forty-three

A few months earlier we would have been appalled at the idea of playing with synthesisers and drum machines. But, having spent over a year struggling to rebuild the band after Stewy's spectacular departure, the possibility of being able to perform without a drummer or bass player was suddenly extremely attractive. So, we formed a completely new kind of group, with me on vocals, Tony on guitar and Dave and his magic boxes.

These days you can walk into the average high street music store and buy an off-the-shelf digital keyboard (what they call a workstation) that is able to do everything that Dave's numerous gadgets did and more. However, back then, all the components (i.e., the keyboards, the midi interface, the sequencer, the drum machine, etc) were separate and had to be linked together by a complicated series of input and output wires that enabled you to make sure everything played at the same tempo.

Dave used three drum machines (two at any one time), an SH 101 monophonic synthesiser, an Emulator polyphonic keyboard, a Yamaha sequencer, a Roland limiter (which compressed the sound of yet another keyboard, which was linked to yet another small drum machine, allowing chords to be played to a pre-programmed rhythm) and an old Moog. He also had a four-track, an early Fostex, with which he would record direct from the output of his hi-fi amp (on the rare occasions that he got everything working together at the same time).

Despite numerous technical hitches, we did manage to play live a couple of times. The first gig was at a party one summer evening. It was probably the best gig I've ever done, even though we were just performing in the corner of someone's living room to a backing tape - Tony on guitar, Dave miming over his monophonic keyboard, and me dancing round the room with the microphone, a small yucca plant and about fifty pissed and/or stoned party people. When we'd finished our set this bloke came up and shook me by the hand.

"You were brilliant, mate," he said. "I could hear you outside, and I thought, great - someone's put some decent music on for a change. I couldn't believe it when I came in and saw you was actually playing in here. You sounded perfect. Just like a record."

It's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.

However, my euphoria was short lived.

The next gig we played was total shit. It was in a village hall, and we were backed by a band that had recently been formed by some schoolkids Tony knew from the music shop. It was meant to be a warm up gig for us before we went on to play bigger and better venues, and a chance for them to try out their songs in public. Technically, the support band weren't that brilliant, but they were very loud and energetic, and they totally and utterly blew us away. When they'd finished, the audience (a good couple of hundred people) were really buzzing. When we came on with our tinny backing cassette and pop songs everyone went to the pub across the road.

Following that fiasco, we vowed never ever to play live without a real drummer again and also to go into a decent recording studio and make a proper backing tape. The opportunity to do so came up quite unexpectedly.

Just outside Westing, there was a professional studio where 'real' bands recorded 'real albums.' Although, occasionally some megastar would drop into the studio, it was mostly used by new bands making their first demo and a variety of fairly obscure folk groups. Generally the studio already had everything those musicians might need, but sometimes when one of the bands wanted something in a hurry - an extra microphone lead, a certain brand of bass flanger, a spare strap or something - they would call up Andy's Music and Damien would rush it out to them in the van.

As a result, Tony had become quite friendly with a couple of the sound engineers from the studio (who, like everyone else, were impressed by his guitar playing and his technical knowledge). And when he mentioned to them that we were looking for a proper studio to record in and wondered if they could 'recommend' anywhere, they had (to our delight) unexpectedly invited us to go down one weekend to try out the studio for free.

I was quite looking forward to visiting the studio, but not nearly as much as Tony and Dave who had become recording crazy. The two of them would spend hours together in that pine-clad room labouring over drum machines, adjusting the wave forms on sequencers and shit like that. At first I did try to join in with their sessions, but I never really got to grips with the technical intricacies of what they were doing, and basically just used to get in the way. In the end, they decided they would work out the music by themselves and then call me into do the vocals, as and when required.

I didn't mind too much. Tony and Dave were two of a kind. They liked to know how things worked, whereas I just liked using things. If something worked, I used it. If I didn't work, I got someone else to fix it or trashed it. I was never like them, reading the instruction manual from cover to cover, taking things apart and figuring out what went on inside them.

I didn't feel particularly jealous that Dave and Tony spent so much time together (although I did sometimes get the feeling that Tony was getting his revenge for all those evenings he had spent excluded from the rehearsal room as me and the white rastas smoked ourselves silly on those super-strength spliffs). However, I did find I suddenly had quite a lot of spare time on my hands. And (by inertia rather than intention) I became quite friendly with Stewy again.

It had been quite awkward for a while after the band split up, sharing the house with Stewy. It felt a bit like being a divorced couple still living together. There hadn't been any bitter fight for the custody of leads, microphones or that PA amp we'd all chipped in for. And there was no real animosity between us (at least, not once his ribs and my fractured cheek bone had healed up). However, in the past our conversations had always revolved around music. And telling him about how the band was going after he'd left, seemed rather like talking about your new girlfriend in front of your previous one (or vice versa). So, as much as I could, I kept out of his way.

Fortunately, after the band had split up, Shaz had moved in with us and Stewy spent most of his time with her. And as I wasn't seeing Debbie anymore, I was out practically every night drowning my sorrows anywhere within walking distance that sold alcohol and had a pool table. Therefore me and Stewy only met occasionally, and when we did it was generally to discuss whether or not the electricity bill had come or whether either of us had remembered to give Flip and Flop their Kitzymes (generally, both of us had, but - having grown quite large - the cats didn't seem to mind their regular vitamin overdoses).

After Shaz had been staying at our place for a few weeks, she got a job as a waitress in the restaurant of a nearby hotel. She used to have to wear a black skirt and white blouse. The blouse was so flimsy, you could see the lacy edge of her bra through it. On cold evenings her nipples would threaten to tear through the fabric, drawing your gaze to her hypnotically impressive breasts (which is the kind of thing you start to notice when you haven't had a shag for a few weeks).

For work, Shaz had to take out all but two of her earrings. Sometimes, when she was in a hurry, you would find a row of them on the edge of the sink in the bathroom, like a set of dollshouse curtain rings. Occasionally when I was alone in the house with Shaz, I was attempted to casually return the earrings to her, just as an excuse to chat her up. But I don't think she was the least bit interested in me and, besides, Stewy would undoubtedly have killed me had I lured his beloved into any extracurricular activity.

Sometimes, when Shaz was out working, I would find myself alone in the house with Stewy. Generally we'd watch TV together, but if there wasn't anything decent on I'd go up to my room and strum my guitar. One evening, I plucked up courage to ask him whether he fancied a jam. In order to ease any lingering bad feeling between us, I joked that I had all but been thrown out of the band myself. But Stewy seemed to take the comment quite seriously, nodding in sombre sympathy as he tuned up his twelve string.

I have to admit that I did start to feel slightly worried about the amount of time that Tony was spending with David. But, I was also quite pleased to be freed from the rigours of regular rehearsals. It was quite good fun jamming with Stewy the way me and Tony used to. It reminded me of how much fun it had been in the old days when we all used to just muck around together. I even thought of inviting Stewy to rejoin the band, but I don't think Tony or Dave would have been that keen (they hardly used guitars anymore, anyway, let alone bass or anything). I thought maybe I could start up another band with Stewy, but there wasn't really the time and besides, reforming the band after his demonstrative departure, would have felt like having a fling with your wife after the divorce.

I don't know why I keep using this divorce analogy. I've never even been married (although it sometimes certainly feels like it). I guess it must be all those Curtis Cline songs I'm always listening to. Most of his lyrics seem to be about divorce and/or suicide. In an interview, someone once asked Curtis why he didn't write some happier songs. "Well," he said, "they say the only two things worth writing about are love and death. I guess if divorce is the 'death of love' and suicide is the 'love of death,' I must be writing some pretty worthwhile songs."

The person who was writing the article (mistaking sarcasm for philosophy) used the explanation as the basis for a two-page analysis of Curtis's tortured psyche. It's strange. Curtis was always portrayed in the media as this really deep and gloomy guy. But, in reality, he turned out to be one of the most flippant and fun loving people I've ever met....