forty-one

After Stewy's untimely departure, Barry (who'd never quite recovered from the Hind's Head fiasco) also quit the band. And during the subsequent months we went through nearly as many bass players, guitarists and drummers as I did girlfriends.

Initially, we decided to recruit would-be band members from the hundreds of hand-written cards displayed in the front window of the music shop. Me and Tony also agreed that we might consider joining an established band, if the right opportunity arose. However, although many of the available musicians and bands sounded very promising, they never turned out to be quite what they claimed....

Shit hot guitarist seeks band into Velvets, Iggy, NY Dolls, Pretty Things, Zeppelin, etc (I am painfully thin and insist on wearing make-up on stage but have just about mastered that guitar solo at the end of Whole Lotta Love); Vocalist wanted, looks and voice of Jim Morrison, for pro band with management and major label interest, no time wasters (we are a sixties cover band and this mate of ours, whose cousin works in the accounts department at Thorn EMI, says he'll pay us fifty quid to play at his stepsister's wedding if we can find ourselves a decent singer); Band urgently seeks reliable bass player, transport & own gear essential, gigs pending (we've got a gig lined up this Saturday at the Hind's Head and our bass player, who normally does the driving, has gone to visit his girlfriend in Edinburgh).

After a few weeks of futile auditions, we decided to take a more direct approach (i.e., I delegated all band member finding duties to Tony, who would ask any half decent musician who came into the shop whether they fancied joining us.) However, we soon discovered it was very difficult just from looking at somebody and listening to them fooling around on a guitar for a few minutes, to predict how well they might fit into the band. In my experience, as a general rule, the more trendy and good looking someone is the less able they are to stay in tune or time (although, I must admit, my judgement in this matter may be somewhat clouded by the fact that I'm a bit of a Mr Potato-Head myself). Tony tended to adopt the seemingly more logical stance that the more expensive and sophisticated someone's gear is, the more serious they probably are about playing. However, although this sounds good in theory, in practice it never quite seems to work that way. Take Mark and Martin, for example.

Mark, a bass player, and Martin, a drummer (who joined us a short time after Stewy and Barry had quit the band) both had really good gear. Martin had two bass drums and a complete set of those really small tom toms, which sprouted on stunted metal branches from his numerous cymbal stands. Martin was a bit of a poser, but he paled into significance when compared to Mark.

For starters, Mark drove a scarlet Opal Manta GTi (you know the one that resembles an old style Cavalier with spotlights, a spoiler and flared wheel arches). As far as I know he wasn't particularly rich, but he always wore really expensive designer casuals, and was always going on about how much his hi-fi speakers had cost him and that kind of shit. However he could play OK and did own a really nice Trace Elliott bass amp with four speakers and a twelve-band graphic equaliser, which was the business. I remember Tony once played my Telecaster through it without any effects or anything (except for a touch of reverb). And it sounded just beautiful, really mellow and jazzy.

Along with his flashy amp, car and clothes, Mark had hordes of flashy mates who would turn up to rehearsals, all hair cuts and designer labels, clutching bottles of expensive lager and accompanied by a succession of intimidatingly sexy young ladies. I guess they weren't really that sexy, but they certainly seemed that way (the girls we generally hung out with being more into oil paints and baggy jumpers than lip gloss and tight jeans).

When his entourage arrived, Mark would invariably turn his amp up and lean against the wall, a fag lodged, smouldering, between the strings on the headstock of his limited edition Ibanez, and start adding a lot of improvised slap base to our songs (which annoyed the hell out of Tony but didn't bother me as I was far too busy leering at the flock of page three lookalikes that seemed to follow Mark around).

We played our first and last gig with Mark and Martin about three months after they'd joined the band. By that time they'd pretty much learned all the songs and, although we didn't have anything like the togetherness we'd shared with Stewy, we sounded OK. We'd never really intended to play so soon after our reformation, but Freeloader's management had lined up another band called 'After the Rain' (which was the kind of stupid name Indie guitar combo's favoured in the late eighties) to play at the Asylum, and had specifically asked Damien if we could support them (apparently as they'd been impressed by our large local following). Actually most of our 'fans' had been mates of Stewy and his brother's (who obviously no longer had any real loyalty to the band) but that didn't bother us as we were getting a flat fifty each for a half hour set.

I was fairly confident that if we played at the gig like we had in the rehearsal room, week after week, everything would turn out OK, but of course I hadn't accounted for the gremlin that was to rear it's ugly head the moment we set up on stage that Saturday afternoon.

Over the years, starting from our very first ill-fated performance in that assembly at Manor Park, the band had suffered at the hands of a succession of gremlins, those invisible trouble-makers who sucked the energy from batteries in effect's pedals, tipped over cymbals and gnawed through the internal workings of microphones, the moment you walked on stage. But never before had I come across a gremlin which manifested itself in human form - Mark, the bass player from hell.

I'd always known that Mark was a bit of flash git. But I'd never realised, until we started to set up for that gig, just what an arrogant, small-minded wanker he truly was. In the past, we'd always been happy to let Tony manage the setting up of our gear on stage. He was always so organised with his carefully coiled cables, lists and diagrams and his uncanny ability to 'paint pictures with sound.'

I don't know if Mark got over excited by the gig or whether, because he was older and richer than us, he assumed it was his prerogative to take charge of proceedings. But either way, the moment we'd arrived at the Asylum, he started telling us what order we were going to play the songs in and where everyone was going to stand, and (worst of all) he even started fiddling with the levels on the mixing desk.

Now, Tony has never been a violent person, but I think he came very close to hitting Mark that afternoon. They were still arguing when the time came for 'After the Rain's' sound check, and we were booted off stage before we'd had a chance to set up properly. As a result the sound was appalling.

I'd never seen Tony in such a bad mood as he was during that gig, the scowl lines across his normally smooth brow deepening through each awful song. And it was the only occasion I ever saw him give in, strumming his guitar more and more feebly every time Mark turned his base amp up. For some reason, as Tony's guitar playing died quietly on the corner of the stage, Martin's drumming became less and less confident.

Maybe it was nerves or maybe it was because he'd always taken his cues from Tony's guitar, but as the gig went on Martin seemed to become more and more unsure of himself, stumbling through the songs, slowing down and speeding up as we reached each new verse or chorus (and sometimes in between).

After the gig, as we stood at the bar and Damien handed us our fifty quid, Tony just shoved the notes into an empty glass, nodded his head towards Mark, and muttering dryly, "The drinks are on him."

"What did you do that for?" snapped Mark, who'd up until then been all smiles (apparently oblivious to how crap we'd sounded). He plucked the beer dampened-notes from the glass and glared at Tony (obviously outraged that anyone should treat hard cash with such wilful negligence).

But Tony didn't say anything. He just turned and walked off, as Mark's entourage queued up for their bottled lagers and Bacardi and cokes, leaving me to play the part of diplomat, smiling, tight-lipped, hands raised, as if I didn't know what the hell was up with him, whilst poor old Martin was left to disconsolately shift all his cymbals and numerous miniature tom toms off stage alone.

That week in the Westing Chronicle, Adam Lovell (a young reporter who'd in the past been unerringly complementary and supportive of the band) really laid into us, saying that we were 'an insipid starter for 'After the Rain' (who he described as a mouth-watering banquet of rich melody and sumptuous harmonies). His whole article had a culinary theme to it. He compared our new sound to eating in a highly recommended restaurant only to be dished up with soggy prawns, swimming in a weak and rancid mayonnaise on a limp, brown lettuce leaf.

I was incensed by what Adam had written, calling him (as I recall) a two-faced cunt who would end up in intensive care the next time I saw him 'prancing down the street with his stupid fucking notebook and crap jacket.' Tony was upset as well but convinced me in the end that what Adam had written, was quite an accurate assessment of how we'd performed, and suggested that he was probably as disappointed as we were about how abysmal we'd been. And of course, as always, Tony was right.

The band broke up after that for a few weeks until by chance, at a party in Battle Street, we met a couple of white rasta's, Chris and Jimmy, who, through a cloud of aromatic smoke, assured us that they played bass and drums just like Sly and Robbie (bass players and drummers always seem to come in pairs like that, like salt and pepper, Morecambe and Wise, home brew and headaches).

We did actually meet up with Chris and Jimmy at the rehearsal rooms a few times, with the intention of writing some new material. However all we ever ended up doing was smoking super strength spliffs (of which, despite their apparent poverty, Chris and Jimmy seemed to have an infinite supply). Then we'd play a bit of improvised bluesy, psychedelic reggae, hallucinate wildly, keel over and float home (all except Tony, who not caring to indulge in that kind of thing, complained that he couldn't breathe and stood outside sulking the whole evening).

I used to quite enjoy playing with Chris and Jimmy, but Tony persuaded me that I'd never get anywhere with them, even though they were really good, because they were so out of their heads the whole time. Ironically they are now in a band called Interstella that has been on the front page of NME, played Glastonbury a couple of times, had about five albums out, and sounds just like we did when we jammed together all those years ago (as Morissey sang, 'don't we just hate it when our friends are successful!')

After a further series of disappointing auditions, we decided (or rather Tony decided) that I should play bass and that we should get Barry to rejoin the band. After a few hours of flattery and free pints in the Hind's Head one night, Tony persuaded us both to agree to the idea and we reformed the band as a trio.

As I was finding it hard to play bass and sing at the same time, we briefly considered getting a new singer (which I didn't mind as I'd never really wanted to sing in the first place). Barry knew this girl who'd been in musicals and stuff and had singing lessons. She was very pretty and seemed quite promising until she opened her mouth (as Tony put it, I hope her singing teacher gave her a refund). After trying out a couple more totally tone-deaf no-hopers we gave up that idea. We decided in the end that I could probably get away with singing and playing base if we could find ourselves another guitarist to add a bit more oomph to the sound.

Seeing as there always seem to be about ten times as many guitarists as base players or drummers looking for a band to play with, we didn't think it would be that difficult to find someone. However, as per bloody usual, although there were indeed hundreds of guitarists about there always seemed to be some reason why they just weren't suitable. Take Dan for example. He was guitar crazy. The walls of his house (a three bed semi with central heating and garage in a posh estate on the east side of Westing) were literally lined with Rickenbackers, Strats, Yamahas and Gibsons. He had hundreds of books on rock stars and guitar playing and a stack of digital effects. And he could play brilliantly. Even Tony was impressed.

Dan really like our demo tape and said, sure he'd love to play with us. And we thought, great, this is the man we've been looking for. But, of course, it was all too good to be true. The first time he rang us on his mobile phone, saying that he wouldn't be able to make the rehearsal because he'd had to go to a meeting in Manchester, we were disappointed but not overly concerned. The fourth time it happened we decided to find ourselves another guitarist.

I have met some real fret wankers in my time (and I freely admit that, given half a chance, I'm rather prone to performing overly indulgent guitar solos myself) but I have to say, Ian Hopkins took the six-stringed hand shandy to almost surreal extremes.

I should have known from the first moment I met him - with his little blonde moustache, Status Quo denims and his futuristic, battle axe-shaped guitar - that he was not really the man for us. But I'd been assured by Chris and Jimmy (the two dreadlocked dope fiends who I still kept in touch with for various reasons) that Ian was a brilliant player. So, being desperate, we thought we'd give him a go.

Technically, Ian, was indeed a total master of his instrument. Unfortunately, he was also (as I have inferred) a total masturbater of his instrument. He completely failed to understand that the mark of a great guitarist is not simply what he (or she - with respect to Bonny Rait) is able to play, but also what he (or she) chooses not to play. As Tony never tired of telling me, 'music is not just a continuous series of notes - it is a series of notes with gaps in between and those spaces are every bit as important as (if not more important than) the notes themselves.' But when Tony tried to explain that to Ian, he just nodded and said, 'sure man,' and proceeded to tell us all about his latest pedal, the 'Metal Maniac Mk III', which he proudly informed us generated greater levels of 'screechin and that' than any other effect on the market.

For a couple of weeks after Ian had joined us, we put up with his over-the-top playing, assuming that he was just showing off (playing his guitar the way people tend to drive when they've just got a new car). We thought he might mellow out perhaps as time went by. But it was not to be. If anything, Ian actually got worse week by week, edging up the volume on his amp and adding yet another effect to his collection (his pedals hooked together by a series of short leads like the coloured carriages of a kid's toy train).

It might have been all right if he'd used the effects more sparingly, but by the end of every song, the power lights would all be on, a dozen devilish red eyes glaring angrily up at us, as Ian spread his legs and leaned his head back, white-knuckled, eyes shut, teeth clenched, (bearing more than a passing resemblance to that bloke out of Spinal Tap who has a customised Marshall top with a volume knob that goes up to eleven instead of ten). Christ, the wrist cramps he must have suffered from.

The final straw came when Ian started bringing his girlfriend, Joanne, along to the practice rooms. After the fiasco with Mark and Martin we'd decided to ban any hangers-on from our weekly get togethers. But as Joanne seemed shy and quiet we didn't make a fuss about it. However, after a couple of weeks it became apparent that Joanne wasn't shy at all. She just didn't speak to us because, for some reason, she didn't really seem to like us. We didn't take it personally, because she treated Ian like a piece of shit, and he was supposed to be her boyfriend.

We could never really work out why Joanne bothered coming to our rehearsals. From the look of distaste on her face (like a bulldog chewing a nettle) every time we finished a song, it was obvious that she thought we were shit. What's worse, even though we'd booked the rehearsal rooms until eleven she never let Ian stay later than half-past-nine, insisting that there was some reason that he had to go home to fix a switch or to help her tidy up because her parents were coming round in the morning or some shit like that.

Any self-respecting bloke would have just told her to fuck off and do her own bloody tidying up, but Ian was a total carpet-case and let her tread all over him. Now, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with men doing a bit of cooking and cleaning and that, but he was like her fucking dog (except most people would treat a dog a lot better than the way she treated him). Suffice to say, soon afterwards they got engaged and he left the band. I never really saw Ian much after his wedding reception to which we were unsurprisingly not invited. We gate-crashed anyway (partly to wind his girlfriend/wife up, but mainly because Ian - despite his penchant for over indulgent guitar solos, which perhaps I have slightly exaggerated - was a really good bloke).

A few months ago, there was this programme on BBC 2 about these British blokes who'd had no military training but fancied themselves as mercenaries and had gone to fight for the Croatian or Bosnians or whoever in the former Yugoslavia. And I swear, although I'd not seen him for years and they never actually interviewed him, that Ian was one of those amateur soldiers. Tony reckoned that Ian was still living in Derby, where he'd moved a couple of years after he got married. But I'd swear it was him sitting in a combat jacket and a pair of dirty Wranglers in the kitchen of a partially ruined farmhouse, nervously spinning a spent rifle cartridge between his fingers. I wouldn't be surprised if it was him. If I'd have been married to that god-awful Joanne for a few months, I'd have felt like running away to fight in the former Yugoslavia. All I can say is that I hope he handled a gun with more restraint than he did a guitar, otherwise God help anyone who got in his way.