Our Johnny is the Only One Dancing in Time
An occasional series of possibly true scenes from a perfectly normal life. Let's call it faction.
Chapter 1: Gordon Giltrap.
The Drummer is very large indeed.
Some people are large because of their diet or exercise regime. Some seem large because their personalities fill the room. The Drummer is the youngest member of a family from a third rarer, category; those people who loosely resemble a group of Silverbacks that have accidentally acquired a house. His brother was head-hunted by a New Zealand rugby team. Local legend maintains that a sticking point to the signing was that it would require two seats on the plane to get him there. His father doesn't fit through their own front door and frequently makes his way into the house by means of the garage to avoid embarrassing questions from the neighbours. His Mother is the smallest of the clan, but still gets asked to stand in the middle of the bus so it doesn't keel over.
His head is the size of a comedy water melon, his arms the approximate circumference of a teenage boys legs. He perches behind us on a specially reinforced drumstool, his sheer physical size emphasised with a mane of deep black hair that appears to be a bouffant tribute to the winner of the poodle category at Crufts. Standing in front of him while he plays is an ear-splitting and slightly dangerous experience, the sheer physical force of his tsunami of sound being produced by a shower of drumstick shards that might impale you at any moment. Average number of sticks shredded per show: 5.4. He is, just to make this clear, a big fella.
Despite this, we have elected to use a 1973 Mini Clubman as our chosen method of touring transport.
The designers of the Mini plainly had this potential usage in mind when it first hit the drawing board. The windows at the front are in close proximity to the seats at the back, which means the guitar necks can fit out of the windows. Whilst the boot is tiny, it can accommodate some foot pedals, a Peavey 112 and a bag of leads if you hold it shut with a bungee tied around the conveniently placed bumper. The internal height of the vehicle means that not only can it take two musicians in the back, but you can stack the drums on their lap, put the stands on the shelf behind them and then thread the guitars through the windows on top of the lot. The bass amp head goes on the floor well between them, and the bass speaker goes on the floor well of the passenger seat. The Drummer has to travel in front, as we haven't yet figured out a way to get his substantial frame into the rear without removing the seats, which means his feet are on top of the speaker, with his knees in physical contact with the windscreen. This complex formation is only achievable thanks to the presence of The Driver, whose tasks include the locking of all the doors once containment is accomplished. We take comfort in the knowledge that should we crash, none of us will be injured in the slightest - removing us from the vehicle is a highly complex uncorking process akin to solving a Rubik's cube and it cannot be achieved by brute force.
The Gig is 1984's prescient homage to Pop X Idol Talent Factor. "Who is the best band in Kent?" the audience apparently demanded. We set off in our Mini to find out.
The Jury for this auspicious occasion consists of The Music Store Owner, The Punk Singer, The Nightclub Boss and Gordon Giltrap. Whilst the first three are notable luminaries of the local scene, the addition of Mr Giltrap lends the contest an edge of professionalism which is somewhat at odds with our chosen method of transport. Gordon's been on Top of the Pops. With Kid Jensen. His big hit introduces Judith Chalmers every Wednesday evening telling everybody about places they can't afford to go on holiday. He's a proper musician. Our chances of emerging victorious are somewhat shortened by this factor, although not as much as they are by the presence of the Music Store Owner who has already informed us that we cannot win because we are friends of his and it would look bad. Fortunately, he has 11 other bands to choose his winner from, many of whom own their own van.
The event takes place in the main hall of a large sports complex in Tonbridge, which has presumably been chosen because it has ample parking and loading facilities for the large number of acts with their spacious touring vehicles. Our arrival in the Car Park is therefore greeted with a mixture of bafflement, amusement and disbelief. A crowd of musicians quickly gathers to watch as The Driver attempts to extract The Drummer from the front seat without putting one of his feet through the bass speaker. In front of this throng, The Guitarist is determined to emerge with his dignity intact, or, if that cannot be achieved, at least with his hair correctly styled. He attempts a convoluted birth-like wriggle from his cocoon, which unfortunately results in the need to put his elbow through the snare drum skin. His hairstyle, however, is saved. We set off for the dressing rooms in search of anybody with a spare.
We lived in a town where pretty much the entire cultural diversity in 1984 could be calculated by considering the range of local take away menus. All towns of this type had a locally famous Black Person, ours had assumed his mantle by becoming the singer in an otherwise entirely white reggae band. The Music Store Owner, who felt that his professional duties somehow extended to nicknaming the local populace, had re-christened the singer "Banana Feet". Now, before you jump to cancel us or him, we, like you, had taken great issue with this epithet on the assumption that it was a racist slur on his background on the basis of the size of his feet; a quite remarkable size 16 which meant he could only ever wear baseball shoes. We were, however, shortly to be disabused of this notion, as our enquiries in search of a spare snare drum skin led the famously affable and helpful chap to invite us into his dressing room to rummage among his large set of drum cases at our leisure. “There's probably one in there somewhere" he gestured with a shimmer of dreadlocks and a casual wave of one hand. Upon opening the first of these cases, the room was immediately filled with an odour not unlike that of a rotting corpse, cause of death; ingestion of five thousand bananas. The singer, it emerged, had been labelled Banana Feet not because of any racist intent, but because his feet smelled like bananas. Rotting bananas. Alongside the various accoutrements of a drummer's trade, the cases contained discarded and rotted baseball shoes. All in giant sizes, all reeking of rotten bananas. We now have a replacement snare skin, but it smells pungently of over-ripe fruit. Our passage along the corridor towards the stage is accompanied by people clutching their noses and retching.
The Gig passed off without further incident. We angrily shouted our way through our sub-U2 denouncements of Thatcher and were met with, if I say so myself, a pretty good reaction. Certainly good enough to warrant the extended version of one of the tracks, which differed from the normal version by being twice as long and getting quieter and louder several times in an attempt to amp up the tension and thereby provoke the crowd into a lazy impression of the pogo. The Guitarist made some last minute set changes to enable him to wander the lip of the stage looking for girls, resulting in us climaxing with our big send off, a two minute song with a four minute finale; several false endings, a widdly guitar bit, some timed jumps and finally, with us and the crowd with no more endings to explore, the emergence, behemoth-like, from behind the kit of the world's largest drummer, thrashing mercilessly away at the cymbals before mounting the bass drum and hurling the sticks into the audience as mementos.
Now I may have previously mentioned that The Drummer was a big lad. I don't know if you recall that. When he hurls a stick you need to set up a search party in neighbouring counties. I recall these two sticks being briefly framed by the stage lights, travelling at such a blistering pace that even in the snap shot mode of my mind they appeared to have achieved terminal velocity. There may actually have been a "whoosh" sound as they disappeared into the darkness. You were tempted to shout "duck!".
We retired to the dressing room to contemplate what might be a good result for our efforts. The Guitarist was of the opinion that third was pretty good, he'd be happy with that. The Drummer was pretty sure some girls had been there and maybe we might meet some. The Driver remains mysteriously quiet. Prompted by The Guitarist, he eventually volunteers the information that the set was fantastic, the sound was great, the audience loved it, but we just might have scuppered our chances of winning, on account of our over the top finale. "Do you think it was too much?" we ask him. "Was it too heavy metal?" we demand. "It went on too long" we decide. The Driver, however, will not be drawn, although he does appear to have found some amusing aspect of this part of the show that is so far evading us.
A long and tedious afternoon turns into a long and tedious evening. One band's schtick is that they are dressed as seventeenth century minstrels, complete with some fake trees and what appears to be a bow and arrow. The generous singer's set of joyful reggae sounds is frequently interrupted by audience members demanding to know where the smell of rotten fruit is coming from. At least two of the bands have not only got a Depeche Mode record, they have also seen them on telly. A group of poorly trained schoolboys are ushered on to the stage by an over-zealous Father who harasses them into murdering the hits of Iron Maiden whilst making thumbs up signs at the Nightclub Boss. Gradually, a dawning sensation that our chances are visibly improved by the somewhat threadbare opposition creeps over our quiet little huddle. "We could win this" says The Guitarist through gritted teeth.
Finally, at some godforsaken hour of the morning which has caused most audience members to give up any semblance of feigned interest, the jury retire to consider their verdict. The results will be announced live on stage to a gathered throng of excited press (The Kent Messenger), family and friends (of the other bands) and a remaining gaggle of disgruntled and weary public who are forced to remain against their will as all the other bars around have shut. The acts gather towards the back of the stage, the compere announces the arrival of the judges. We are literally standing on tiptoes at this point.
Whilst the judges announce that our friend with the challenging approach to foot hygiene has come a respectable third, I scan across their faces for any hint of the result. Unbelievably, The Nightclub Boss makes a heavy show of winking at me. The Music Store Owner grins. The Punk Singer simply nods, but it looks like an affirmative nod. I'm so excited I think I might wet myself. It is at this point that Gordon Giltrap is called upon to announce the second place act. He clears his throat "In second place...." he begins.
I don't know precisely at what point my brain tuned out, but it was certainly around this time that I became creepingly aware that Mr Giltrap looked slightly odd. He still had that perma-tanned look of the proper rock star, and of course the late seventies obligatory corkscrew hair. He was wearing a faded denim jacket, check, a tour t-shirt, check, inappropriately ornate and dangly earrings, check. Something, however, was not quite right. "Congratulations..... Straw Dogs!" he announced. The seventeenth century minstrels collected their handshakes and shot us a look definitely intended to convey suspicion.
"In first place....... and the winners..... and the best new band in Kent" said Mr Giltrap. It was at this point that everything in my mind clicked together. I was seized with the absolute certainty that we had won, despite the best efforts of the Music Store Owner. And I knew we had won despite the fact that Gordon Giltrap, hit record maker, proper rock star, and friend to Kid Jensen, was now sporting a very large, highly visible, scarlet red, impression of a drumstick from the top right corner of his forehead to the bottom left corner of his chin.
We win. It remains unclear whether Mr Giltrap was genuinely impressed enough to ignore our social faux pas of attempting to pole-axe him with a drum stick or simply terrified of The Drummer. In later conversations, The Punk Singer reveals that Gordon had lent over to him to tell him how much he was enjoying our set, and it was whilst distracted by offering his opinion that a drum stick hurtled out of the darkness and knocked him off his chair. We dance about a bit, collect our cash and retire to the dressing rooms. An angry confrontation between the world's worst heavy metal band's Dad and the Nightclub Boss reveals that the other bands are convinced that we have paid the judges more than they did and that's why we won. We weren't actually aware you could bribe them at all, although we certainly would have tried if we had a handy brown envelope and any cash. The cash was probably the main sticking point, I think even we could have managed an envelope.
We collect our things and retire to the Car Park. The Drummer announces that he is bringing a girl home with him. No amount of space/time/capacity explanations will dissuade him - there is a very good chance he might see this girl naked, and this sort of opportunity doesn't come along very often when you are built like King Kong on steroids. The girl appears. She has a broken arm. The Driver puts all of us, and the equipment, into the car, then pours the girl in through his own window to sit on the drummers raised knees. Her plaster-encased arm is put out of the window and on top of the 1973 Mini Clubman, into which The Driver inserts a pint of lager with the words "hold this for me, I haven't had a drink yet".
We drive to the only open takeaway for miles and celebrate with a warm can of coke and a cold kebab.