So how the hell did I end up sat on a judging panel, sneering like a bald Simon Cowell at a parade of hopefuls all vying for the coveted “Best Band” crown? Who am I to decide whether one band is better than another? Sure, some are — but it’s all down to taste. One man’s Stuntface is another woman’s JLS.
I’ve never entered one myself, though when I managed Pocket Venus I did once sign them up for a competition in Ellesmere Port. I encouraged them to trash the brand-new drum kit provided for the evening. Cue chaos: fists flying, finger-pointing, boos, jeers… and, unsurprisingly, no victory. But that’s the point — these nights aren’t about the music, they’re about how many mates you can bus in to scream the loudest.
Do I blame bands for entering? Not really. The organisers dangle carrots: a slot at Glastonbury, opening a muddy Tuesday morning tent to a couple of bemused dairy cows; a day in a “recording studio” canteen; maybe a month’s supply of Big Macs. Who wouldn’t be tempted?
But the cons? The judging panel. Alongside me sat: the venue manager, a police superintendent, a BBC weather girl, a 70-year-old drum tutor, and his mother — the mayoress of Llandudno. Apart from the drum guy (and maybe the BBC girl), what the hell did any of them know about music? After our deliberations, it turned out: absolutely nothing.
No offence to Bad Dog, but the judges were dazzled by a Guns N’ Roses cover. A cover! In my book, that’s zero points for originality. Why not just rename it “Battle of the Karaoke Queens”? For the record, Bad Dog are a really hard rocking band and are above shit like BoTBs. There are some artists who habitually enter these 'competitions' for reasons only they will be able to answer.
Still, I can’t be too bitter. I got to watch ten bands play their three best songs (minus the covers), which saved me traipsing around North Wales sitting through full sets. A couple of standouts even emerged: Jed is Dead and Y Cer. I already knew about Zebedy and Kixxstart Kitty. Future Perfect were quirky, Rumour and Longshot were decent, Whiskey & Lace were disturbing in all the wrong ways.
Would I judge another Battle of the Bands? No chance. But then again, who am I to pass judgement?
I was chatting with Mike Peters, as I often do, when he casually dropped the sort of line that only Mike can:
“Sara Sugarman’s in town, casting for her new film Vinyl at the Pavilion in Rhyl – think Marni might want a part?”
My daughter Marni, was both star-struck and fearless, she ended up spending a full day on set as one of a group of teenage fans chasing a young band. My niece and nephew, Erin and Rhys, were also in on it, cast as extras in a funeral scene. For a film about music, youth, and reinvention, it felt only right that the family got involved.
Then Mike looked at me and grinned.
“You’ve got to be in it too – just turn up. Tell them I sent you.”
And so I did.
Mike also had the idea of a band playing in the Pavilion foyer during auditions and did I have any suggestions: Carpet! I cajoled local grunge legends Carpet into playing. Picture it: a raw, fuzzy wall of filthy guitars bouncing off the glass walls, bemused auditionees queueing for their moment while a live band tore it up just meters away. It was surreal. It was brilliant. It was Keeping it Rhyl.
When I turned up to audition, the room was full of hopefuls. I sat, waited, watched the low budgetness unfold. Then I was called in.
Inside was Sara Sugarman, flanked by two others. She looked up, curious. I explained – probably a bit sheepishly – that I wasn’t here to audition per se, but that Mike had told me to come down, that I was meant to have a cameo.
Sara’s eyes lit up.
“I’ve got just the part for you,” she said.
“Come back next week.”
Tuesday, 17 August 2010, I arrived back at the Pavilion with my young son Declan in tow. He was a little shy but well-behaved – a miracle considering how long we waited. They even offered him a part, but he politely declined. We ended up spending hours with a motley crew of film extras: mostly local doormen from Rhyl, including one standout character called Lordy, who kept spirits high with relentless banter and mischief.
Time dragged. We’d been there since 11:30am. By 3pm, we hadn’t filmed a frame. Then something happened that jolted the day alive: Keith Allen walked in.
Yes, that Keith Allen – renegade, rock-and-roll wild card, and bona fide screen legend. Watching him was something else. One minute we were chatting casually about Lily (yes, that Lily Allen) and Twin Town, the next minute Sara called “Rolling!” and he snapped into character like flipping a switch. One second he’s your funny mate from down the pub, the next he’s full-throttle intensity. It was mesmerising.
Oh, and Perry Benson and Phil Daniels were there too – yep, Quadrophenia, EastEnders, Parklife Phil Daniels. Just hanging about like it was the most normal thing in the world.
That was it. My film debut.
Three seconds of camera time.
One slightly forceful shove.
And a line delivered with all the calm authority I could muster while trying not to fanboy all over Keith Allen’s coat.
It might not sound like much, but it was ace. I had a front-row seat into the world and theatre of filmmaking.
If you’re not familiar with Vinyl, it’s a comedy inspired by a real-life stunt pulled by Mike Peters and his band The Alarm. In 2004, frustrated by music industry ageism, they released a single 45 RPM under the name of a fake young band—and watched it climb the charts. Vinyl takes that story and runs with it, adding laughs, characters, and charm.
Director, Sara Sugarman was born in Rhyl in October 1962 and began her career as a punk‑rock teenager fronting a band called The Fractures, managed by Mike Peters. Their early connection in Rhyl's music scene later brought her to direct Vinyl and film it in their shared hometown. Sugarman later trained at RADA and appeared in films like Sid & Nancy before transitioning to directing (Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen, Very Annie Mary, and eventually Vinyl).
It didn’t matter that my screen time was brief or that Declan didn’t end up in the final cut. The film was OK, no one was gonna get an Oscar, but it had a certain nostalgic charm to it, and of course it was filmed in Rhyl where it all began, the scrappy, butt of many a joke North Wales town that raised so many of us.
The venue had a sweaty, close-quarters energy – just right to see a band like The Damned, who thrive off the crowd’s enthusiasm. Captain Sensible was absolutely on form throughout the set, ripping through the classics with that signature mix of buffoonery and charm. Even better, he was mingling with us both before and after the show – no rockstar aloofness here, just a genuine connection with the fans.
The set leaned into their punk roots with big hitters like New Rose, Love Song, and Smash It Up, while also pulling out deeper cuts like A Nation Fit for Heroes. The crowd lapped it up, and so did I – one of those gigs where you come away feeling like you were part of something a bit special, and very intimate.
A proper night to remember – Carlisle may not often be the centre of the punk nostalgia universe, but for one Wednesday night in August 2010, it absolutely was.
We wandered into the arena just in time to catch the dying strains of Buckcherry’s last song. Slightly gutting for Tim, but it was soon shaken off as the highlight, by a mile, was stumbling upon a group of outrageous Dutch buskers called Blaas of Glory — decked out like marching-band metal maniacs, blasting out heavy rock classics in a full-on oompah/cabaret/brass band style. Think Ace of Spades with trumpets and tuba swagger. They were hilarious, technically brilliant, and totally captivating. That performance alone made the trip worthwhile.
Me and Tim ditched the rest of the gang to go see Killing Joke, hoping for something raw and unpredictable. Unfortunately, they delivered a fairly disappointing greatest hits set — competent, but lacking the edge or intensity we’d hoped for.
The rest of the day was a blur of chatting to rock chicks, drifting between bands, soaking up the atmosphere, and people-watching — which was half the entertainment. Some great characters, some complete melts, but all part of the fabric. Saw Feeder (it was a good set, I knew many more song than I thought I did). Lamb Of God were ace, and a really scary moshpit! Also saw Machine Head and a bit of high school nostalgia from Saxon (Biff!).
We kept the drinking modest — not by choice, but because £3.80 a pint was absolute daylight robbery. That said, the music kept spirits high. Nine Inch Nails delivered a tight, industrially sharp set — Trent Reznor still has it. Then came the headliners: Metallica. Three hours of metal royalty. Impressive, yes, but three hours!! The crowd was so rammed we could not escape.
When it was all over, we just wanted to crash back at the Travelodge in Toddington — it was about 28 miles from Knebworth, but it might as well have been 200. No lifts, no buses, no one taking pity. We were properly stranded. In the end, we had to split a £72 taxi fare just to get back. Brutal.
Still, no regrets — not a bad way to blow a Sunday.
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| It was all too much for me in the end |
