GIG 0001 - The Jam / The Vapors ar Deeside Leisure Centre

For my thirteenth birthday, Mum got me a record player, a proper game-changer, and Dad upped the ante by taking me to see The Jam at Deeside Leisure Centre on November 29, 1979. That was massive—proper playground bragging rights. I was already buzzing about going to a real punk gig, even if it was on a bloody ice rink of all places. Deeside normally hosted skaters, but for big-name gigs like this, they’d slap thick rubber matting over the ice and call it a venue.

Trouble was brewing, though. The playground wars of ’78, when we punks were scrapping with Teds, had evolved into a new nightmare: half those Teds and even some ex-punks had turned into Mods, with their poncy shirts, fishtail parkas, and crap mopeds. I despised Mods as much as I’d hated Teds—total wankers. The Jam, though, were tricky. On their Setting Sons tour, with Eton Rifles climbing the charts, they had that raw punk energy I loved but were draped in Mod style, which made them a weird bridge between the two tribes. The venue was a powder keg: half the crowd punks, half Mods, all packed onto that covered ice rink, ready to kick off.

Dad, a pro photographer for the Evening Leader, had an Access All Areas pass, snapping pics at gigs and footy matches and was way over qualified and talented to be doing this stuff. He plonked me in a balcony seat with a can of Coke and buggered off to work the pit for a couple of hours. From up there, I had a front-row view of the chaos. Skirmishes erupted all night—fists flying, boots swinging—as the punks and Mods went at it. At one point, Paul Weller stopped the show, pointed into the crowd, called some geezer a “cunt,” and offered him out. For a thirteen-year-old, it was pure theatre, thrilling and mental, all from the safety of my perch.

Back at school, I had to spin a yarn for Huw Spew and Susan Forber, the resident Mods, claiming I was down in the thick of the aggro. No way was I admitting I watched it all unfold from the balcony like some coward—they’d have ripped me to shreds. 

The Vapors opened the show, riding the wave of their one-hit wonder Turning Japanese. They’d been discovered by The Jam’s Bruce Foxton, which gave them some cred, but for me, they were just the first of thousands of live bands I’d end up seeing—kicking off a lifelong journey to permanent tinnitus. The Jam themselves? Honestly, it’s a blur. I can’t recall a single song they played; the memory’s drowned out by the chaos of the crowd, with punks and Mods throwing punches like it was a sport.

Having Dad’s press pass was the real win. After the gig, I got to meet the band. Bruce Foxton scarpered straight onto the tour bus, but Rick Buckler was sound, signing my notebook with a grin. Paul Weller signed it too and posed for a cracking photo Dad took—proper chuffed with that one (you can dig it up online or in the book The Jam - The Day I Was There). I tried asking Weller what he thought of the show, but he just handed my book back and legged it without a word. Bit of a let-down, but hey! I’d just met Paul Weller!

Dad’s job meant he had to hand over all his negatives to the Evening Leader, so the only photo from that night was the one of me and Weller. Shame, really—those negatives are long gone, probably chucked in some newspaper office clear-out. Still, Dad came through with a mint 10x8 print of The Jam on stage, which got pride of place on my teenage bedroom wall until it vanished into the abyss of time. For Christmas, he got me the Setting Sons album, embossed sleeve and all.