Manchester Boardwalk Blitzkrieg / 4Q

Huw Prestatyn kindly agreed to drive us to Manchester’s Boardwalk. On arrival? Total confusion. Our promoter Dave Bennett was supposed to front £170 to cover the venue, soundman and door staff. The manager wasn’t having it at first and it looked like the night was dead in the water. After much arguing, he finally relented but warned that if the takings didn’t cover the costs, he’d baseball bat the promoter. Fine by us.

By 10pm the place was empty. Not a soul. Then, just as despair set in, a huge throng of fresh-faced first-year students came marching down the road, chattering and singing with their new grant money burning holes in their pockets. At least fifty of them. I intercepted, laid it on thick, promised them the night of their lives for £2.50 — and fuck me, they all came in.

The gig that followed lives long in memory. None of these kids had a clue what punk was, but they didn’t care — they danced, cheered, stage-invaded, got pissed, and turned the Boardwalk into a madhouse.

We tore into Nein Werk and Video Party. Cumi was on form, spouting:

“Mary had a little lamb & it was always grunting, she tied it to the garden gate & kicked its little…”

Then introducing VD:

“It’s about Wales, sheep & the things you do to them.”

Me: “He mentions that at every gig.”

Cumi: “I don’t, you do.”

Me: “Do you want me to take my clothes off?”

Crowd: “NO!”

Cumi: “They don’t want to see a gnat’s penis.”

By Not Now Not Never I was pointing into the crowd: “This one’s dedicated to him. It’s a description of his sex life.” Cumi piled in: “And his dick.”

During 1984 I peeled off my jumper just to show my “trendy designer t-shirt.” Cumi: “It’s fashionable, isn’t it?” Cue wooos from the students.

We crashed through Dope Fiend and PMT (my adaptor plug came loose, cutting the guitar out completely). I shrugged: “They don’t need a guitar, they seem to manage quite well without me.” Cumi filled the gap: “This is the interlude where we have a rest and you can buy your sweets, ice creams & crisps in the foyer.”

Jerks went down tight. Afterwards I joked: “People always say we’re cliched. Well, we’re going to show you just how cliched we can be.” Cumi: “Cliched?” Me: “It’s a French word meaning ‘we’ve seen it all before’.” Someone yelled: “It means crap!” Me: “Yeah, that’s about right.”

God Save the Queen got a massive cheer — the best we’ve ever played it. Twisted Tabloids was introduced by Cumi: “This song’s about donkey’s piss flaps.” Big cheers, none the wiser.

We closed with Systemisation, me giving it the “last disco smooch” spiel:

“This is for all you sweethearts. You know when you’re at a trendy disco and the last song is ‘Last Christmas’ by George Michael? Well this is our version. Have a smooch.”

Cue chaos and mock ballroom dancing. Before the last chorus I announced: “I think Blitzkrieg are the best band I’ve seen this week, a fine bunch of musicians.” The room erupted, standing ovation, chants of “More! More!”

Cumi signed off: “Thanks a lot, goodnight — if you want to see us again we’re at the Swinging Sporran in Chorlton, a week on Saturday.”

“Who with?” shouted someone.

“Wham, Kajagoogoo & Tina Turner,” deadpanned Cumi.

I went to turn my amp off and fell flat on my face, raising the roof one last time.

Then Blitzkrieg came on. After three songs, the place emptied.

4Q / PMT – Attendance: 2 (who fucked off)

Monday night in Sheffield, Take 2

Two days before the gig I phoned Spike to confirm Blitzkrieg were on the bill. “Nah mate, we’re not doing it.” AAAAAARGH. After all the fucking hassle I’d gone through with posters, I felt like puking. Tried Metal Duck – no answer. Luckily PMT stepped in at short notice. Nice lads.

I hitched to Wrexham to grab the van, and our four intrepid heroes rattled over the Snake Pass to Sheffield. That road is less a carriageway and more a rally stage – I swear one day I’m getting a rally licence just for the hell of it. We met PMT at the venue, Take 2, and soundchecked to… two people. They both left before either band played, leaving only the bar staff as our audience.

PMT went on first (not that it mattered!) and as ever, were truly excellent.

So we did what 4Q always did – turned the void into noise. PMT’s Martin wandered around with two balloons under his shirt, Cumi shouting:

“Hey, where’s your nipples?”

Me: “Shut up and let me feel your tits, come on…”

Straight into Nein Werk, Video Party. No crowd, no problem. Every song an in-joke. Cumi announced:

“This is called Not Now Not Never – it’s about his dick.”

Me: “There’s nowt wrong with my dick.”

Cumi: “It does the bizz, does it?”

PMT’s bassist joined us to mime during 1984. Their guitarist jumped up for Dope Fiend. By the time we hit PMT, the whole of PMT were onstage singing the chorus with us. May as well – nobody else was.

We rattled through Jerks, then there was a row about whether it was the last song.

Cumi: “This is our last one – it’s called Systemisation.”

Me: “No it’s not, fuck off. There’s three left yet, he just wants to go home.”

Cumi: “You’re joking… oh sorry, I forgot about them.”

So we thrashed out God Save The Queen, then Twisted Tabloids, then finally Systemisation – but not before I told everyone (all five of us on stage) to ballroom dance. And we did. Ballroom dancing to Systemisation in an empty Sheffield cellar.

Cumi: “Thank you.”

Me: “You’ve been a wonderful audience.”

Cumi: “Kill him.”

Me: “Kill him, but love me.”

We packed up, skint, and had to scrounge petrol money off PMT for the drive home. That’s it – Sheffield, you’ve seen the last of us for a long time.

Hitching Hell

Ann The Beermonster, self, Jill the Ripper

If I ever have another day like this one, I’ll happily place a noose around my neck and play on the swings. It was supposed to be one of those simple “hitch it to Sheffield” days. No drama: up, out, posters plastered, job done. Getting there was easy enough. Finding the venue — Take 2 — took a bit more public transport detective work, but I got there in the end (it's in Attercliffe). Getting home, though, turned into the kind of nightmare that makes you wonder what the fuck you’re doing with your life.

By 6:30pm I’d managed two lifts as far as the Snake Pass moors, then another that dumped me in the East End of Manchester. From there it was a bus across to the other side of the city, then a long, cold wait that produced only two pissy little lifts in the next three and a half hours. That left me stranded outside Knutsford on some A-road pointing vaguely towards Chester. It was dark, wet, freezing, and looking like I’d be stuck there all night.

The rain pissed down, but I had my Sony Walkman, and Nick Cave for company. John Peel had introduced me to Kicking Against The Pricks, Cave’s LP of not-so-standard cover versions, and Wayne had taped it for me from his vinyl copy. I played that cassette to death, and out there in the wet night I found myself duetting with Nick Cave to By The Time I Get To Phoenix — only I swapped Phoenix for Colwyn. A sodden lunatic with his thumb out, singing his heart out to the hedgerows. Every song on that tape was a high point. Years later I finally bought the CD, but back then, that battered cassette was my lifeline.

Eventually, mercifully, I got a lift to Chester and bolted for the station, racing through the rain with two random blokes to catch the last train home. £5.10 for a single, rolled into Colwyn late but still alive.

The day wasn’t a total loss. On the way over I’d stopped in Glossop and knocked on Jill The Ripper’s door. She was in, looking gorgeous with her hair plaited orange, purple and black. She was warm, welcoming even, but very cordial. She showed me photos of The Damned on tour, and her very boring-looking boyfriend — “I’ve been with him a year now,” she quipped. Whatever spark had once lit up between us the year before had gone out, and I knew it was me who’d snuffed it. Just another reminder of how fleeting things can be when you’re living half your life on the hard shoulder of the motorway.

4Q – Cornhill Vaults, Lincoln (with Blitzkrieg)

 

Cumi and Crud in the passion wagon

After the shambles in Huddersfield, we figured Blitzkrieg would’ve had the sense to do a runner and swerve the next night’s gig. Fred the drummer had been a piss-soaked liability and the band were literally fighting outside the venue while their set fell apart indoors, so we weren’t expecting to see them again. With that in mind, we killed a bit of time wandering Huddersfield, then spotted in Sounds that the UK Subs were due to play in Nottingham. Decision made: let’s gatecrash the Subs.

We pointed the Fiesta van towards Nottingham, stopping off in Sheffield on the way, only to find out the Subs weren’t in Nottingham at all but Retford. Typical. So off to Retford we went, hung about waiting, no Subs in sight. On a whim we rang the pub in Lincoln where the gig was booked — and to our amazement Blitzkrieg had shown up. Fred must’ve sobered up just enough to locate his sticks. Cue a mad dash to Lincoln.

The Cornhill Vaults was like a punk rock version of Liverpool’s Cavern — low, arched ceilings, brickwork, sweat dripping down the walls, bikers and students crammed in shoulder to shoulder. Blitzkrieg insisted on playing first this time, just to make sure Fred was still in a fit state to hold his drumsticks the right way round. Fair play, they played a half-decent set, even if vocalist Spike blew his nose all over me when I called him an ugly cunt. All taken in good humour, apparently.

Before we went on, a lump of resin was presented to us and a makeshift potato pipe, happily getting most of the bands stoned. Matt had only just joined but he’d already slotted into the anarchy like he’d always been there. He even reckoned last night’s Huddersfield debacle was a laugh. With both bands all off our tits, we hit the stage at 10pm.

We tore into Nein Werk and straight into Video Party. The set was the same as Huddersfield — Nein Werk / Video Party / VD / Not Now Not Never / 1984 / Dope Fiend / PMT / Jerks / God Save The Queen / Twisted Tabloids / Systemisation — but this time the crowd lapped it up. Bikers bellowing, students pogoing under the arches, the room bouncing like it was built for us.

Highlights? I did an impromptu Bruce Forsyth impression on a stool, which ended with me toppling onto my pedals and crashing into Spike and Gaz Sumner. Cumi got shoved into a biker mid-song — thankfully the biker laughed instead of lamping him. Chaos, but good chaos.

We came off to a proper cheer, walked away fifty quid better off, and with the promise of another booking down the line. Chalk that up as a win. Even made a few new fans, including Chantelle, a peroxide blonde who turned up with her leg in plaster and still managed to cheer us on all night. Dedication.

The drive home was unexpectedly picturesque — Worksop, Stockport, winding cross-country roads — all under cover of darkness. Took us three and a half hours, rolled into Colwyn Bay at 3:30am. Huddersfield already felt like a bad memory. Lincoln had made up for it.

Line-up: Cumi Pants (voc), Neil Crud (gtr), Wayne The Bastard (bass), Matt Vinyl (drms).

4Q – My 25th Gig, 02.09.1988 – Huddersfield, The Wharf (with Blitzkrieg, PMT)

 

Blitzkrieg in happier times

The 25th 4Q gig, a proper landmark, and we celebrated it by playing to a crowd of wankers in Huddersfield. Before we even got there, I did my usual reconnaissance mission the weekend before, hitchhiking my way across the country armed with a pile of posters and a few copies Crud to shove under the noses of unsuspecting record shop punters. Jane and I had even hand-painted two massive A2 posters for the venue to display — proper effort, like we were a real band or something.

I stuck some Cruds in the record shops, slipped a few into the shelves at WHSmiths (covert ops, urban guerilla style), and blagged a lift part way from the brother of the bassist in New Model Army. Nice bloke, off to Brazil with the band next week — six gigs at £12,000 a shot! And there’s me, grubby little turd hitchhiking to Huddersfield, pasting posters on bus stops and begging shopkeepers to take fanzines. Punk rock economics in a nutshell. He dropped me in Manchester, which gave me a chance to scrape together some Crud cash from Piccadilly Records, and then it was train jumping and thumb-waving until I made it back to Colwyn Bay. Took me over four hours to get home, which was standard punishment for being in a band that nobody wanted to pay to see.

Back home we had the added drama of a meeting with Paul Puke, our ex-drummer, who was trying to reclaim his drum kit. Trouble is, we’d bought the thing as a band, so technically it wasn’t his anymore. Bands usually split when money gets involved, when they’ve got something worth fighting over. Us? We’d never made a penny. The most we’d ever been paid was seventy quid for Brighton, and that felt like we’d just robbed a bank. But Paul wanted his kit back, and voices were raised, accusations flew, and even Wayne the Bastard lost his rag, which was rare enough to make everyone take notice. Paul left empty-handed and fuming, kit still ours.

To mark my latest brush with the law (a speeding fine, another tick on the criminal record), and buzzing off having an actual decent recording of a half-decent gig, we cobbled together a cassette release: Brain Dead and Barmy in Brighton. It was even reviewed in the Weekly News — destined to shift a mighty six or seven copies if we were lucky. Still, better than nothing.

Logistics for Huddersfield were sorted thanks to Cumi’s battered 100cc motorbike and Satan’s driving licence. With that lethal combo I hired a knackered Ford Fiesta van out of Wrexham, barely roadworthy but just about able to get us there with gear piled to the ceiling and arses perched on amps.

The gig itself? An absolute write-off. The Wharf was full of the kind of punks who still thought it was 1977, clinging to their faded Pistols memorabilia like it was scripture. Huddersfield’s only claim to fame was being the last place the Pistols played before it all imploded, and they’ve dined out on that trivia nugget for the decade. The crowd had that smug, ‘we were there first’ attitude, like anyone gives a toss in ’88. PMT, our Bolton based buddies, got the warmest reception of the night, but once we’d got past the first three songs our set was completely ignored. You could’ve heard the sound of the bar pumps over us.

Blitzkrieg fared even worse. Their drummer, Fred, was so pissed he spent half the set smacking the wall instead of the floor tom. At one point he actually toppled off the kit, wandered off mid-song, and had to be coaxed back after five excruciating minutes to finish. By the time the landlady came to pay us, she lopped forty quid off the agreed £150, citing Blitzkrieg’s shambles as justification. They were outside fighting amongst themselves while she counted out the cash.

We cut our losses, dragged our gear across town to Eggy’s flat (the promoter), and got hammered on whatever was going. The night was rounded off with Atari marathons, which, frankly, were more entertaining than the gig.

Our set that night was: Nein Werk / Video Party / VD / Not Now Not Never / 1984 / Dope Fiend / PMT / Jerks / God Save The Queen / Twisted Tabloids / Systemisation.

Line-up: Cumi Pants (voc), Neil Crud (gtr), Wayne The Bastard (bass), Matt Vinyl (drms).