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..."

You Were Meant To ‘Plumb It’ Not Plummet!

My father is always busy. He’s the sort that has to be doing something all the time. I used to resent this. I used to be jealous that he was too busy to give me some attention, that there was always something else that took priority. I was also feeling a little guilty too I think, because I could very easily find excuses to do nothing. I’d sleep all day or fritter away hours on frippery and frolics. I harboured these feelings of resentment and guilt for many years and then one day I had an epiphany. I realised why my father ‘is’ the way he ‘is’ and why my feelings in this regard are immaterial and that I should cherish every moment that dad is still around no matter how he chooses to spend them.

When I was about seven years old my father fell from the roof of our house. Now, if we’d lived in a bungalow this wouldn’t have been such a serious thing. As it happened we lived in a two storey semi-detached (two houses under one roof) at that time; which means he fell a total of about 20 feet (about 6.5 meters).

When it happened we weren’t around. My mother had taken myself, and my younger brother and sister on one of her fortnightly weekend visits to our grandparents, about 90 miles (almost two hours drive away) in Highcliffe near to Bournemouth on the south coast of England.

Dad, ever mindful of the needs of his family, had been installing ‘modern’ central heating for the first time. This was 1972 and up until then we’d heated the house by using a coal-fire in the winter. I can just about remember the coalman coming to fill up the coal bunkers at the rear of the garage. Although I was quite young, sometimes my mother would ask me to fill the coal scuttle and I’d have to venture outside and use the coal scoop to shovel coal into an old copper scuttle and struggle back to the house with it full to the brim.

My father was almost finished installing central heating when he fell. I know this because at the time of the accident he was about to insert a flue liner into the chimney. This is the part that enables all the hot gases from the central heating boiler to escape into the atmosphere. He was working alone which is never advisable when there are ladders and heights involved. At the very least he should have had someone else there to help stabilise the ladder as he climbed up onto the roof, but of course being my independent and over-confident father; he didn’t.

He had struggled up the ladder carrying the flue liner which was wrapped around his torso and one shoulder. Getting up onto the roof he’d then walked carefully up the roof tiles towards the chimney. Once the chimney was in reach he’d grabbed hold of one of the bricks that formed the top of the chimney to pull him further towards the apex from where he’d be able to work, legs astride the ridge tiles. The mortar around that brick must’ve been loose and the brick couldn’t take the strain he’d put upon it. That brick gave way and at that precise moment the future for my family became completely uncertain.

The shock and impetus caused him to lose his balance and he then tumbled down the steep roof tiles and clear off the roof to the garden below. Several neighbours stated that they heard a massive thump when he hit the ground. My father is a big man, much like myself, and it was later confirmed by the doctors that this was one of the factors which subsequently saved his life. Had he been a smaller man he might not have made it.
What happened next is uncertain. My father was thankfully unconscious, so he can’t remember, but one of the neighbours must have telephoned for an ambulance and my father was eventually taken to the local hospital. I have no idea how my mother was informed but somehow she received a telephone call in Highcliffe and then drove like the proverbial ‘bat out of hell’ to the hospital.

I have a vague recollection of that journey. My mother’s car at the time was a dark green Morris Traveller with a meagre 1000cc engine, but I can remember that nobody could overtake her in her haste to get to my father. She had her foot down the whole way home.

My father was in a very bad way. He’d crushed a couple of vertebrae, smashed up his pelvis and his left hand and wrist (which had, thank goodness, broken his fall) were completely mangled. He was lucky to be alive and also lucky not to be paralysed. When I was finally allowed to visit him, which wasn’t for several days afterwards, all I can remember seeing were lots of white bandages swathing him and several wires and weights from the traction system. He wasn’t very coherent though; pumped full of pain killers and tranquillisers most likely. I remember having a joy in my heart that he was still alive and, at the same time, being terribly worried that he might have to stay in hospital forever. It wasn’t easy for a seven year old to comprehend what was going on but obviously I’d picked up on the vibes from my mum and other family members and their concern was palpable.

My father was in hospital for many, many weeks. He had several operations to fix his pelvis and vertebrae and yet more micro-surgery to try to give him a functional left hand. How my mother coped with three kids and all the added stress and worry alone during that time I’ll never know. The only bonus was that it wasn't quite winter yet and thank goodness we didn’t need the central heating system as it was still fairly mild.

Eventually my father made a full recovery and after several months convalescence including a family holiday in Morocco he returned to work. To this day he still bears the scars, both mental and physical, from that incident. It was several years before he could use his left hand properly except for just his forefinger and thumb and he still has a fear of ladders. Yet these are the only things you might notice today to betray that course of events so long ago now.

I personally don’t remember that time as being particularly stressful or a hardship in any way. My mother managed admirably and with the help of friends, relatives and neighbours we all seemed to pull through. I don’t dare to think what may have happened had things gone differently that day. If the neighbours hadn’t heard the thump or the ambulance hadn’t arrived on time or my father was a smaller more feeble man. Maybe my brother, sister and I would have grown up without a father and we wouldn’t have enjoyed the many years and good times we’ve had together since. Perhaps dad is also aware of that too, and that is why he chooses to fill every moment with the things that he deems important. When you come that close to having it all taken away, I think everything takes on a greater value and becomes more urgent.

It got me thinking recently about how everything can change in an instant and that we should truly live each day as if it were our last because we never really know that it won’t be. In the matter of a fleeting moment circumstances can be changed forever and the ripples can radiate out to affect the lives of others in ways that we can’t imagine. A momentary lapse of concentration could change your own and others lives irredeemably forever. It is so important to remain fully aware in each moment. To wholly appreciate every second we are alive and to use that time wisely. Not to become distracted by the ‘what ifs’ of the future or the ‘whys’ of the past. The past cannot be changed and the future cannot be known. If we can remain completely focussed on each single moment and concentrate on getting that right then the future will naturally take care of itself.

We are so complacent about time. We procrastinate here and dawdle there. We allow ourselves to become distracted by folly and fritter hours away in torpor in front of computers and TV screens. We are so extravagant with time in the belief that we always have decades in reserve. We live constantly with the feeling that there’s invariably tomorrow, that there perpetually will be more time. But what if there isn’t? What if we knew exactly how much we had left, would we remain so wasteful and so oblivious to it? I have now resolved to become more mindful that each moment is precious and that I should treat it that way…..just like my dad.

Carpe diem!

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.

Three Cheers for John Metcalfe.

I’m about 14 years old, sitting in the library at school. It’s well past 4’o’clock and I should be well on my way home but I’m not. I’d like to be able to tell you that I’m busy studying in my spare time, but that wouldn’t be true. Although extremely bright I’m not one of nature’s swots. I’d like to think I’m ‘too cool for school’ but that’s most likely not true either. I’m probably holding a book in my hand for the sake of appearances but I’m unlikely to actually be reading it at this particular moment as there is too much going on in my head to concentrate. The stark truth is I’m hiding here. Adrian Farley has decided that he wants to fight with me and I’m here busy evading him. I know he’ll be looking for me and I really don’t want to fight him, so I’m avoiding him. It’s not that I’m scared. Well maybe I am a little scared…scared of pain certainly. It’s just that I’m really not into all that macho posturing to ‘prove’ myself. It all seems like too much hassle to me and someone always gets hurt…usually me! I’ve never been very competitive and I hate confrontation. I really just don’t want to fight him. I mean really what’s the point. I certainly don’t have anything to 'prove' and I don’t understand it.

At my last school I was bullied…for two reasons. Reason No.1 was that I was the brightest boy in the class and always came third in exams. Generally there were always the same two girls ahead of me…but I was always the brightest boy. Reason No.2 was that I was tall for my age, broad shouldered with blond hair, very easy to spot and single out, and although I was bigger than average I was definitely not aggressive, retiring rather than forceful, introverted rather than extroverted. This was obviously seen as challenge by some of the smaller but more aggressive lads who seemed to pick on me as a way of making them look bigger and more powerful.
So I was used to being set upon, often by several boys at once and usually after a class where the exam results were announced. They would corner me and knock me down, goading me for being too clever, all of them kicking me simultaneously as I curled up in a protective foetal position. I’d often come home covered in bruises, but I never told my parents why. My father would probably have urged me to fight back but I just didn’t want to risk it. It seemed to be easier to take the beating than to try to make a stand and possibly make it worse for myself.

Now, this school is a ‘boys only’ school and I’m unfortunately no longer able to say that I’m the brightest boy in the class. But still it seems any excuse is often good enough for the emergence of hostility from my peers. There is a tangible reek of testosterone in the air and if anything the absence of a female contingent means it’s even more brutal here. Pubescence provides an abundance of the aforementioned hormone and it seems boys will seek out many ways to express this sudden excess of masculinity. Sometimes rugby and football are just not enough to dampen the energy and enthusiasm of an overbearing adolescence.

So here I am again, cowering in the school library rather than going out to make a stand for myself. An older boy walks in. I know him only vaguely, he’s in the year above me, but he has a reputation that is legendary. His name is John Metcalfe. He’s a bit of a rogue, a ‘hard nut’, a larger than life character and he’s known for being tough. He is also notorious as a ‘bullshitter and teller of tall tales’, not just at my school but throughout the entire locality. I have no idea how he gained this status, but everyone around my age seems to know about it. It is commonplace for example if you think someone is telling a barefaced lie to rub your chin in a wistful manner as if stroking a long invisible goatee beard and counter them with ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ in a sarcastic tone.

Now the boy to whom this mega reputation pertains is standing in front of me having approached the table at which I’m sitting and I must confess to being a little in awe of him, if not trembling slightly from fear.

‘Wotcher doin’ ‘ere Somerlove?’ He enquires .

‘Er, reading!’ I tentatively supply an answer I hope won’t antagonise him.

‘Bollocks! You’re hiding from Farley aren’t you?’ His perspicacity is obviously as sharp as his reputation.

‘Ok, yes I am’ I look down at the desk shamefaced.

He pulls up a chair and sits opposite me.

‘You don’t want to be scared of Farley, he’s all front!’ he declares.

‘Do you think so?’ I look up at Metcalfe again.

We talk for a while about the whole sad, sorry situation, about me cowering in the library whilst Farley stalks the corridors and playgrounds searching for me. About how I really am quite a big lad and shouldn’t be scared of the likes of Farley. Metcalfe tells me I should stand up for myself.

'Sometimes in life you find you have to fight back and assert yourself' he explains, and then the one piece of information which has resonated throughout the rest of my life.

‘If you don’t make a stand now, the likes of Farley will dog you your whole life. You’ll be a doormat! Everyone will take advantage of you simply because they can.’ Metcalfe outlines the cold hard truth with a maturity and worldliness that belies his tender fifteen years on the planet.

I agree. At least, I have the foresightedness to see what he means. In my head I picture years and years of me running scared every time a confrontation raises its ugly head to greet me. I envisage a lifetime of cowering and trembling every time someone tries to assert themselves over me, with me backing down at the slightest opportunity. It's not an appetising prospect. I look up at Metcalfe entreatingly.

‘Look, if you go and fight Farley I’ll referee. OK?’ Metcalfe obligingly suggests. ‘The moment it looks like you’re going to get hurt I’ll stop the fight’

Hesitantly I agree, motivated by the images of a life spent fleeing from bullies still buzzing around my head.

Metcalfe and I leave the school library and go off in search of Farley. We find him and several of his cronies a little later waiting just outside the school entrance and Metcalfe explains to them that I agree to fight as long as he referees the contest. A location away from the school underneath a motorway bridge is deemed to be the best setting for the fight and we all nervously make our way there, Farley and his cronies are leading the way with Metcalfe and I bringing up the rear.

Metcalfe is covertly giving me fighting tips as we walk.

‘Go in really hard, don’t pussyfoot about. Let him know you mean business. That’ll scare him. He thinks you’ll be a walkover. Remember: maximum violence immediately. He won’t be expecting that. It’ll give you the element of surprise.’ He whispers nonchalantly so as not to arouse the suspicions of those ahead of us.

Once in place, Farley and I remove our ties and blazers. We then roll up our shirt sleeves and square up to one another whilst Metcalfe outlines the rules of engagement.

'No scratching; no biting; no gouging; no kicking and no hitting below the belt. Now shake hands and lets have a clean, fair fight.'

We grudgingly shake hands and then Metcalf stands between us, arms outstretched, holding us apart. He then takes a step back and motions for us to begin. I immediately lunge forward toward Farley and swing my fist as hard as I can in the direction of Farley’s face. Thud! It connects with Farley’s jaw and he collapses like a sack of potatoes, crumpling in a heap. I feel the sting of pain on my knuckles, and wince as they start to redden. Ouch! Farley stays down. Metcalfe starts counting. ‘1, 2, 3’ Farley groans in pain and clutches his jaw. ‘4, 5, 6,’ Farley looks back at me from the floor in utter disbelief…and with…what exactly is it I detect…perhaps the unmistakable glare of…wide eyed FEAR. Farley is suddenly afraid of ME? ‘7, 8, 9.’ Now I finally understand…in the monochrome world that Farley inhabits THIS is how you earn respect. Metcalfe reaches the end of his count and declares Farley ‘OUT!’. Metcalfe grabs my left wrist and raises my arm aloft declaring me to be the winner. Farley’s cronies gather around him on the floor and try to rouse him. He's bleeding from a cut lip and is slightly groggy. I step back completely amazed, hardly believing that the fight is over so quickly. Metcalfe just stands there grinning at me with a look of pride on his face.

That evening I walk home with a spring in my step. I feel completely different. I feel confident for the first time in my life and it feels good.

Farley doesn’t ever dare bother me again after that and once word has got around the school neither does anyone else. John Metcalfe nods to me everytime we pass in the corridor; I've earned his respect too.

Of course now I appreciate what an important moment that was in my life and what a debt I owe to the infamous John Metcalfe. For several years after that kids around the town would still stroke their imaginary goatees and utter the magical words ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ when feigning disbelief. I doubt most of them even knew who John Metcalfe was. It had become learned behaviour, just something you did when you thought someone was bullshitting. I never did discover how he actually earned that particular reputation. I remember, a couple of years after the events of that evening, reading in the local newspaper how he’d saved a young woman from getting assaulted and raped in a dark alley one evening, chasing off the girl’s assailant, and was being hailed as a local hero even getting a mention in our school assembly.

John Metcalfe will of course always have my eternal respect. If I met him today I would shake his hand heartily and thank him for the profound effect he has had on my life. He would almost certainly be completely unaware and I wonder whether he would even recollect that incident so long ago. I find it strange that this single moment should have so much significance for me, yet probably so little for him.

Naturally, nowadays I am nobody’s bitch. I have consistently asserted myself throughout my life thus far and have always taken the former option when the ‘fight or flight’ instinct has arisen. But I’d like to think that should I ever again feel the need to cower, hide or run away whilst vacillating tremulously I’d summon a degree of defiance by philosophically stroking an imaginary goatee beard and mumbling sarcastically under my breath ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’