twenty-six

Before I play live I always get totally wound up with nerves. It starts as a nagging restlessness and eventually develops into a head-spinning, bowel-loosening panic. But somewhere in between I do experience a moment of utmost calm, a gentle anticipation akin to the aura of an early adolescent liaison, whereupon sitting close to a girl you feel the warmth of blossoming breasts brush against your sleeve and are filled with a glow of sensual pleasure so consuming it seems as if time has stopped.

On the day of our gig at Westing College, after a morning of endlessly re-tuning guitars and running up and down stairs, those moments of calmness finally came to me at about three in the afternoon. Me and Tony were sprawled in the living room of my mum and dad's house watching a Second World War film called In Unfriendly Skies. World of Sport was on the other side but it was horse racing, which neither of us liked and mum wouldn't have let us watch even if we wanted to.

She disapproved of gambling and hated the way the horses spewed saliva as they champed their bits and the way their flanks foamed with sweat after a race. It wasn't that she thought racing to be particularly cruel, she merely disliked the messiness of it all (although she was outraged when some fine young filly fell over a fence and had to be destroyed - she thought it was the bookies that should be put down).

In Unfriendly Skies was about an American GI, Ricky, and his English girlfriend, Jennifer. Ricky was a gunner in some kind of bomber (an American plane a bit like a Lancaster but with a more bulbous nose). He was actually quite an annoying character and, to tell you the truth, when his plane crashed and he got both his arms blown off, I wasn't that sorry.

However, I did become more sympathetic when he went back up in the bomber, took his flying boots off and started shooting down Messerschmitts with his feet (it's hard to dislike someone who shows such dedication to killing Nazis even if they do chew gum in an irritating fashion).

After the film had finished we went upstairs to discuss for the thousandth time what clothes we were going to wear for the gig. We'd briefly considered some kind of band uniform ranging from a couple of sixties suits, which we'd spotted in the Save The Children shop, to Status Quo style jeans and white T-shirts. We'd even considered (very, very briefly) wearing some of the psychedelic gear we'd proudly adorned ourselves with a couple of years earlier during our long hair and joss sticks phase.

But, in the end, we just decided to be ourselves, me in a pair of taken-in Oxfam slacks, baseball boots and a cap-sleeve black T-shirt and braces, and Tony in easy-fit black jeans, brown Doc Marten shoes and a denim shirt. I toyed for a while with the idea of a fake tattoo, but decided against it (I tended to get sweaty on stage and didn't want to look stupid when the tattoo melted).

When we got back downstairs, dad had just arrived back from a session at the driving range with Brian Phillips (the man with the two wives, three girlfriends, four kids, etc, etc, etc). Dad was in an unusually jovial mood. I guessed he'd manage to hit a couple of balls straight and maybe even one or two above knee height.

"All right chaps?" he said (an expression he'd picked up from Brian). "Looking forward to the show?"

I stared blankly at him.

"Oh, the gig. Yea, I suppose so."

"So what time does it all kick off tonight then?" asked Dad.

"It's not a bloody football match," I muttered, whilst Tony politely explained that we were sound checking at half four.

"Sound checking?" said Dad. "Hmm, it all sounds very professional."

"Yea," I said stroppily.

"Don't mind him Mr Sharpe," said Tony. "He's just a bit nervous"

"No I'm bloody not," I said, curled up on the sofa like a spring. My Dad and Tony both laughed.

"Well," I said. "Nerves are good for you. In that Curtis Cline interview in the NME he said he was always nervous before he went on stage. He said he'd be worried if he wasn't nervous."

"What time does the performance start?" asked Dad.

"Don't know," I said.

"About half eight," said Tony. "We're on first then Blue Murder come on at about ten."

"Well I might come down and have a listen," said Dad "It's been years since I've been to a - what did you call it? - a gig. Oh, not since the seventies - nineteen seventy-one it must have been."

"You went to a gig?" I said. I found it hard to imagine dad in flares and a flowery kaftan jitterbugging the night away.

"Yes. We went with some of your mother's ladies from that course she did. You're probably too young to remember. It was when we were still living in Hinton Court"

"No, I do remember," I said," the beauticians course, the one she used to have that polystyrene head for and the blonde wig."

"Yes, that's right," Dad nodded. "You and John used to fight all the time over who would get to wear it."

"Well I was only about three," I explained.

Tony smirked.

Dad scratched his head.

"Now what was the name of that band we saw? It was at the Regal Club, where the bingo hall is now."

"Really," I said. "Did they used to have bands on there?"

"Oh all the time in the sixties; the Rolling Stones, the something-or-other-elses. Now who's that one you like, the guitarist with the frizzy hair?...Johnny...uhmm...Jimi... uhmm...Jimi Hendrix that's it. Yes, I went to see him at the Regal. He played some quite good jazz at one point. Although he was very loud and most peculiar looking. He had on these very tight green trousers and almost what you might call a sailor's jacket with gold on it. Even at that time he was pretty unorthodox." Tony and I stood staring at him open-mouthed.

"You saw Jimi Hendrix?" I said.

"Oh yes," Dad continued blithely. "Mind you I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Your mother didn't care for him very much either. But she did like one of the other group we went to see a few years earlier, the Little Somethings."

"Little Feat?" said Tony.

"No, not feet," said Dad. "But curiously enough I've got a feeling they were named after some part of the body."

"The little pricks?" I said.

"Now, Peter," said Dad. "Anyway I don't think it was little, as such, but something like that."

"The short arms?" I said. "The tiny noses?"

Tony smirked knowingly.

"The Small Faces," he said.

"Of course," I said. "Trust you, Mr Bloody Encyclopaedia of Rock," as dad nodded furiously.

"Yes that was it," he said. "Small Faces."

"It's The Small Faces," I said, "not just Small Faces."

"Well, either way, your mother liked them. They were pretty loud too, but they always wore very smart suits and had nice hair. It was when she was doing her hairdressing course. I believe, she even had their autographs at one time."

"You're joking," I said.

"Not at all," he smiled, eyes fixed on some distant recollection of mum in a mini skirt and false lashes. "We used to go out quite a lot believe it or not, before you and John came along."

I couldn't believe it.

"How come she hasn't got any records then? If she was such a wild thing?"

"Oh she was never wild," he said, his eyes still glazed, lost in memories of the sixties. "But she did have one or two LPs at one time I seem to remember, but when we moved from Hinton Court...I don't know." He looked puzzled for a moment, similar to the way he looked when he'd just had a new idea for a biscuit design, but couldn't quite get it right. "I think she must have given them away."