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28. Screaming for Vengeance – Gunrunner (del 1)

Chris Morrow, jag och vårt band Gunrunner var förband till Judas Priest, som inte var särskilt stora vid den tiden, 1976, men tillräckligt stora för att jag skulle ha hört talas om dem. Det var en dålig matchning om vi ska vara ärliga. Konserten var på Middlesex Polytechnic strax utanför London, och som vanligt var det Chris som ordnade giget. Det var en av våra största spelningar, men långt ifrån den roligaste vi hade haft. För det första fick vi inte använda Priests sånganläggning, och det var en stor lokal som rymde ett par tusen personer. Vi var tvungna att sätta vår löjliga 100W sånganläggning på scenen framför deras utrustning och använda våra egna mikrofoner. Dessutom mådde min Carlsboro förstärkare dåligt; alltför mycket rök välde fram när jag slog på den. Istället fick jag låna en HH “solid state” förstärkare från keyboardisten Chris Newport. Solid shit, tyckte jag, i alla fall för gitarr, även om den funkade väldigt bra för pianot. Varje ton som jag spelade på min Fender Telecaster dog en snabb, oåterkallelig död och det var ett smärtsamt starkt och hårt ljud. Jag var van vid värmen från min Carlsboro.

Det bådade inte heller gott för den här spelningen när medlemmarna i Judas Priest vägrade låna oss en förstärkare så att vi kunde stämma våra gitarrer innan vi gick in på scenen. Det var bara ovänligt, och det var uppenbart att de inte ville ha något förband alls. Men vi kämpade oss igenom spelningen och det var möjligen 50 personer framför scenen som hörde oss. Längre bak lät det nog bara som irriterande bakgrundsbrus. Vi var också tvungna att mixa oss själva från scenen, vilket inte var idealiskt.

Chris och jag startade bandet i Oxford, som en duo. Vi spelade akustiska gitarrer och sjöng på pubar då och då. Ett år senare, tillbaka i London, tog vi in Chris Newport på keyboard; med en Moog synt, extremt tung Hammondorgel, Lesliehögtalare och Wurlitzer elpiano. Newport hade jag spelat med tidigare och hans utrustning upptog alltid halva scenen. Vi hittade också trummisen Reg Patten i södra London. Han passade bra in och blev kvar genom hela bandets existens. Om scenen var liten så upptog Reg den andra halvan. Basister var alltid ett problem och vi bytte några gånger. Till slut hittade vi en bra kille från Darlington i norra England – Phil Brown med en fin Rickenbackerbas (med Hohner mickar). Phil var senare med i klassiska power popbandet The Records. Han gick tyvärr bort i MS för några år sedan.

  • Jag har alltid önskat mig en Rickenbackerbas. Jag blev kär i den redan när jag såg McCartney använda en i I Am The Walrus, från Magical Mystery Tour. Looken! Sedan spelade Chris Squire på en Rickenbacker  i Yes några år senare. Ljudet! Men ingen har nånsin köpt en åt mig…

Vi spelade med Gunrunner i London i några år och på flera ställen regelbundet. Som Brecknock i Camden, Western Counties i Paddington och Chiltern, som faktiskt finns kvar ovanför tunnelbanestationen Baker Street, ett stenkast från Madame Tussauds. Vid Chiltern bevittnade vi ett stort slagsmål en kväll när vi packade ihop våra grejor. Det måste ha varit 30 personer som pucklade på varandra, inklusive pubägaren. Jag har ingen aning vad det handlade om, men vi i bandet stod bara och tittade på med gapande munnar. Lyckligtvis blev vi helt ignorerade av slagskämparna och trots kaoset minns jag inget blod alls. Det såg mer ut som en repetition för Blues Brothers än en civiliserad pub i centrala London. Screaming for Vengeance kommer från Judas Priests framgångsrika platta med samma namn. Men vi tog faktiskt inte så illa vid oss av deras attityd.

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28. Screaming for Vengeance. Gunrunner (part 1)

The Unicorn, which used to be the Brecknock, Camden, London

Chris Morrow, me and our band Gunrunner supported Judas Priest, who were not quite a major act at the time (1976), though big enough for me to have heard of them. It was a bit of a mismatch too, if we’re being honest. The gig was at Middlesex Polytechnic just outside London and as usual it was Chris who arranged it. It was one of our biggest gigs but not the best fun we’d had. Firstly, we didn’t get to use Judas Priest’s PA and it was a large venue that could hold a couple of thousand people. We had to put our 100W PA on stage in front of their equipment and use our own mics. In addition, my Carlsboro amp was on the blink; far too much smoke poured from it when I turned it on. Instead, I borrowed an HH “solid state” amp from keyboard player Chris Newport. Solid crap I thought, though it was very good for his piano. Every note I played on my Fender Telecaster died a quick, irreversible death and it was painfully loud and harsh. I was used to the warmth from my Carlsboro which gave me plenty of sustain.

Neither did it bode well for this gig when the members of Judas Priest refused to lend us an amp, so we could tune our guitars before we went onstage. That was just unfriendly, and it was obvious that they didn’t want a support at all. But we fought our way through the gig and were heard by maybe 50 people at the front of the stage. Further back it probably just sounded like irritating background noise. We also had to mix the sound ourselves from the stage, which was not exactly ideal.

Chris and I started the band in Oxford, as a duo, where we played acoustic guitars and sang in pubs from time to time. A year later and back in London, we roped in Chris Newport on keyboards, with his Moog synth, extremely heavy Hammond organ, Leslie speaker, and Wurlitzer piano. Newport I had played with previously and he always took up half the stage with his equipment. We found Reg Patten in South London, who fit in well and stayed on as drummer throughout the band’s life. Reg had the other half of the stage if it was a small one. But bassists were always a problem and we had a few. Then we found a good guy from Darlington in the north of England, Phil Brown, with his beautiful Rickenbacker bass (with a Hohner pick-up). Phil went on to join classic power pop band The Records in 1977 and sadly passed away a few years ago.

  • I always wanted a Rickenbacker bass. I fell in love with it when I first saw McCartney play one in I Am The Walrus from Magical Mystery Tour. The look! Then Chris Squire had one in Yes a few years later. The sound! But nobody ever bought me one. 

We gigged around London for a few years and there were several places we played regularly, such as the Brecknock in Camden, the Western Counties in Paddington and the Chiltern, still located above Baker Street tube station, a stone’s throw from Madame Tussauds. At the Chiltern we witnessed a huge fight one evening when we were packing our gear. There must have been at least 30 people beating up on each other, including the pub owner. I’ve no idea what it was about, but the band just stood by and watched with open mouths. Luckily, we were totally ignored by the fighters and despite the chaos I can recall no blood at all. It looked more like a rehearsal for the Blues Brothers, than a civilised pub in central London.

Screaming for Vengeance is a song from the very successful Judas Priest album of the same name. We weren’t really that bothered by their treatment of us.

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27. The Cypress Tree

First Cab – “Little Pieces”, 1985.

I lived in a tiny village outside Oxford for a year and bandmate-to-be Chris had made friends with our Scottish neighbours, Syd and Ann. They were a little older than us and had invited us for lunch one Sunday. Syd and Ann’s traditional English Sunday lunch of roast beef, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables was the first truly memorable meal of my life. There was nothing special about the food itself, but it was just so well cooked! Living at home with my parents, I was used to something completely different. On a Sunday, vegetables were boiled until they turned to jelly, and the beef shrank to a dry, woody lump while we were at the pub on the corner of our street having a lunchtime pint. The beef usually came out of the oven about half its original size. Like magic! Syd and Ann’s perfectly cooked roast beef lunch exploded in my mouth with flavours and textures I had never experienced.

Many years later, Ingre and I were taken to dinner in London at the Japanese restaurant Benihana by my brother Brian. Their advertising blurb goes “not just a meal, it’s an experience”. It’s true, it was an experience, and we had a very good evening out. The food was great, but there was also all the dicking around and juggling with knives and other kitchen utensils by the cook which was fun to see and made it special. It was also my first experience of Japanese food. Then I had another great Japanese restaurant experience in Stavanger, Norway of all places. I was on stand duty with some colleagues at an exhibition and we went Japanese for dinner. The Kobe beef and sashimi were something else!

In the early 90s, driving north from Newcastle for a camping trip in Scotland, Ingre and I stopped off at an Indian restaurant just outside Edinburgh. About the restaurant itself I remember almost nothing, but the food and especially the naan bread
was superb. That meal most likely contributed to us being able to tolerate the rain, which fell every day for the two weeks we drifted around in Scotland and the north of England. Why we didn’t even think of checking into a B&B is a mystery and we stubbornly pitched a wet tent every day.

Just to balance things a little, I ate an outstandingly disgusting meal in Shanghai on one trip to China. That popular restaurant served every part of a cow that you could possibly wish for. Knees? Eyes? Nose? Stomach? No problem at all! And the menu had pictures of everything, in case you didn’t know what a cow knee looked like. “And how would you like your cow spleen, sir? Medium rare?” It was a pity that all the food, like the restaurant itself, smelled like the silt on the bottom of a stagnant pool of rat-infested water. Or a rotting carcass. The spirit they served tasted even worse than the food, but it completely numbed my taste buds and, in the end, made eating possible. It also made my young colleague drunk.

When we lived in France, our favourite restaurant in Bourges was Vietnamese – not French – and we staggered home from there on a regular basis after a good meal, a bottle of wine and the free saki, which we were always given after we paid the bill. The saki cups had tiny pictures of naked men and women in the bottom, which we found inspiring.

The Cypress Tree, a song from the 1985 First Cab album “Little Pieces”, is about a fictitious Japanese restaurant and written before I’d ever visited one. It’s also the only song from the album that I still get a tiny royalty from every year (which is shared with two publishing companies and the rest of the band). Someone, somewhere is still playing that song every year on the radio. Sadly, the album is not available anywhere, though I have a spare vinyl copy if someone wants to make me an offer I can’t refuse… No, just kidding. Wild horses couldn’t make me part with it. I’d love to put the album out on streaming sites and we’ve talked about it, but unfortunately, I don’t own the rights.

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27. The Cypress Tree

First Cab – “Little Pieces”, 1985.

Jag bodde i en liten by utanför Oxford i ett år och bandkompisen Chris hade blivit vän med våra skotska grannar, Syd och Ann. De var lite äldre än oss och hade bjudit oss på lunch en söndag. Syd och Anns traditionella engelska söndagslunch av rostbiff, rostade potatis, Yorkshire pudding och grönsaker var den första riktigt minnesvärda måltiden i mitt liv. Det var inget speciellt med maten egentligen, men det var bara så vällagat! Att bo hemma hos mina föräldrar var jag van vid något helt annat. På söndagar kokades grönsaker tills de blev till gelé och köttet krympte till en torr, träig klump medan vi var på puben på hörnet av vår gata för en lunchöl. Köttet kom vanligen ut ur ugnen ungefär hälften av sin ursprungliga storlek. Ren magi! Syd och Anns perfekta rostbifflunch exploderade i min mun med smaker och texturer som jag aldrig hade upplevt tidigare.

Många år senare togs Ingre och jag på middag i London på den japanska restaurangen Benihana av brorsan Brian. Deras slogan går “inte bara en måltid, det är en upplevelse”. Det var sant, det var en upplevelse, och det var en mycket bra kväll. Maten var fantastisk, men det var också allt lek och jonglering med knivar och andra köksredskap, av kocken, som var kul att se och gjorde det speciellt. Det var också min första erfarenhet av japansk mat. Sedan hade jag en annan stor japansk restaurangupplevelse i Stavanger, Norge av alla ställen. Jag var på plats med några kollegor på en utställning och vi åt japanskt till middag. Kobe nötkött och sashimi var något speciellt!

Tidigt på 90-talet åkte vi bil norrut från Newcastle för en campingresa i Skottland. Ingre och jag stannade på en indisk restaurang strax utanför Edinburgh. Om restaurangen själv minns jag nästan ingenting, men maten och särskilt naanbrödet var utmärkt. Den måltiden bidrog sannolikt till att vi tolererade regnet, som föll varje dag under de två veckorna vi drev runt i Skottland och norra England. Varför vi inte ens tänkte på att ta in på ett B & B är ett mysterium och envist satte vi upp vårt blöta tält varje dag.

Bara för att balansera saker lite åt jag en enastående äcklig måltid i Shanghai på en resa till Kina. Den populära restaurangen serverade varje del av en ko som du någonsin kunde önska. Knän? Ögon? Näsa? Mage? Inga problem alls! Menyn hade bilder på allt, ifall du inte visste hur en kos knä såg ut. “Och hur vill du ha mjälten, min herre? Medium?” Det var synd att all mat, som restaurangen själv, luktade som sumpmark. Eller ett ruttnande kadaver. Spriten som de serverade smakade ännu värre än maten, men det bedövade mina smaklökar så att jag till slut kunde äta den. Den äckliga spriten gjorde också min unga kollega full.

När vi bodde i Frankrike var vår favoritrestaurang i Bourges vietnamesisk – inte fransk – och vi stapplade hem rätt ofta, efter en god måltid, en flaska vin och gratis saki som vi alltid fick när vi betalade notan. Saki-kopparna hade små bilder av nakna män och kvinnor i botten, som vi fann inspirerande.

The Cypress Tree, en låt från First Cab albumet “Little Pieces” (1985), handlar om en fiktiv japansk restaurang och skrevs innan jag någonsin hade besökt en. Det är också den enda låten från albumet som jag fortfarande får en liten royalty från varje år (som delas med två förlag och resten av bandet). Någon, någonstans spelar fortfarande den låten varje år på radion. Tyvärr är albumet inte tillgängligt någonstans, även om jag har en extra vinylkopia om någon vill ge mig ett erbjudande som jag inte kan tacka nej till … Nej, skojar bara. Vilda hästar skulle inte slita den ifrån mig. Jag skulle gärna lägga ut albumet på Spotify osv, och vi har pratat om det, men jag äger tyvärr inte rättigheterna.

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26. Communication Breakdown

We have so many ways to communicate with each other today, but we still often hit a communication brick-wall. You can write to people as often as you like, but you can’t force them to read what you write.

I use two e-mail addresses, SMS, What’s App, Snapchat (now and again) and Messenger. Which doesn’t sound like a lot I must admit. But everybody has their own channel preference and I need to monitor them all, so I don’t miss something. And that’s not always easy as I also have my preferences. The more options there are, the more complex it all becomes. The many groups in Messenger, which are often comprised of different combinations of the same people, make it hard for me to remember where a conversation has taken place. Or was that conversation in an email? The time I’ve wasted looking for specific messages! And every little event becomes a new group and sometimes I get a little dazed and confused by it.   

Before the advent of internet, I wrote letters and was in regular contact with many people, both family and friends. A few times a year, that is. Most wrote back just as regularly, and some didn’t. But who writes letters these days? Not me, though I sometimes find myself writing emails like they were letters, which is probably not such a good idea. By writing too much it feels like I’m stealing time in someone’s life by asking them to read it and I even feel guilty doing that! Which is of course totally nuts. Letters used to anyway get opened and presumably read. Whereas emails can get lost in reams of spam, or read, closed and forgotten, if they’re not answered quickly. If there’s news to impart, is it OK to write long emails? I hope so.

I love the ease with which I can instantly message people whenever I want, but what are our expectations on a reply? People are rarely able to answer right away, so I don’t expect a ding within seconds, or even hours. But I have to say it’s frustrating when a reply never shows up, and that happens. So, what’s the etiquette for messaging to a friend? What are the dos and don’ts? Must you always keep messages short if you want an answer? When is it OK not to answer? More than 20 words? More than 10 words? I’ve no idea.

To check up on messaging etiquette, I looked through a few sites and there are plenty of them. But I found nothing that specifically addressed the questions above. On the other hand, there was quite a lot on how (I presume) algorithms handle ignored messages in Messenger. And comments like this one: “If the person is in your contacts that means you know the person, so ignoring their message might just make things awkward next time you see them. Otherwise who the hell really cares?? I ignore messages all the time!” Brilliant! Now that’s what I call social media!

The point being, all this technology meant to help us communicate with each other is no help at all if we choose not to read messages, or not to reply.

I loved Led Zeppelin when it came out in 1969. But it was still the 60s, and that was very much reflected in the lyrics. Not that I cared about that at the time. I was only interested in the music, the voice, the sound and the way they played. Robert Plant, last addition to the band, didn’t contribute to the writing on this album, apart from on “Babe I’m Gonne Leave You”. But his time was gonna come. Here’s verse 2 of “Communication Breakdown”:

Hey girl I got something I think you ought to know.
Hey babe I want to tell you that I love you so.
I want to hold you in my arms, yeah!
I’m never gonna let you go,
‘Cause I like your charms.

But what the hell. It was great anyway and Plant had me convinced, even with these lyrics.  

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26. Communication Breakdown

Led Zeppelin. 1969

Vi har så många sätt att kommunicera med varandra idag, men vi träffar fortfarande ofta en kommunikationsstenmur. Du kan skriva till människor så ofta du vill, men du kan inte tvinga dem att läsa vad du skriver.

Jag använder två e-postadresser, SMS, What’s App, Snapchat (då och då) och Messenger. Vilket låter inte som mycket jag måste erkänna. Men alla har sin egen kanalpreferens och jag måste övervaka dem alla, för att inte missa något. Och det är inte alltid lätt eftersom jag också har mina preferenser. Ju fler alternativ det finns desto mer komplicerat blir det hela. De många grupperna i Messenger, som ofta består av olika kombinationer av samma personer, gör det svårt för mig att komma ihåg var en konversation har ägt rum. Eller var det konversationen i ett email? Den tid jag har slösat med att leta efter specifika meddelanden! Och varje liten händelse blir en ny grupp och ibland blir jag lite dazed and confused av alltihopa.

Innan internet blev till skrev jag brev och var i regelbunden kontakt med många människor, både familj och vänner. Ett par gånger om året, det vill säga. De flesta skrev tillbaka lika regelbundet, och några gjorde det inte. Men vem skriver brev idag? Inte jag, men jag tycker ibland att jag skriver e-postmeddelanden som om de var brev, vilket förmodligen inte är en bra idé. Genom att skriva för mycket känns det som att jag stjäl tid i någons liv genom att be dem att läsa det och jag känner mig till och med skyldig! Vilket är naturligtvis helt galet. Brev brukade i alla fall öppnas och förmodligen läsas. Medan e-postmeddelanden kan förloras i mängder av spam, eller läsas, stängas och glöms, om de inte besvaras på en gång. Om det finns nyheter att delge, är det bra att skriva långa mejl? Jag hoppas det.

Jag älskar lättheten som jag direkt kan meddela människor när jag vill, men vad är våra förväntningar på ett svar? Människor kan sällan svara direkt, så jag förväntar mig inte ett svar inom några sekunder eller ens timmar. Men jag måste säga att det är frustrerande när ett svar aldrig dyker upp, och det händer ibland. Så, vad är etiketten när du meddelar en vän? Vad gör du och vad gör du inte? Måste du alltid hålla meddelanden kort om du vill ha ett svar? När är det OK att inte svara? Mer än 20 ord? Mer än 10 ord? Jag har ingen aning.

För att kolla messaging etikett tittade jag igenom några webbplatser och det finns gott om dem. Men jag hittade inget som specifikt behandlade frågorna ovan. Å andra sidan var det ganska mycket på hur (jag antar) algoritmer hanterar ignorerade meddelanden i Messenger. Och kommentarer som den här: “Om personen är i dina kontakter betyder det att du känner personen, så att ignorera deras meddelande kan bara göra saker besvärliga nästa gång du ser dem. Annars vem i helvete bryr mig verkligen?? Jag ignorerar meddelanden hela tiden!” Briljant! Det är vad jag kallar sociala medier!

Poängen är att all denna teknik som är avsedd för att hjälpa oss att kommunicera med varandra är ingen hjälp alls om vi väljer att inte läsa meddelanden eller att inte svara.

Jag älskade Led Zeppelin när den kom ut 1969. Men det var fortfarande 60-talet, och det reflekterades mycket i texterna. Inte för att jag brydde mig om det då. Jag var bara intresserad av musiken, rösten, ljudet och hur de spelade. Robert Plant, sista som kom med i bandet, bidrog inte till att skriva på detta album, förutom “Babe I’m Gonne Leave You”. Men hans tid skulle komma. Här är vers 2 av “Communication Breakdown”:

Hey girl I got something I think you ought to know.
Hey babe I want to tell you that I love you so.
I want to hold you in my arms, yeah!
I’m never gonna let you go,
‘Cause I like your charms.

Men det var bra ändå och Plant övertygade. Även med dessa texter.

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25. My Old School

I went to a catholic, all-boys school in North London. We often had fun, but it meant no regular contact with females for me, from the age of 11 until I left at 17. What a disaster! Right through puberty. As if that wasn’t weird enough, I’ve only seen two or three of my old school friends since I left. But I didn’t make any effort to meet up with anybody and neither did they. On the other hand, we had no telephone while I lived at home. My parents installed one only after I had moved out, so no easy way to keep in touch. The kids at school were also spread all over North London as it was the only school of its kind. We mostly didn’t live close to each other and rarely met outside school.

The head teacher was a large priest and several of the regular teachers were also priests. A couple of them were even pretty good. One of them was rumoured to be a pedofile, but he was old and thankfully I had no personal experience of him. I have fond memories of being beaten by the head teacher with a thick leather strap on the backside on a few occasions for minor offences. I may not have been St. Philip but was not a bad kid either. I was also threatened with the police by him one time when I was caught with a golf ball that I had found in the street. I was only 11 or 12 at the time and I was scared to death. Apparently, balls were regularly stolen from the local driving-range. But not by me!

Some of the other teachers were quite extreme in the violence department too. Names like Levy, O’Shea, Wilkins and Linnane spring to mind and they all had their “specialities”. Linnane liked lifting us by the short hair on the side of our heads, Levy used the edge of a ruler to hit boys’ fingers and Wilkins favoured a gym shoe on the backside. All of it painful. O’Shea was big, angry and frightening. It makes me chuckle now to think about it and it was comical in a way. 15 years after I left school I told my father about those punishments and he couldn’t believe it. If I’d told him at the time, he said he would have gone to the school and punched their lights out! He might have been able to sort the short Wilkins’ out, but O’Shea or Linnane? Probably not.

Why did I go to that school? Well, it was a “grammar” school, with focus only on academic subjects. In which I frankly had little interest. My focus was on guitars from the age of 10 and I cared little for physics, chemistry and mathematics. The alternative “comprehensive” school was closer to home, more vocational, and mixed (boys and girls!). I’ve often thought that would have been better for me personally, but the grammar school was what was expected of me. And what’s more important than making your parents happy? Doh! On the other hand, I may have been even more bored going to the comprehensive. 

In my final year at school I would arrive at 9:00 am, register in class, then often leave to do something else. Once I even climbed out of the toilet window by the chemistry lab to escape. I ran up the hill to the street with my school bag hiding my face from the teacher. But the consequence of not doing any work during the school year was that I was not permitted to sit the exams in most subjects. And if you don’t sit the exam, or fail in every subject, you can end up leaving school with nothing. As if you’d had no schooling at all. After repeating my final year, I had passes in English Literature, English Language and Art. That was it. All other subjects, it was as if I’d done nothing for seven years. But I really didn’t care, and I suppose I was a bad boy that final year. Strangely enough, though I left with almost no qualifications, a lot of what I was forced to learn stayed with me. Both math and chemistry have been useful. And French!

“My Old School” is from the Steely Dan album Countdown to Ecstacy. Killer guitar work from Jeff “Skunk” Baxter and this is one I often go back to.

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25. Min Gamla Skola

Jag gick i en katolsk pojkskola i norra London. Vi hade ofta roligt, men det innebar ingen regelbunden kontakt med tjejer för mig, från 11 års ålder tills jag slutade skolan vid 17. Vilken katastrof! Rakt genom puberteten. Som om inte det var nog, har jag bara sett två eller tre av mina gamla skolvänner sedan dess. Men jag gjorde ingen ansträngning för att träffa någon och inte dom heller. Å andra sidan hade vi ingen telefon medan jag bodde hemma. Mina föräldrar installerade en telefon först efter att jag hade flyttat ut. Barnen i skolan var även utspridda över hela norra London, eftersom det var den enda skolan i sitt slag där. Vi levde inte nära varandra och träffades sällan utanför skolan.

Rektorn var en fet präst och flera av de vanliga lärarna var också präster. Ett par av dem var även ganska bra lärare. Och bara en av dem hade rykte om sig av att vara pedofil, men han var gammal och tack och lov hade jag ingen personlig erfarenhet av honom. Rektorn var rätt brutal, och jag har fina minnen av att bli slagen med en tjock läderrem på baksidan vid några tillfällen för mindre överträdelser. Jag kanske inte var Sankte Philip men jag var heller ingen värsting. En gång hotade rektorn att göra en polisanmälan när jag upptäcktes med en golfboll, som jag hade hittat på gatan. Jag var bara 11 eller 12 år då och blev ordentligt skrämd. Tydligen stals bollar regelbundet från den lokala golfbanan. Men inte av mig!

Några av de andra lärarna var också ganska extrema med sina våldsutövningar. Namnen som Levy, O’Shea, Wilkins och Linnane alla hade sina “specialiteter”. Linnane tyckte om att lyfta oss med det korta håret på sidan av våra huvuden, Levy använde kanten på en linjal för att slå oss på fingrarna och Wilkins föredrog en gymnastiksko på baksidan. Allt var smärtsamt. O’Shea var stor, arg och skrämmande. Det får mig att skratta nu när jag tänker på det och det var komiskt på nåt sätt. 15 år efter att jag lämnade skolan berättade jag för min far om dessa straff och han var ganska chockad. Om jag hade berättat för honom då sa han att han skulle ha gått till skolan och slagit lärarna själv! Han kanske hade klarat sig mot den korta Wilkins, men O’Shea eller Linnane? Nja.

Varför gick jag till den skolan? Jo, det var en så kallad “grammar” skola, med fokus bara på akademiska ämnen. Som jag hade väldigt lite intresse av. Mitt fokus var på gitarrer från 10 års ålder och jag brydde mig mycket lite om fysik, kemi och matematik. Den alternativa “comprehensive” skolan var närmare hemma, mer yrkesmässig och blandad (både pojkar och tjejer!). Jag har ofta tänkt att det skulle ha varit bättre för mig personligen, men jag förväntades går på grammar skolan. Och vad är viktigare än att göra sina föräldrar glada? Doh!

Under mitt sista år i skolan dök jag upp kl. 9:00, registrerade mig i klassen, sedan stack jag ofta för att göra något annat. En gång klättrade jag ut genom toalettfönstret bredvid kemilaboratoriet för att fly. Jag sprang uppför backen till gatan med min skolväska som gömde mitt ansikte från läraren. Men konsekvensen av att inte göra något arbete under skolåret var att jag inte fick sitta proven i de flesta ämnen. Och om du inte får ta provet eller misslyckas i varje ämne, kan du sluta skolan med inget betyg alls. Som om du inte hade gått i skola alls. Efter att ha upprepat mitt sista år fick jag certifikat i engelsk litteratur, engelska språket och konst. Det var allt. Alla andra ämnen, det var som om jag inte hade gjort något på sju år. Men jag brydde mig faktiskt inte, och jag antar att jag var en värsting det sista året. Konstigt nog, trots att jag slutade med nästan inga certifikat, mycket av det jag var tvungen att lära mig fastnade. Både matematik och kemi har varit användbara. Engelskan! Och franskan!

“My Old School” är från Steely Dan-albumet Countdown to Ecstacy. Grymt gitarrarbete från Jeff “Skunk” Baxter och den här låten går jag ofta tillbaka till.

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24. Cherry Red

Me in the beach buggy, with Paul holding my beautiful Gibson EB3 bass.

My mate Paul and I headed for the west of England in his blue, short-base, 1200 cc, VW beach buggy. Very lightweight and very speedy! We looked forward to a two week summer holiday in St. Ives. A tiny, charming fishing village on Cornwall’s north coast.  I was still 9 years away from getting a driver’s license, so as always, Paul was in the driver’s seat. We travelled through the night, westward from London and crossed the country on empty, unlit roads. There was no motorway.

The only drama we encountered on the journey was passing fields of corn in a soft-top car with no windows. We captured thousands of tiny flies which landed in drifts in the back of the buggy. These we scooped out in handfuls. And on the radio, one item of interest showed up in the middle of the night: Jan Akkerman’s high-velocity guitar playing on “Hocus Pocus”, by the Dutch band Focus. We’d never before heard anything like that.

At that time St. Ives was known for being a hippy-magnet and we naively wanted to be a part of it. I imagined conversations on peace and love and on music and I fantasized about meeting pretty hippy girls. But in reality there was none of that. In fact I don’t think we spoke to anybody apart from each other during those two weeks. The only people I saw that might have been hippies sat tightly together on the pier in St. Ives doing nothing, mostly looking bored. Cool! And there were never more than 20 of them.

The very first pub we visited in the center of the village was packed with people. Mostly men of course. We queued for 15 minutes to buy a couple of pints, but when we reached the bar we were immediately asked to leave. “We don’t serve longhairs in here!” On the way out we saw a hand-written sign saying the same thing, which we’d missed. We were unlucky choosing that dump as our first stop, but we found places that could live with the horror of long hair. Apart from warming soup outside our tent and getting sunburnt, the most memorable event of those two weeks was a concert with bluesy power trio The Groundhogs.

We’d been listening to The Groundhogs for a while, since their third album Thank Christ For The Bomb came out. That album is now mistakenly called “Thanks Christ…” on Spotify. Very naughty! They had a lot of success, especially with their fourth album, Split, which includes the muscular “Cherry Red”. Tony (TS) McPhee was the main man; guitarist, singer and songwriter. The TS is short for Tough Shit (really), and that’s no exaggeration if you check out “Cherry Red”.

Tony was backed by Pete Cruickshank on bass and Ken Pustelnik on drums at that time, but there were very many personnel changes over the years. As late as 2011 Cruickshank and Pustelnik still played in The Groundhogs Rhythm Section and McPhee was active live until 2014, despite having had a stroke 5 years previously. Still well worth a listen!

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23. From Langley Park to Memphis

This is not about Langley Park. Or Memphis. But I needed a soundtrack. Instead it’s about trips to Atyrau, Kazakhstan and Perth, Australia. And an unlikely connection between the two.

The very wonderful Prefab Sprout

In 2006 a customer summoned me to Kazakhstan to discuss a problem that had arisen with a product. It wasn’t easy to get there and took a couple of days as I first had to visit Oslo to get a visa. After half a day in Oslo, I flew to Amsterdam, then to Almaty in Kazakhstan. Not too far from the Chinese border. Then I flew back across the country via a couple of other small towns before landing in Atyrau. An unbelievable 18 hour trip – from Amsterdam.

I was also warned to stay awake at each airport stop, as sleeping increased the risk of stolen baggage. I arrived exhausted in Atyrau. An American, George, who worked for a very large service company, picked me up at the airport. He took me to the first of several meetings that day. They started and ended with Kevin, the scary Scots Quality Control manager. He may have been a great guy in a social context, but earlier George had told me that Kevin scared everybody, so I was wary. George was loosening me up for that first meeting.

The afternoon and evening passed in a blur of meetings. I finally got to bed around midnight after one beer and a few thin strips of pizza in a pub with George. I was starving and I don’t recall getting anything at all to eat during the day. I asked the hotel receptionist to wake me at 5 am and order a taxi to take me to the airport. But instead he woke me at 2 am and I have no clue why he did that.  Not enough English to distinguish between 5 and 2? Before I realised what time it was, I had put my head under a cold shower to wake me up. The shock of that, combined with lack of sleep and stress gave me an atrial fibrillation (for about the 20th time). Of course I felt like shit. I managed to get a couple more hours sleep and at 5 am went down to the waiting taxi. I asked the driver to take me to the nearest hospital. “Oh, you mean the clinic?” was the driver’s reply. Clinic? I got him to take me to the airport instead.

The Atyrau airport building was an unpainted wooden shack. A few uniformed guards with large-brimmed hats and about 30 other men waited for the plane to Amsterdam. There was nowhere to sit, so I stood and composed a letter of resignation to my boss (which was never delivered). On arrival in Amsterdam, my crawling pace between the terminals felt endless. But I didn’t dare ask for help as I suspected they wouldn’t let me travel if they knew I was unwell. I wanted to get home. A few hours later a taxi picked me up at Arlanda airport in Stockholm and the driver dropped me at the hospital in Gävle. Close enough. I spent a total of 15 mind-boggling hours in Atyrau.

Knut the koala.

My tour of Australia in 2010 was a little longer: 12 days split between Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth. One of the companies I visited in Perth was the same as George’s that I’d visited with in Kazakhstan. Nothing strange about that. They have more than 100 000 employees, spread thinly around the globe. The guy my colleague and I were to see was not keen on seeing us at all as he’d heard about our little problem in Kazakhstan. But what he didn’t know was how we solved it. So I spent an hour dropping names (scary Kevin, his brother Ben, Scott, George and a couple of others). I explained exactly how we turned it around. I had every detail on my laptop and he knew, or had heard of all the people I mentioned. Finally, instead of throwing us out, which was his first thought, he gave us a healthy order for goods he needed. It was quite satisfying, a revenge of sorts and the cherry on top of my one and only Australia visit. And the order paid for both trips.