vans, crap sound systems, lurid edginess, all belonged to the territory – as did the increasing cideriness. And we might have smiled through all that if it hadn’t been for Cider Sid’s tip of a flat where we had to crash out for the night until the cavalry could be summoned the next day. We drank ourselves to sleep.
The next day I arranged for Phil Doody to drive up my camper van so the ailing van could be towed. The lads in this van had no heating so they lit a camping stove to keep warm! It was symptomatic.
Although Whitty could stay dry for three months at a time he could also spend the whole of his wage packet on drink on a Friday night. His alcoholism and depression made him unreliable and unstable though his musical power was undiminished. Something had to give.
But happily not all out of town gigs were so awful; many resembled the hilarious times Slim had with his band, Barracuda.
A Load Of Balls
Being in my band Barracuda has been a combination of indignity and hilarity. Many of our venues were like The Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club and at one of these places the concert secretary gave us very, very precise instructions about what he expected of us. There was a heavy sense of occasion: he insisted on us playing as the curtains slowly opened. Well, the curtains began to open. Slowly. We were in full flow. It was all very dramatic…but the concert secretary was dithering. “And here we have… and we’ve had them before… they’re good lads …it’s…it’s… let’s have a good hand for…Barry and the… the… Cudas!”
By this time the lads were rolling about on the floor.
Once we got going we played very, very loud and our hundred watt Marshall soon emptied the concert room. Remember: these were families in for the bingo who brought their own sandwiches in tin boxes. There were just two people left at the bar. The concert secretary stormed up – absolutely furious and with more instructions. We had to tone it down for the second set. The usual story.
We noticed after a while that the concert secretary was becoming less agitated. Then we realised that the concert hall was gradually filling up. But not with the sandwich-eating bingo fiends. What had happened was that the two remaining punters were students and they’d run across the road to fetch their mates. So it was all OK; rock ‘n’ roll had triumphed and we got paid.
We even got a bonus.
You get used to playing venues that might be unsuitable for your type of music and where the punters are there for reasons other than listening to your music. Arguments about volume are almost as common as arguments about money but sometimes it gets to you. One night Barracuda was in a typical bingo-dominated club. We had three spots and the evening was to finish on bingo. After the first spot we were told off for being too loud; we didn’t alter it for the next spot and we were told off again. Dave Evans was getting pissed off with the attitude so I was surprised at the end of our third set when he didn’t want to get straight off home. He told us all to hang about. So we went to the distant bar at the end of this vast room.
Everything went quiet. The bingo was about to start: eyes down for one hundred pounds! The machine was switched on but something was going wrong: balls were spewing all over the place and the bingo caller was sweating and totally confused trying to work out what was happening. More and more and more balls. A nightmare of balls! He had lost control and a hundred pounds was at stake. More and more balls! Everyone in the room became involved. People were on their hands and knees picking balls up and shouting things like, “I’ve got number twenty-seven; here’s number three!” as if they could somehow sort it all out. It was chaos. Chaos.
On behalf of rock ‘n’ roll Dave had taken a terrible revenge.
Dave had taken the wire top off the bingo machine – the bit where the balls come out one by one. There was nothing to
The next day I arranged for Phil Doody to drive up my camper van so the ailing van could be towed. The lads in this van had no heating so they lit a camping stove to keep warm! It was symptomatic.
Although Whitty could stay dry for three months at a time he could also spend the whole of his wage packet on drink on a Friday night. His alcoholism and depression made him unreliable and unstable though his musical power was undiminished. Something had to give.
But happily not all out of town gigs were so awful; many resembled the hilarious times Slim had with his band, Barracuda.
A Load Of Balls
Being in my band Barracuda has been a combination of indignity and hilarity. Many of our venues were like The Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club and at one of these places the concert secretary gave us very, very precise instructions about what he expected of us. There was a heavy sense of occasion: he insisted on us playing as the curtains slowly opened. Well, the curtains began to open. Slowly. We were in full flow. It was all very dramatic…but the concert secretary was dithering. “And here we have… and we’ve had them before… they’re good lads …it’s…it’s… let’s have a good hand for…Barry and the… the… Cudas!”
By this time the lads were rolling about on the floor.
Once we got going we played very, very loud and our hundred watt Marshall soon emptied the concert room. Remember: these were families in for the bingo who brought their own sandwiches in tin boxes. There were just two people left at the bar. The concert secretary stormed up – absolutely furious and with more instructions. We had to tone it down for the second set. The usual story.
We noticed after a while that the concert secretary was becoming less agitated. Then we realised that the concert hall was gradually filling up. But not with the sandwich-eating bingo fiends. What had happened was that the two remaining punters were students and they’d run across the road to fetch their mates. So it was all OK; rock ‘n’ roll had triumphed and we got paid.
We even got a bonus.
You get used to playing venues that might be unsuitable for your type of music and where the punters are there for reasons other than listening to your music. Arguments about volume are almost as common as arguments about money but sometimes it gets to you. One night Barracuda was in a typical bingo-dominated club. We had three spots and the evening was to finish on bingo. After the first spot we were told off for being too loud; we didn’t alter it for the next spot and we were told off again. Dave Evans was getting pissed off with the attitude so I was surprised at the end of our third set when he didn’t want to get straight off home. He told us all to hang about. So we went to the distant bar at the end of this vast room.
Everything went quiet. The bingo was about to start: eyes down for one hundred pounds! The machine was switched on but something was going wrong: balls were spewing all over the place and the bingo caller was sweating and totally confused trying to work out what was happening. More and more and more balls. A nightmare of balls! He had lost control and a hundred pounds was at stake. More and more balls! Everyone in the room became involved. People were on their hands and knees picking balls up and shouting things like, “I’ve got number twenty-seven; here’s number three!” as if they could somehow sort it all out. It was chaos. Chaos.
On behalf of rock ‘n’ roll Dave had taken a terrible revenge.
Dave had taken the wire top off the bingo machine – the bit where the balls come out one by one. There was nothing to
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