Tag Archives: friendship

Riffs and variations on loss and friendship featuring balloons, AA Milne, Sufjan Stevens and phone sex

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“When’d you last have sex ?”

“Ah, come on Jen. I don’t know…”

“You absolutely do know. It’s one of those things men know, like when their car last had its MOT or the date England won the World Cup or something.”

“30th July 1966.”

“Sex ?”

“Yeah, obviously. Of course not sex. England winning the World Cup. And for the record men do not carry round a perfect memory of their sexual history.”

“So when was it then ?” Jen pressed.

“You’re really not going to leave this ?”

“No, I’m really not. I’m worried about you Pete. She would have been worried about you.” She paused, wondering if that was too much but there was no protest from the voice on the other end of the phone. “She would have hated to have seen you like this…”

“April” Pete said finally. “It was April.”

Jen exhaled in relief. “Hey, April. That’s better than me you bastard. Why’d you hold out on telling me until now ?”

“April 16th 2011. You’re right, I do know the date. April 16th. Three days before the accident and five days before Georgie died.” There was silence on the line, not even the faint hiss of background static. “Jen ?”

“I’m here Pete. I’m still here…”

“It’s okay Jen. I can talk about this, don’t make yourself feel bad. After… Well, after she died, it got to be that I felt like I was a one man field of land mines in every conversation I had. People tiptoeing through sentences until, sure enough, eventually, they’d brush up against something that set off a big Georgie blast of emotion.”

“I’m sorry Pete. I didn’t so much ‘brush up against’ as trample all over it though, did I ?”

“I think it’s alright, you know ? I’ve been starting to think that maybe the only way to clear away some of those mines is to step straight on them and take the hit.”

“Is that something from counseling ?”

“My therapist ?” Pete gave a short laugh. “God no. Poor guy. I stopped going a few months ago, put both of us out of our misery. The problem with talking therapies is they only really work if you’re prepared to talk and I just don’t know that I’ll ever have the words to explain…”

“…explain what ?” nudged Jen.

Pete sighed. “Explain the absence of her. The loss. It’s not just that she’s not here anymore, it’s that the absence of her is here. It’s tangible. Like a… like…”

“A ghost ?”

“Ha, yeah. Maybe like a ghost. Or, I don’t know. My parents used to tell a story, that they found hilarious of course, of when I was a kid and won a big, red helium balloon at the fair. I loved feeling it tug and pull on the string as we walked home, bobbing and dancing in the air…”

“Is this story going to involve childhood trauma ?”

“Brace yourself Jen, I’m afraid it is but you started this so no backing out now.”

“Fair point. Continue.”

“I loved that balloon. It must be one of my earliest memories of having something that really felt like it was mine, just for me. I clutched that string so tight, so afraid to let it go. I knew that one slip and it would be off, floating free, and not mine anymore. But, of course, balloons and five year olds is a bad combination and inevitably it popped on some sharp object in my room…”

“Your parents left you alone with sharp objects ?”

“They were quite progressive. Anyway, are you going to let me finish baring my soul or not ?”

“Sorry. I will not say another word”

“So, there I was, now with a long piece of string. No balloon. There were some trace fragments of it left attached to the string. A small red piece knotted and entwined in the end as a reminder. But where before it had soared – I used to imagine it would lift me up and fly me away – now it just trailed along the ground. Earthbound, broken. Apparently I kept hold of that string for two weeks, pulling the reminder of that balloon behind me round the house. So I wasn’t very good at letting go of things, even then…”

“How long are you going to hold this string Pete ?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Sometimes I’m not even sure it’s entirely my choice.”

“How so ?” asked Jen.

“Okay, then, I’ll give you an example. Let’s talk about the sex thing.”

“The no sex thing. It’s been three years Pete.”

“Yeah, the no sex for three years thing if you want to get all pedantic about it. It’s not like there haven’t been opportunities.”

“I don’t doubt it. Decent looking guy like you…”

“Decent looking ? I thought you were meant to be building me back up.”

“Good looking then. Great looking. A veritable Adonis of a man. Plus you’re solvent and have your own hair and teeth. Women get less picky as they get older. Believe me, I know.”

“Alright, I’ll settle for good looking. Enough that there have been opportunities anyway. But when it comes to it the prospect of being with someone, of there being nothing but me and someone else, it’s too much. Someone else competing with the absence of her. How can I sleep with someone new when I think that the first thing I’ll do, when it’s over, is open my eyes, see that it’s not Georgie, and burst into tears ?”

“That might be a lot to deal with.”

“Quite. Ladies of Oxfordshire, form an orderly queue.”

“At least you’re imagining this happening afterwards. You know, it’s good that you can envisage going through with it” mused Jen.

“Oh, that is the best imagined scenario” said Pete. “There are various versions. The locking myself in the bathroom in tears version is another one. There’s inevitably a number of performance anxiety versions. Lots of calling out the wrong name versions, all ending in tears and recrimination.”

“Oh Pete. I’m sorry. Maybe you need to build up to it. Start off with phone sex first or something ?”

“Is that an offer ?”

“Ha ha. Can you imagine ? What are you wearing Pete ? I’m starting to get a little cold here, all naked and lonely. Why don’t you tell me how you’re going to warm me up ?”

“That was too good. You clearly have had some practice.”

“I love to practice when I’m alone” Jen breathed huskily into the phone. “What do you like to do when you’re alone ?”

“Okay. Weird now. Crazy woman stop.”

“Think yourself lucky we’re not Skyping” said Jen.

“If people actually shuddered I’d be shuddering right now. Do people really, actually have phone sex ?”

“Seriously ? You never did ? You and Georgie…”

“We were always together, there was never any time when we’d have been apart for long enough to even think about it I guess. To be honest I don’t remember telephone calls being much a part of any relationship I’ve had since I was about sixteen. Walking down into the village to use the pay phone, feeding 10p after 10p, just to keep going a series of awkward silences I was sharing with Laura Sheridan.”

“I’m guessing you and Laura didn’t… ?”

“It was pretty cold by that payphone Jen. And I’m pretty sure knocking one out in the village phone box would have raised a few local eyebrows. Questions asked at the Parish Council.”

“Now there’s an image I’m not going to be able to shift.”

“Well you started the whole phone sex thing. I was having a quiet night in, minding my own business.”

“That’s what I was worried about, that’s why I called. You’re always having a quiet night in and minding your own business. I worry…”

“You don’t have to worry about me Jen” chided Pete gently. “I’m doing fine. It’s just, like I said, not something I can just choose to get over. It’s going to take some more time I guess.”

“But you’ll let go of the string one day, Eeyore ?”

“Eeyore ! Ha.” Pete smiled. “Where’d that come from ?”

“Well, quite apart from your generally sunny disposition, your balloon story. It’s like what happens to Eeyore. Piglet gets him a balloon but falls on it before he can hand it over so Eeyore ends up with the popped remains on the end of some string.”

“That’s a new one on me. Who does that make you then Jen ?”

Jen sighed, exasperated. “I have taken on the self appointed role of Tigger, obviously. Your personal cheer leader, pep talker and grief counseller.”

“And Tigger’s recommendation is that I take up phone sex ? I don’t remember that in any of the books.”

“AA Milne had some hitherto unpublished stuff. Same homilies but more adult themes” laughed Jen before adding softly “anyway, I know it’s crap advice and I know it can’t much help but I’m all out of better ideas.”

“It does help” said Pete quietly. “You know what I was doing before you rang ? I was sitting in bed listening to music. The new Sufjan Stevens record. I was reading about it all last week, it’s about him dealing with the death of his mother, and is the sort of thing I should run a mile from. It’s brutally sad but beautiful, you know ?”

“Why run a mile ? If it helps…”

“Well that’s the thing. I don’t know if it helps or not, the consolation that someone else can express pain and loss so purely. It’s just me not letting go of the string.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s like those landmines and just one of those things you have to step on. Fall apart before you can put yourself back together.”

“Careful Jen, you’re starting to sound almost wise. I don’t remember Tigger being the wise one.”

“Ah but that was the genius of Milne wasn’t it ? Weren’t they all kind of wise in their own ways ?”

The line was silent for five, ten seconds. Eventually Jen asked the same question she’d asked every week or so for the past three years.

“I gotta go now Pete, early start tomorrow, but are you alright ?” There was the same pause he always left before answering and then the same answer before the line went dead.

“No. Not today Jen. But ask me again tomorrow.”

……

This is the fourteenth story in my series of 42 shorts that I’m writing to raise money and awareness for Mind, the mental health charity. The title is pinched and adapted from a Sufjan Stevens song whose brilliant new record, Carrie & Lowell, was much on my mind when writing this. Please share it if you liked it (or even if you didn’t…). If you’re interested in donating to a great cause then please visit my fundraising page. https://www.justgiving.com/42shorts/

The weirdness flows between us

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32. Freak Scene – Dinosaur Jr.

We showed off to each other back then. Goofing around, throwing ridiculous shapes on the dance floor, conjuring ludicrous puns that, over time, became impenetrable in-jokes, and just enjoying each other. Not, you know, in that way. Okay, sometimes in that way, but mostly it was entirely rated PG stuff; occasional moments of mild peril and sexual references. As Supergrass would later put it: we were young, we were free, we kept our teeth nice and clean. It’s unsurprising that my self penned follow up – I am middle aged, I have responsibilities, I have ground my teeth down to such an extent that I displaced my jaw – has never troubled the charts.

We were 16, going on 17, and weren’t skipping around a summer house in Austria on the brink of war trying to impress a young Nazi boy. But we were interested in the sound of music (boom, and indeed, tish). Specifically we were all starting to share a love of what you might generally term indie music; some gravitating from an earlier goth phase, others from heavy metal (an odd mix of US hair metal and New Wave Of British Heavy Metal), and some feeling the benefit of older siblings passing down people like The Smiths. Irrespective of how we got there we all arrived at a place where a shared love of Nirvana, Pixies, Muses, Dinosaur Jr, Mudhoney, Sonic Youth, Teenage Fanclub, and a host of others became something that both defined us and soundtracked our late teens and early 20s.

We, of course, was me and my friends. A small but perfectly formed gang; smart, funny, at ease with each other, if not always with ourselves. I’m probably romanticising it across the years. I’m sure there were times we had terribly dull conversations and just sat around fretting about our A levels but that’s not how I remember it. In my head now it was all either hilarious, wise cracking bon mots or very earnest, deep discussion about matters of great import. We knew we weren’t the cool kids but convinced ourselves that, because we knew that, it actually made us the cool kids anyway. We were cool because we weren’t cool but we knew it. Make sense ? Not really but it did at the time. Looking back I think we were pretty cool. If I was 16 again I would want to be friends with us.

And I would want to spend my nights at the Kandi Klub. I imagine that every major city in the UK, around the late 80s and early 90s, had its own version of the Kandi Klub: what might loosely be described as an indie rock nightclub. Somewhere for the people who felt a bit out of place everywhere else to go and feel slightly less out of place together. Later in my life I frequented Rock City in Nottingham and Sector 5 in Leicester but the Kandi Klub in Bristol was the place I called home. It was our weekly stage (literally so if it was being held in the Thekla) and where we played out our friendship.

History hasn’t recorded what anyone else thought of those kids that turned up every week and spent their time alternating between dancing very seriously – shuffling feet, head down nodding, fringes falling over eyes – and then appearing to take the piss out of it all – the star jumps, the hands on hips head shaking, the watusi. If it had I’d like to think it would mention how much fun they were having. Was it fun in that slightly self absorbed way that only teenagers can really pull off ? Yeah it was but we were slightly self absorbed teenagers so…

There’s a long, long list of songs that I associate with those regular trips to the Kandi, whether it was ensconced at The Studio or The Bierkeller or The Thekla, but the one that was guaranteed to get me on to the slightly sticky dancefloor was “Freak Scene”. It was probably one of those songs that used to get slipped in fairly early in the night, before DJ George got into the bigger “hits” from people like Nirvana and The Wonderstuff. There were a bunch of songs that occupied that part of the night that I latched on to and still love: stuff like the Violent Femmes’ “Add It Up”, Buffalo Tom’s “Velvet Roof”, Sonic Youth’s “Kool Thing”, Pulp’s “Babies”, and probably a couple of Mudhoney tracks. As it was still early the dancefloor might be empty, or virtually empty, but we’d bounce out there regardless and throw ourselves into that aforementioned head down shuffle of a dance.

For the three and a half minutes of “Freak Scene” everything would fall away. There was the song, the sensation of moving, and that was it. Or almost it. I was self conscious enough, I expect, to be aware of the fact that I was dancing and always enjoyed the odd mixture of doing something that felt quite private in a public place* – it was effectively an outward expression of my internal relationship with the song. If you’d seen it you might, mistakenly, have seen it as a tall, spotty kid wearing a black tee shirt dotted with pieces of washing powder visibly picked out, shining, under the blue neon lights rather ponderously swishing his hair around. It wasn’t that. It was an outward expression of my internal relationship with the song. I admit some of that outward expression required that I slowly step from side to side and possibly clasp my hands behind my back. Don’t judge me.

You need places that feel like they’re yours when you’re that age, hovering uncertainly between being a child and an adult. Places and people. Territory that’s yours, where you’re free to work out who you might be. The Kandi Klub was part of my territory and if I had the chance to do it all again I’d be back there in a heartbeat with exactly the same people: my friends.

 

*this will be the only thing I did that “felt quite private in a public place” that I ‘fess up to here…

Underneath a thousand blankets, just to find a place

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18. Dream All Day – The Posies                                                                                        1996

The legendary 1996 Reading Festival… Legendary for me, that is. Not particularly for anyone else I suspect – nothing special about the line up, nothing remarkable happened (beyond, maybe, the shambolic demise of the Stone Roses)… and yet. And yet it remains frozen in my  memory as one of my favourite weekends and, in hindsight, seemed to mark an important transition in my life. I hesitate to say that it drew a direct line between adolescence and adulthood but it does feel a little that way. I was 24 at the time; something of a late developer.

Don’t misunderstand. This is not, probably, going to turn into a lachrymose lament to my lost youth – I haven’t forgotten the mud, the hassle, the people, the hangovers, the Supernaturals, the puking, the dizziness, the traffic, the piss, the toilets and all the rest of it – but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that missed it. For a variety of reasons music has progressively become a less communal experience for me as I’ve gotten older. There was always a balance between the private, listening on my own at home, and the shared, out at a club or, as in this case, a festival. The balance has steadily tipped towards the private over the years and I regret that I’ve let that happen as there’s a whole range of things music can do beyond helping you sit around feeling sorry for yourself…

Surfing various other blogs I came across a brilliant event / idea that some people run down in Devon. The blog’s called Devon Record Club and the basic premise is that they get together on a regular basis, each bringing along a record, and they listen to ’em, discuss, and share their thoughts via the blog. Not complicated, bit like a book club. Bet it’s a lot of fun. Exactly the sort of thing that I, and friends, used to do informally – it was just a natural part of our lives to sit around and talk about why “Verdi Cries” by 10,000 Maniacs should always be in any top 5 best records list… So, if you’re in the Bucks area or fancy doing something virtually – must be a way for that work – then drop me a comment below…

Back at that festival there were inauspicious beginnings in 1996. I was working in Nottingham at the time and didn’t have a car which meant a meandering train journey through the midlands in the rain. Changing trains at a rain sodden Coventry station was just the thing to evoke the festival spirit; “sent to Coventry” indeed. Connection. The train to Reading picked its way down the country, the skies opened and it poured. I was listening to a compilation of old Kandi Klub (my old club haunt in Bristol) favourites during the journey, watching the rain splatter incessantly against the window, and thinking of old flames. Or, in some cases, old flickers. In the movie-of-my-life playing in my head (more of a straight to DVD cult classic than blockbuster success) this made me feel romantically nostalgic, melancholy, deep and imbued with the soul of a poet. To the untrained eye I may have appeared as a mildly sulky young man in need of a hair cut.

On arrival the rain stopped but the break in the weather was short lived and by the time I’d reached the festival site it was pelting down again and the ground had turned to mush. At this point the local Holiday Inn probably looked strangely alluring… Avoiding its charms I met up with I. and R. and we shuffled away to our tent, joining the slow procession past purveyors of, variously, bootleg tee-shirts, posters, beer and drugs. Perhaps it was the weather, or perhaps it was just experience, but the sense of anticipation from previous festivals (we must have been veterans of at least 10 by this point) was conspicuously absent this time out. It all felt almost routine. Fortunately that feeling didn’t last.

Friday. In the morning we trekked into Reading to buy provisions and a water proof coat. Weather noticeably improved after I’d spent £30 on said coat; I should have stuck with the strategically torn bin liner. Managed a quick pint in a pub on the way back and I guess that started it all off as we proceeded to drink for the rest of the day which obviously meant that we got drunk. Really drunk. I should mention bands that we saw that day but none of any note spring to mind. For much of the weekend the bands played a secondary part to our drunken letting down of hair, which is perhaps how it should have always been.

It’s not possible to try and recount a daily version of events from here on in. I doubt I could have recounted it later in 1996, let alone in 2013. Things passed too hazily, too drunkenly. The only constant was booze, each day building on the last to the, frankly, ridiculous events of the Sunday when I think we may have kicked off with vodka at breakfast. I don’t really know what it was about this year that was different to previous festivals in terms of drinking. We’d always had a drink before but we’d never really gone all out and just relentlessly gotten hammered.

Through the fog of time and alcohol there are still memories that loom large. They won’t make any sense – I think the point was that they weren’t supposed to – but they loom large. From beating each other about the arse with some discarded pipe lagging, to the straw fight by the main stage whilst The Posies were playing, to waiting for Billy Bragg in a torrential downpour… just small details that will mean very little if you weren’t there but never fail to raise a wry smile if you were. And then, of course, there was the lemon. At some juncture – may even have been as late as the Sunday (when the wheels really fell off) – someone found the aforementioned fruit. Nothing unusual in that. However, for reasons that even at the time made little sense, we decided to worship it for the rest of the day. Worship quite actively. Largely this involved chanting “lemon” a lot, passing it round to be fondled and kissed, and occasionally encouraging other people to temporarily join our little cult. That’s cult. Journeying round the site we proceeded in single file, usually running, with the leader holding the lemon aloft and the rest of us trailing in its wake; shouting our mantra in a bizarre call and response.

I think it was also the first time I was particular aware that I was getting older – that there was another generation coming up behind. Obviously now it happens all the time (usually in terrible circumstances – 22 year old newly qualified doctor having to check your prostate, that kind of thing). We ended up sat round our camp fire one night with a load of people from neighbouring tents who were all a good few years younger than us – I think they were 16 and 17 as I’m sure we had an astonished conversation about sitting with people born in 1980. They, in turn, were equally astonished that we’d been “lucky” enough to witness Ned’s Atomic Dustbin first hand: in their pomp no less. We were 24ish at the time and incredulous that anyone at a festival couldn’t have been born in the 70s…

Somewhere amid the drink, lemons, lagging, rain and sheer glee of it all, some bands played. Instead of appearing front and centre in my memory they seem to just provide the soundtrack – it was maybe the only festival I’ve been to where seeing the bands wasn’t the main reason for being there. I remember seeing Catatonia – I think Cerys came on stage wearing a big pair of boxing gloves – as we spent much of that day singing “You’ve Got A Lot To Answer For“, apropos of nothing. Otherwise ? The Roses headlined and were awful: lifeless, leaden and topped off by Ian Brown’s atonal apology of a voice. Experience the horror for yourself here if you’re curious. This should have been a massive disappointment as we were (are) all huge fans but, at the time, I think we just found it funny. Black Grape and The Prodigy were the other day’s headliners – the former were good fun, the latter were touting a set that was heard at pretty much every festival in Europe for three years. Beyond that, and the previously mentioned Billy Bragg and The Posies, I’m struggling. Looking at who played I could guess that we would have seen Rage Against The Machine, Drugstore, Super Furry Animals, Ash, The Wedding Present… but I have no memory of any of them. Did I get drunk because the line up was so poor or can’t I remember the line up because I got so drunk ?

Here it is, anyway, for posterity:

reading96

For me the weekend acted as some sort of pressure valve – releasing the pent up stress of a transitory period in my life. The friends that I had in Nottingham were leaving and I had long been looking for a way to move down to London – it took me another 18 months or so but I eventually made it. I’d left University a couple of years prior to this but I think this was the weekend that drew a line under that phase of my life before I moved on to the next – a last outpouring of childish glee before settling in to the serious business of careers and houses and relationships and being a grown up.

So The Posies make the list. Not particularly because I think it’s a great song – it’s a decent slab of power pop but there’s lots of stuff in that genre that I’d ordinarily pick ahead of this (for starters I’d have to dig out the short lived, under appreciated Silver Sun). It’s here simply because I can’t hear it without being back in a field, jumping around, chucking straw (only down due to the mud) at my friends having pretty much as much fun as it’s humanly possible to have.

Anyone up for a 20th anniversary reunion in 2016 ?

It’s time to play the music, it’s time to light the lights…

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6. The Muppets                                                                          When: 1992-1994

Disclaimer: I said I’d stretch the definition of “record” and this post definitely tests it to breaking point. At times it also seriously tests my powers of memory: everything here is true but I can’t guarantee that details haven’t been embellished by time. The video footage contains haircuts that some viewers may find distressing. Oh, and in case it gets confusing, there were two people called Phil in the band. I was one of them.

Intro

“The best mates”

–        Listen, listen, I’ve got a great name for the band.

–        What band ?

–        The one we’re starting.

–        O-kaay, what is it ?

–        Picture this. The stage is dark. Audience going insane. Intro music starts up… “it’s time to      play the music, it’s time to light the lights, it’s time to meet The Muppets on the Muppet show      tonight”… We’re on stage. Straight into the first song.

–        The Muppets ?

–        The Muppets.

“The guitarist and the singer”

–        Richie’s in.

–        Really ? You asked him ?

–        Well, I didn’t really let him say no but that doesn’t matter. He’s in.

–        Can he play ?

–        Can he play ? He’s awesome. Strat. Gibson SG – think he’s played at the Rock Garden or something.

–        Sounds promising.

–        He’s got a singer as well.

–        Who ?

–        Andy. You know him, he’s got a room at the other end of block 7 to you.

–        Yeah, I know him. Can he sing ?

–        Don’t know. Apparently.

“The Chem Soc Ball”

–        We’ve got a gig.

–        What do you mean we’ve got a gig ? We’re not ready.

–        We’ve got a gig. Chemistry Society Ball. I know the guy that’s organising it – I told him that         we normally only play around town but that we’d do it for him as a favour.

–        I haven’t got an amp…

–        Borrow one, it’ll be fine.

–        You haven’t got an amp or, in fact, a bass…

–        I’m buying one, don’t worry.

–        We don’t know any songs…

–        I’ve been thinking about that – about a set-list. Just need a few songs that are pretty easy to play but still amazing. I’m thinking rock obviously.

–        Obviously… but we don’t have a drummer…

–        No but I’ve been recommended a guy. It’ll be fine. Bit older than us, think he’s doing a post-grad in space science or astro physics. Something like that. Got his own kit and, even better, his own car.

–        When’s this gig ?

–        Two weeks.

“The rocket scientist”

–        *knock knock*

–        (Answering door) Yeah ? Hi ?

–        Alex ?

–        Yes

–        Hi, I’m Phil, this is Phil. Sorry to disturb you – we’ve heard you’re a drummer.

–        Er… yeah, I guess. I play in a couple of bands.

–        Fancy joining another one ?

–        Well, I suppose I don’t mind sitting in to see how it goes.

–        Great, you’re in.

–        What are we called ?

–        The Muppets. Don’t worry, we’ll probably change it.

Verse one

Late Spring and the French doors leading from Beaumont Hall to the Botanical Gardens are flung open. Outside curious botanists mingle with unwinding students. Inside five young men set about the task of setting up a rehearsal space. On one side of the room someone carefully unpacks a Fender Stratocaster from its flight case, sets up a myriad of effects pedals, pulls a dust cover from a Roland amp, plugs in, briefly consults a digital tuner on the floor and then refines each note by ear. On the other side of the room someone else absent mindedly strums a cheap, unbranded guitar plugged in to a borrowed amp and chats to the bassist. Somewhere in the middle the drummer puts together his kit with a precision that tells of countless hours placing snares, toms and cymbals, whilst the singer paces, nothing to do.

The drummer signals that he’s almost done and one of the guitarists – the one that isn’t holding his instrument like it’s about to bite him – suggests starting with “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door”. The band are booked to play The Chem Soc Ball and, by way of warm up, have persuaded the social committee at their halls of residence to let them play the hall bar. A set list, largely featuring songs with no more than three chords, has been agreed and this Dylan song, albeit the at-the-time current Guns ‘N Roses version, is on it.

The opening bars of the song ring out into the room, the guitarist picking nonchalantly. A certain tension rests across the remainder of the room – they’ve never played together before, never even heard the drummer, are supposed to be performing publically in a couple of days, and then at a function where people have paid for the privilege of attending. A set of circumstances built on a fair amount of bullshit, an object lesson in how far a lot of front can take you. All of it crystallising in this moment – if they can’t run through a mid tempo, three chord Dylan song then the exercise will surely be exposed for the sham that it is ?

The drummer makes a final adjustment to his snare, sits down on his stool, twirls a stick between his fingers and, four bars in, effortlessly plays a run round his kit before everyone comes crashing in to the first verse. Perfectly on time and in tune. Everyone exhales, looks at each other and grins. Music. They might actually get away with this.

Chorus 

The bar at Beaumont Hall is packed. A night’s free entertainment, curiosity value, friendship – whatever the reasons, they had come. It’s hot, the warm evening air ratcheted up several degrees by the mass of bodies. Drink flows liberally and the mood is exuberant, expectant. A receptive home crowd.

Five people detach themselves from the throng and move to the end of the room where instruments are already arranged. The same spot where, two short weeks ago, they’d first come together to play. No stage, just an area for the band demarcated by a line of microphone stands.

The crowd are appreciative before they even hear a note, a cheer erupting at the sight of guitars being slung over shoulders and the crackle of leads pushed into amplifiers. The band pause, look at each other, exchange nods of affirmation and it begins. Thirty breathless, blurred minutes, and eight songs, later it ends – all they had time to learn. They’re not allowed to get away so easily, the audience demanding more. So they play the entire set again, grinning at each other, at this thing they’ve started.

Verse two 

Late Autumn, eighteen months on from that first gig, and the five members of The Muppets crowd round a sound engineer in a run down studio in the centre of Leicester. He pushes faders up and down on the mixing desk in front of him, removes his headphones, spins in his chair and looks up at the band: “what’s next ?”

They’ve been there all day having scraped together the cash between them to book out the space and record some songs: their songs. There’s only time to get down four songs, the playback of each one painfully highlighting each mistake, each chord out of time, each dropped note, in a way that’s usually covered up in the immediacy of a live performance. It’s a sobering, painstaking experience but they persevere, repeating takes, over dubbing – trying to make the best document they can.

At the close of the day they leave – a solitary cassette containing four tunes the only tangible reward for their efforts but all flushed with the deep satisfaction at having created something new.

Chorus 

The band on stage at Stamford Hall is the same one that started out across the road in Beaumont two years ago. The same but different. Better. The rhythm guitarist now at least looks as if he’s on speaking terms with his guitar. The bass and drums play as a unit, each song not necessarily gathering unwanted pace as it goes but staying in tempo. The lead guitarist still doesn’t realise quite how good he is, knocking out dexterous solos almost casually, and the singer now looks comfortable and confident on stage. They’re tighter musically but more relaxed performing.

The audience is bigger and pulled from a broader constituency than their own circle; still a student crowd but now drawn by word of mouth and reputation. They’re no less engaged for it and, by the end of the set, most of the room is up, dancing.

The University film society are here, recording the gig for posterity – freezing in time the band at their high point. Freezing in time the impetuosity to start something from scratch, the commitment to actually carry it through, and the time to turn it into something good. And, yes, also freezing in time some misguided leather trousers, a waistcoat that’s since gone on to a successful solo career touring with Mumford & Sons, and some of the worst hair ever grown on a human head. Mostly though freezing in time one of many fun, joyful nights playing music.

Bridge 

The Muppets played a big part in almost three years of my life; I can remember rather more about the hours of rehearsal and playing than I can about, say, Jean Jacques Rousseau or any of the other great political philosophers that made up my degree course. Think I was more of a John Locke kind of guy.

There are numerous fragments that still raise a smile over twenty years later. Our very first rehearsal was marked with absurdity; as we practiced “Rain” (The Cult) the refrain in the chorus “here comes the rain” caused an elderly couple, outside browsing the Botanical Gardens, to pause at the window, peer in, raise their palms upwards and frown in enquiry. We once played someone’s 21st in London, Richie broke a string on both his guitars mid set, and so the rest of us had to try and fill whilst he repaired the damage – cue the single biggest crime against the blues ever perpetrated as we launched into an impromptu jam. I knew nothing, not even a simple scale, a semi-quaver might as well have been a crisp that failed the quality assurance process at the Walkers factory, so my response to being told that we were going to jam in D was to just play a D chord over and over and over…

There was a regular event at the University for student bands to play – the Old Coffee Bar Club. Periodically it would host covers night which marked a couple of our finer hours as we always flung ourselves into the spirit of it, picking one band, learning a few of their songs and then trying to dress up like them. The Stones were fairly straight forward (“Jumping Jack Flash”, “Sympathy For The Devil”, “Wild Horses”, “ You Can’t Always Get What You Want”) and gave us an excuse to break out a nice line in 60s wigs; presumably I was Brian Jones. Better was Take That (“Only Takes A Minute”, “Take That & Party”, “Could It Be Magic”) where our efforts extended to a couple of brief pieces of choreography and waistcoats over bare (frankly pretty pasty) torsos; presumably I was Jason Orange.

All of those songs, including the Take That ones, stayed in our growing set. By the end we covered a fairly broad range from Seal’s “Crazy” to The Cult’s “She Sells Sanctuary” by way of perennial crowd pleasers – EMF’s “Unbelievable” and the Black Crowes’ take on “Hard To Handle” – through to some slightly more esoteric choices that we liked – The Doors’ “Maggie M’Gill” and JJ Cale’s “After Midnight”. Along the way we lost Bon Jovi’s “Keep The Faith” (top note in chorus too high), Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” (very difficult to play tight), and, due to various disagreements, never quite got round to adding Sister Sledge’s “Lost In Music”, REM’s “Losing My Religion”, or Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. On top of which we’d fashioned about ten of our songs which stood up pretty well – even usually closing with the epic “Boy I’m So Glad (I’m Not You)”, a slow burner that borrowed a bit structurally (okay, quite a bit) from “Freebird”.

Song choices were probably the biggest source of argument in the band as everyone had diverse tastes. They were also a source of tension in that, sometimes, there were songs we couldn’t do due to my lack of technical ability. The most notable instance being Lenny Kravitz’s “Are You Gonna Go My Way”. It’s a pretty simple riff but still too complicated for me and so, despite everyone else firmly believing it would go down a storm, we didn’t do it. This only became problematic when we played a “Battle of the Bands” at one of the halls of residence. By this point we had long since left living in halls and so turned up without an audience full of our friends, albeit with a reputation for being pretty good. First band on were clearly at the point in their group’s life cycle that we’d been at earlier in this piece: brand new, enthusiasm to burn, and a room stocked full of their mates. They opened with sodding “Are You Gonna Go My Way” and the place went berserk. “Battle of the Bands” was declared an unsatisfactory draw. Maybe we pinched it on away goals but it felt like defeat.

And the long mooted name change ? It was discussed many, many times – endless suggestions that not everybody could agree on. As an example, Phil suggested “Seahorse” (him: “it’s exotic and mysterious”, me: “it’s shit”) which was largely ridiculed only for John Squire to name his post Roses band The Seahorses a couple of years later. I was right though, dreadful name for a band. The closest we came to changing was to “The Big Bush Experience” – which I guess we (wrongly) thought was just the right side of cheeky innuendo without being puerile. It only lasted one gig as everyone just kept asking us when we were changing back and referred to as The Muppets regardless. So it stuck.

Final Chorus

The posters outside the Princess Charlotte (don’t look for it, it’s not there anymore) proclaim “local showcase”: bottom of the bill, The Muppets. The posters inside the Charlotte, promoting gigs long since past, whisper the promise of this venue, a roll call of bands that have made it in the last twenty years: Radiohead, Pulp, The Stone Roses, Oasis, Blur, The Killers, Primal Scream, Muse, and the Manics. It might be a spit and sawdust pub in the East Midlands serving up lukewarm beer in plastic glasses but it represents the one thing that drives all aspiring bands: hope.

The bands to be showcased loiter in the back-stage room, all feigning an air of cool detachment, like none of this matters, like it’s something that they do all the time. But it’s all artifice, all a little too studied to be real. There’s palpable nerves all round.

Being bottom of the bill offers only one advantage: you play first. The Muppets have been allocated 15 minutes and four songs but, staying true to the grandest traditions, stretch this out by tacking two songs together and closing with something that goes on for about 7 minutes. In all they probably manage 25 minutes before bowing out, reacting with innocent surprise to the annoyance of the proceeding acts.

The audience reaction is good, if a little less enthusiastic than they’ve become used to. This isn’t solely their crowd. It’s a shift from known student band playing to other students, often at events involving large amounts of booze, to unknown local band playing to paying gig goers. It’s a shift that reveals what’s involved in really trying to make it – the days and days of rehearsing, the relentless slog round pubs and clubs begging to perform, then playing to tiny rooms of people, hoping eventually to build a following. It’s a shift that they never made.

Outro

–        We’ve been thinking about the band next year…

–        Great, good – we have too.

–        Yeah, well it’s a bit awkward, but we’re thinking of staying in Leicester and carrying it on. Only…

–        I think we’re thinking the same sorts of things…

–        …only, we’d like to move on in a different direction. Andy wants to play guitar, there’s some other stuff we want to try… More blues based. Walking bass lines. That sort of thing.

–        So what are you saying ?

–        We think it’d be better if we call it a day with the current line up. I mean, Alex is still going to drum, and Phil, if you want to play bass then that might still work…

–        But you’re kicking me out ?

–        Ah, don’t take it like that, it’s time to change – it’s time to do something else. You’re in to different stuff anyway…

–        Is this because of that fucking Lenny Kravitz song… ?

Coda

It wasn’t really about that fucking Lenny Kravitz song. In part, though, it was a reflection (a fair reflection to be honest) on relative technical ability in the band – I couldn’t play to the standard of the others.

To his eternal credit Phil never took up the offer to remain in the band. It was essentially our friendship (and his incredible drive and ridiculous ability to get people to do things that, rationally, made no sense for them to do) that had started the whole thing and our solidarity stood fast to the end. Continues to do so to this day.

The Muppets mark 2 – I genuinely forget what they re-christened themselves – did carry on for a while in Leicester. I saw them play at a pub on new year’s eve, I guess 1994/5, and it was a strange, sad experience watching Andy, Rich, Alex, and some new bassist (who, yes, did indeed play a lot of walking bass lines) run through a lot of our old set. Still no Kravitz though.

However, my abiding memory of those couple of years isn’t one of sadness for what might have been but one of real pride in what we did – it might not seem like much in the scheme of things but we recorded a bunch of our own songs, played to a lot of happy people, and shared a lot of great moments. Some of which – lost in a song on stage, watching the reaction of the audience, seeing people respond to something you’re creating – are amongst the happiest of my life.