shaken had plucked the solo on Stairway to Heaven possibly the most famous rock anthem since rock began. Hell for that matter this is the guy that practically invented 'Heavy Rock' single handedly, well dual handedly actually; he’d had to hold down the strings with his left hand too.

“This is Harriet, my lovely daughter and Giles one of my darling sons” Mrs. H. was continuing with the introductions.

“Hi” Harriet smiled sweetly at Jimmy and continued with making the coffee.

“Hello!” said Giles bounding over to shake the Rock legend’s hand, first sweeping his long curly ginger locks from hanging in his eyes. “Errrrm...I’m really pleased to meet you!”

“Giles has something he wants to ask you Jimmy” said Harriet with an impish grin, clearly enjoying herself by putting her older brother on the spot.

Giles started to blush slightly and produced Led Zeppelin’s Presence L.P. from behind his back. “Would you mind?” he asked hopefully.

“No of course not” laughed Jimmy “Presence eh! Good choice”.

Mrs. H. pushed a pen that was sitting on the table, towards Jimmy. “Thanks Jimmy” Mrs. H. laughed. “You’ve just made his year!”

“And mine” thought Rudi “and mine!...”

* Revolution Records, Windsor 1982 Copyright Mike Bennett's Photograph reproduced with gracious thanks.

Recollections...

When I was eighteen I hitch-hiked alone from London to Port Grimaud (near to St. Tropez) in France. It was 1983, Punk was officially dead and the New Romantics were already in their death throes. I thought I looked so cool in my tan moccasins (no socks); faded blue denim dungarees (rolled up 3 inches above the ankle); light brown leather jerkin (no shirt); loosely knotted red neckerchief and navy blue beret (at a jaunty angle, of course!). Dexy's Midnight Runners were 'where it was at' for me that summer. The Celtic Soul Brothers were on the rise... ever so briefly anyway!

Why Port Grimaud? I'd been there a couple of years previously with a friend and his family and thoroughly enjoyed myself. So it was a safe, familiar and certain destination. I'd never hitch-hiked before and in those days it wasn't even thought of as a dangerous way to travel. Having walked the mile to the nearest motorway junction. I found it relatively easy to get my first lift, waving a tattered piece of corrugated cardboard with the legend DOVER scrawled in thick black marker.

Three uneventful lifts later, and before I knew it, I'd left the comforting familiarity of Blighty behind and I was a foot passenger on a ferry to Boulogne and looking forward to my journey, the whole of France stretched out before me. It felt like a rite of passage, and in many ways I think it was. I was learning to be independent, breaking away from my mother’s apron strings. I stood proudly on the deck surveying the coastline ahead, squinting in the bright sunshine contemplating the adventures that may lay ahead of me, and puffing contentedly on a fat 'roll-up' made from Old Holborn tobacco.

Getting lifts once on French soil proved to be difficult. I managed to get a ride toward Paris from Boulogne fairly quickly with an English couple on holiday, but soon realised it wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. After Paris and heading south it became much harder, the time I would have to wait between journeys became longer and longer and I would find myself doing much more hiking than hitching. I'd already met a few other hitch-hikers along the way, of differing nationalities, and many told me that France was by far the most difficult country in Europe to 'faire de l'auto-stop' (hitch-hike).

I soon found out that just being English was a liability in France. I'd get offered lifts by people and we'd start driving along, all smiles and polite questions, then they'd ask me where I was from. The answer to this question often changed the atmosphere completely. Once I confirmed that I was 'Anglais' (English) my ride would often suddenly come prematurely to an end, "this is as far as I'm going" they'd explain apologetically giving me the Gallic shrug. Then I'd end up stuck in the middle of nowhere, trying to get my next ride.

It was after one of these occasions when I found myself stuck in a lonely spot for many hours. The road was bordered on both sides by maize fields, I'd been walking all morning and the scenery hadn't changed. Cars had appeared once every 15 minutes if I was lucky, and were usually going in the wrong direction. I'd been singing to myself out loud to keep my spirits up and as the day ground monotonously on I'd started talking to myself too. I had the distinct impression that I might be going slightly mad. One thing was for sure I had to get away from this place, back to somewhere that had a busier road and much more frequent traffic.

The blue Mercedes that pulled up came as both a surprise and a relief, I was a little dubious at first because I'd noticed this very same car driving past me going the other way not 5 minutes before. The single male occupant got out and motioned for me to put my heavy kitbag into the boot, which I did before opening the passenger door and slipping into the shiny tan leather seat. My initial concerns quickly set aside in the knowledge that I'd soon be escaping this godforsaken backwater.

We set off driving at a leisurely pace, whilst I answered the usual questions. I'd decided to tell people I was Irish, which is partly true because almost half of my antecedents actually were. But this seemed to get a much better reception from the French than when I said I was English, my lifts lasted longer and the atmosphere was always much more cordial.

The driver was Middle-Eastern in appearance, maybe Algerian or Moroccan and he spoke French with a very strong guttural accent, to the point where I found it difficult to understand him. He was fortyish and of average build and when he smiled I could see the flash of several gold teeth, glistening in the late afternoon sun.

He asked me where I was eventually headed to and when I told him St. Tropez he offered to drive me all the way there, even though we were still several hundred kilometers away. I said it was kind of him to offer but that it must be well out of his way and a lift to the next town would be more than generous enough. 'It's not a problem for me' he said and took his hand off the gear stick to pat my knee, whilst he again smiled his Aladdin’s cave smile. Of course I was still young and relatively innocent; I quickly dismissed the doubts arising in my mind. He's just being friendly, I convinced myself, and it’s probably just a cultural thing.

After a while he turned the radio on, Arabic music drifted from the speakers and we drove on for several kilometers. I looked out of the window at the French scenery rolling by, villages, churches, and cornfields. Then he softly patted my knee again, I looked down just as he grabbed my left wrist and pulled it toward his lap. I glanced over to where he was pulling my wrist and saw that he'd undone his trousers and unzipped his flies. The sight that greeted me was his erect penis poking through the cloth of his trousers and he was desperately trying to put my hand on it. I pulled my hand away quickly. What are you doing I exclaimed in broken and very surprised French. He spluttered, whilst readjusting his clothing, about how he thought that if he would be kind enough to take me to St. Tropez then the least I could do was comply with his wishes. 'No way!' I said suddenly realising at that precise moment that what he'd actually been proposing earlier; and what I'd misunderstood due to his thick accent and just nodded politely in agreement; was evidently "a ride for a ride".

'Stop the car!' I screamed 'I want to get out'. We pulled over to the side of the road and I went to open the door. Then I realised that my bag was in the boot and if I got out the guy would most likely just drive off taking all my belongings with him. 'Get my bag first' I yelled somewhat panic stricken. The guy turned off the engine got out of his seat and, still adjusting his trousers, opened the boot. I ran around the back and hauled my kitbag out. The guy just shrugged, got back in the Merc and drove away leaving me at the side of the road kitbag in hand, breathing hard with my heart racing. 'Welcome to France!' I thought 'Welcome to bloody France...'