It was just over thirty years ago that I first picked up a microphone with a view to entertaining an audience. We’re not talking stand-up comedy at this stage however. Instead, the context was that of a pop music quiz playing to around a dozen people in the then newly refurbished Engine Room pub, nestling on the Chalk Farm Road directly opposite legendary London gig venue, the Roundhouse.

The Engine Room had only been open a matter of weeks, having previously been a locals’ pub called the Belmont Inn. The pub had changed hands, and new gaffer Andrew James was intent on bringing in a more music-orientated – some might say – trendier Camden crowd. One of my best mates at the time who lived down the road from the pub and was there throughout the changeover – the recently departed and sadly missed Chris ‘Jack’ Wright – suggested that a pop quiz would be the very thing to enliven an otherwise quiet Tuesday night; reckoning, in the process, that he knew the very chap for the job.

If I’m honest, when the idea was suggested to me, I couldn’t get my head around it straight away. I’d heard of pub quizzes for sure, but the idea of a quiz devoted entirely to pop music seemed strange and new. Why would anyone want to go to that? Surely, if that was a prospect, it would exist in some shape or form already? Nevertheless, there was few quid being proffered, alongside the prospect of free drink, and so I thought ‘well, I’ll give it a go, see what happens; after all, what else am I likely to be doing on a Tuesday night?’ Doubts not so much dispelled, more bought off.

I didn’t have too much in the way of similar doubts however, when it came to the business of putting some questions together: I had an avid and longstanding appreciation of all things pop, rock and beyond; and for his part, Andrew was happy to chuck ideas for questions my way as well. But I did wonder if I’d be able to connect with the proposed Camden crowd given that – at the time – I was largely a soul and funk-orientated bass player and songwriter, and the Camden crowd seemed a bit more along the lines of indie alternative types. Such was the nature of youth tribal consciousness back then.

Despite the difference in dress codes, I did actually know all about the indie alternative band scene as a result of reading the NME every week; I just didn’t buy the music. At that time, the last really indie thing I’d purchased was ‘This Charming Man’ (excluding the odd Nick Cave covers album), and I tended towards the prejudicial opinion that indie music was overly middle-class, miserable-ist and largely devoid of anything resembling raunchiness. I read the NME for the quality of the writing contained therein, and loved the gleeful way in which the writers would disparage anything they saw as either inauthentic or kowtowing too much to the mainstream. I was also reading Smash Hits as well which, although it focussed primarily on the aforementioned mainstream, had a wonderfully irreverent way of undermining its subjects, largely – it seemed – with their co-operation. It’s fair to say, both publications ended up influencing the way I presented the various questions we put together.

I can’t say I remember too much about the first night, other than the fact that straight away, I felt very at ease in the role: engaging with the participants seemed to happen fairly effortlessly, with humour travelling in both directions. I also have an idea it was quite enjoyable but little else. In the space of a few short weeks however, the event started to attract more and more people, and steadily filled up. Somehow, with next to no publicity, we’d unwittingly become a regular fixture on the local scene.

As the night developed, it was obvious there were plenty of people attending who worked backstage when it came to the business of pop – marketing, publicity and the like – but typically, it was the various members of the then current groups that stick foremost in the memory… for obvious reasons really.

I remember a very early bunch of highly enthusiastic advocates that comprised something of an Irish cohort, led by a very affable gentleman called Nick Kelly, singer with The Fat Lady Sings. Alongside him, there was a quiet bloke who looked a bit like the Edge, and – lo and behold – turned out to be the Edge’s brother, Dik: more recently a member of the Virgin Prunes, and an original member of U2, before they became the phenomenon that is U2. It struck me as prudent not to mention the latter.

Another noticeable early attendee was Andy Ross of Food Records (invariably alongside the gloriously ebullient PR rep Polly Birkbeck) who I was already familiar with due to my tenure behind the bar at the Bull & Gate music venue in Kentish Town: Andy would turn up in his capacity as a Melody Maker journalist, presumably to review the bands. I was never quite sure how he succeeded in doing so, as he struck me as someone who had come along more for the party… but then I was in no position to judge as I was busy slinging it back at the same time; usually, on the basis that there were no end of willing punters proposing to keep my cup overflowing. Even when there weren’t willing punters proposing to do so, I pretended that there were, and drank anyway.

Andy and Polly were also in the habit of bringing along Dave Rowntree and – to a lesser extent – Graham Coxon, both of Blur of course. Blur had achieved a certain amount of success at this stage but iconic status was still a couple of albums away, and as a result, nobody paid them too much heed.

Of the two, Dave Rowntree struck me as a pretty relaxed, easy going sort of bloke; Graham Coxon however, seemed jittery and vulnerable, with a sense of humour that was indecipherable to all but his self. We’d developed a lyric round by this stage which we bolstered with extra points for karaoke renditions, and I remember having to wrestle the microphone off him on more than one occasion, as he made vain attempts to amuse the assembled throng. A brilliant guitarist, but you couldn’t imagine said vulnerability and the accompanying offbeat humour standing him in good stead down the largely working class environs of a dog track?

Other regulars included a team made up of original member of the Bromley Contingent Michelle Brigandage, Louise from the Wag, and Mary Byker: all of whom brought a genuine party atmosphere to the proceedings. One of the things they contributed was an array of sound effects in relation to the various categories of question, which subsequently assumed the status of catchphrases: the whole pub singing the theme to the Twilight Zone as a response to the regular question, ‘Spooky Pop Coincidences’ is one such instance permanently grafted onto the memory.

Then there was the likes of: Joe Dilworth, Melody Maker photographer and drummer with Stereolab (a band whose brilliance came to me a bit later than most); Chris Acland, drummer with Lush, a lovely fella who left this world too soon; NME journalist Terry Staunton, another keen karaoke participant; the Rockingbirds (I think it was they); and – arguably – encapsulating the mood of the whole event, clown princes for the evening, Matthew and Nigel out of Dodgy. I’ve still got the 12’’ promo of the lost classic ‘Water under the Bridge’ that they brought along one time, a fabulous song predating their later success.

And so it was that amidst all of these faces, I unwittingly became the host of a great big trendy party every week; having a complete blast in the process. Despite that, there were occasions when I didn’t know who some of the faces belonged to, even though others clearly did. One time, I remember Polly from Food being very enamoured of the fact a gentleman from a sketch called ‘History Today’ was in – the good looking one, apparently – but I had no clue. Another time, it was brought to my attention that some fast rising hot shot by the name of Chris Evans had graced us with his presence, but as I hardly watched TV – apart from TOTP – nor listened to the radio, once again I had no clue… although I did recognise the bloke with him as being Ian Broudie out of the Lightning Seeds. Having said that, I was certain that it worked in my favour not knowing who people were, as I ended up treating them in the same irreverent way as everybody else; I’m only aware of Mr Evans having ever put in one appearance, so it might be possible to suggest an equal and opposite argument to the ‘irreverent’ approach as well.

After the quiz, and being suitably charged up, I’d be looking for somewhere to head off to, to continue the revelry. One frequent option was to continue in the direction of the Camden Palace, given that I had the good fortune to live across the road from Jake Shillingford of My Life Story, who worked the door there on Tuesday nights and was kind enough to let me in for free. My Life Story was another outfit that emerged to a larger extent later on, seemingly filling the missing link between Pulp and the Divine Comedy.

At the Palace, things would get a little hazy, although I can vaguely remember certain bands being on the main stage such as Therapy and er… that’s it. I do remember one time, being introduced to Bernard Butler, just as Suede were becoming big news, and in a totally flat-footed over-garrulous drunken northern way, attempting to be humorous with him; only to watch him recoil in horror, and make a rapid exit. Looking back, it could seem as though I lacked a certain capability when it came creating a rapport with soon-to-be legendary Brit Pop guitarists, and had I thought about it at the time, maybe I should have tracked down Noel Gallagher, in order to validate the theory, in its entirety.

At other times, after the quiz was done – and frequently after the Camden Palace had chucked out as well – a bunch of us would inevitably wind up in the Marathon, an iniquitous Kebab and drinking hole situated at the end of Chalk Farm Road that catered for a mixture of nocturnal groovy types, insomniac outsiders, and members of the criminal fraternity; some of the latter exuded genuine menace, and although I saw a few fights in there, I never witnessed an actual stabbing, which various acquaintances would allude to, from time to time.

Once again, it’s all a bit of a haze, but a memorable moment occurred one night when Nick Cave and his entourage marched in, and upon entering, the big fella immediately nodded in my direction. I’ve no idea what that implied but I have to say – for me – it was probably the highlight of the whole period: I mean, just being on nodding terms with Nick Cave at the time, was worth a whole load of ‘being on conversational terms’ with what I thought to be lesser ranked alternate stars. Such is the folly of course, of seeing one’s self as part of any trendy scene: status and the perception of one’s own versus that of others is a constant source of neurosis, and – ultimately – a pointless waste of psychic energy.

As the quiz developed, Andrew and I started to look at ways of keeping the crowd interested: one of which was to introduce themed nights, and invite the audience to come dressed up for the occasion. Other than a 70s night, when I had ACAB scrawled on my knuckles, once again, it’s all a bit hazy. I remember the ACAB thing not sitting too well with an otherwise decent bloke who had a familial connection to the police but I thought the gesture was OK on the grounds of authenticity: it was a pretty ubiquitous tattooed acronym throughout the course of my own early childhood, with some fellas being only too willing to give you a close-up when it came to the business of sticking their fist in your face.

I must have had some sort of an obsession with the 70s at the time – as indeed did many of the retro-regarding participants – because we also started doing a thing called ‘The Antiques Roadshow goes to Milton Keynes’ whereby we would give away 70s classics such as a pair of clackers or a Brush-o-Matic as prizes, as well as other K-Tel-like artefacts such as 20 Dynamic Hits… all to the tune of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. I’m not sure everyone was as into the prize-giving idea as me, as they would frequently be left behind or re-gifted back to us; not a problem as we could just give them out again at some point further down the line.

At the quiz’s height we were invited to do a couple of charity events. The first of which took place at a restaurant on the other side of the road, and – apparently – saw Clare Grogan in attendance; I must admit I was at a loss to be able to identify her. The other was put together by Food Records, and took place in the Engine Room, with what seemed like the whole of indie-dom turning up for the occasion: Blur in their entirety, Bobby Gillespie, Lush, Miles Hunt, as well as the likes of Janice Long and Johnnie Walker. There were probably others, of course… once again, a combination of alcohol and indifference to most of what constituted indie serving to erase the memory.

That said, neither event struck me as being particularly great fun.  They weren’t in the same spirit as the usual Tuesday nights, playing to the regulars who really ‘got it’ and wanted to be there; rather than a bunch of medium profile characters ‘ligging’ their way to the next industry do, and for the most part, standing around and looking at each other. You see the same thing with bands that never so much as get a whiff of attention from the media, be it mainstream or otherwise, and yet cultivate a good following based upon an authentic appreciation on the part of the people who come along on a regular basis; arguably, more so nowadays, with the proliferation of social media and what have you.

One of the upshots of doing the quiz every week was that people were beginning to suggest that I should try my hand at stand-up. Reason being, I was making a lot of off-the-cuff remarks, and generating laughs; as well, of course, as the laughs that were engineered (no pun) into the questions. One particularly off-the-cuff remark that I was reminded of repeatedly, occurred one time when a person of shorter stature walked into the pub directly behind where I was standing (when the polite thing would have been to come in via the other door)… a person of shorter stature wearing a red duffle coat, on a night when ‘Don’t Look Now’ was on the TV later on; it was just a case of joining the dots, but the speed of the response had seemingly left the participants breathless, as there was a palpable gap between the delivery of the remark, and the point at which it dropped in the form of laughs of recognition.

At some point, about a year and a half in, I started to feel that we were running out of ideas, with numbers starting to wobble slightly in the process. So with a highfalutin notion – inspired by the likes of David Bowie and Fawlty Towers – I decided it was best to quit whilst we were seemingly on top. I’d been having a great time, and didn’t want to appear to be trying too hard. Without further ado, we stuck together an idea on the theme of death (no shortage of material in the rock and pop music world of course), and invited a stack of people down to do for a last hurrah. Fortunately for me, Terry Staunton brought his editor Steve Sutherland along to check me out as a prospect for the NME’s inaugural nationwide student Pop Quiz tour.

Conveying only a moderate level of approval, Steve gave me the go-ahead, and so, within a short period of ending the Engine Room Quiz, I was heading over to the NME’s offices, helping to format their quiz, and preparing to head out on the road to host half of the nights; with Terry in his capacity as co-conspirator doing the rest.

Somewhere in the midst of this post-Engine Room activity, I managed to audition for ‘The Word’ (a roving-reporter type-thing, I think) on the basis of someone else’s recommendation…  I can’t remember who it was put me forward. I did watch the Word now and again – early return from the pub permitting – but it wasn’t something I coveted particularly. Despite feeling awkward, I feigned an upbeat enthusiasm during the audition; an upbeat enthusiasm that wasn’t really my strong suit. I didn’t get a call back, and was relieved.  Coincidentally, I’d also seen Mark Lamarr down the quiz at one time or another; bearing in mind, that he eventually went on to present ‘Never Mind the Buzzcocks’. Was there a connection? If there was, I barely gave it a thought.

The NME tour immediately provided me with an insight that would be useful when it came to the business of doing stand-up on a more frequent basis: there is a huge difference between playing to a partisan crowd who’ve come to see you, compared to a load of people who have no idea who you are. Some nights were better than others, with my own seemingly laconic approach contrasting well with Terry’s channelling of the physicality of Denis Leary, to whom he bore a resemblance (at the time, Leary was a mock-angry non-PC Bostonian whose acting would ultimately eclipse his stand-up, due to a total loss of credibility amidst accusations of lifting Bill Hicks’ act in its entirety).

If either Terry or I struggled though, it was nothing compared to the indifference with which Aussie guest star, comedian and entertainer Bob Downe was being met, on most of the nights. We at least could masquerade behind our quiz questions, whereas Bob having been billed as a comic turn had little to hide behind, barring a crimplene safari suit and a blond wig. As a result, he wasn’t being terribly jovial off stage which – assuming this was down to the way his performances were being received – was all very understandable, I guess. Then again, maybe he was an archetype ‘unhappy offstage’ funny-type person? Who Knows?

To be fair, it wouldn’t be long before I was getting my own taste of rejection via the medium of stand-up comedy as well. Having finally taken the advice of so many of the people who came to the Quiz, I took the plunge and booked myself into a load of open spots on the London Comedy Circuit. Like any other stand-up comic, I can still remember my very first gig: I got a big laugh for my opening gag, and was so surprised I lost it from thereon in. After that, my performances met with varying degrees of success, from intermittently funny to outright death, before having a straight-thru, laughs from start-to-finish time of it, somewhere around my seventh gig. I was elated, the bug had bitten, and even though I wouldn’t turn fully pro until the mid-noughties, I felt as though I’d found something that satisfied an existing need to do something creative, but with added autonomy; an obvious bonus if you’ve ever tried working with musicians?

Even though it was obvious to me, I could do stand-up, I should still have had a word with myself at this stage, because I was by no means a consistent performer; none of which stopped me from inviting Dodgy along to come and see me at Bunjies, a splendidly atmospheric little folk room with a huge history, situated just off of the Charing Cross Road. Predictably, I flat lined: total embarrassment from start to finish. There is nothing quite like experiencing comedy-death in front of people you know, to warrant an immediate questioning of one’s sanity both on the part of yourself, and that of your associates. I can’t remember the aftermath precisely – we may have ended up in a cab together at the end of the night – but that was the last I saw of the chaps in Dodgy. They continued on a trajectory towards greater recognition, and I went home to question my own existence.

I carried on of course, but I pretty much lost touch with the business of performing as a musician in the process. Like I say, the feeling of autonomy was very attractive, but it was also down to the fact that I’d succeeded in killing off a part of the passion for music, via the means of the ironic detachment I had employed week in, and week out at the Quiz: an ironic detachment that – in a wider sense – was going to inform the culture to an even greater extent throughout the rest of the decade. Obviously, I can’t claim to have pre-empted that, but there was clearly something going on at the outset of the 90s, that involved looking back, in order to move forward.

If there was an element of it being a partial last hurrah for me music-wise, the bigger picture looks even more like that, from a distance of twenty plus years. The 90s now look like the final fling for a certain type of hedonistic rock’n’roll sensibility whereby all the young dudes carried the news, prior to the internet coming along and changing everything via the means of – amongst many other things – an intense and immediate form of scrutiny that serves to highlight any forms of bad behaviour. I mean, how else would you even start to explain the business of a group of clean-cut choirboys like Coldplay becoming the biggest band in the world?

Anyway, sometime between packing the quiz in, and giving stand-up comedy a go, I bumped into Andy Ross near to Camden Town tube station – probably, talking late ’93, early ’94 here – and in the midst of a quick catch-up, he asked me if I’d like to come along to Food Records and give Blur’s latest single a listening to. Naturally, I assented.

I’d been along to Food before (at the time of the charity gig, I think), and as on that previous occasion, I found the prospect of hanging out at a record company office quite appealing: you never know who you might get to see in there. In this instance, the first person I got to see in there was David Balfe, one time member of Teardrop Explodes, Andy’s business partner at Food, and – ultimately the subject of Blur’s ‘Country House’. Balfie was entertaining Goldie, along with the most intimidating and ferocious looking dog I think I’d ever clapped eyes upon. Somehow, I still managed to find Goldie a more imposing prospect.

Having met Balfie before at the charity gig, I’d got the impression that he regarded me as a bit of a dick, and the look of mild condescension I picked up from him, upon arriving at Food on this particular occasion, did nothing to dispel that initial suspicion. Keen to give me a swerve, he ushered Goldie into another room, whilst I made my way with Andy, to hear Blur’s latest offering. If I’m honest, I can’t say I was particularly bothered by Balfie’s reaction. As I’ve said previously, I was an avid reader of all things NME and I’d read enough Julian Cope interviews to convince myself that if I’d failed to ingratiate myself with him then I was in good company. Saint Julian versus a patronising disregard from Balfie? At the time, no contest from my perspective.

Having gotten myself comfortable in Andy’s office, I prepared to cast my vote on the upcoming Blur offering. I have to admit, I didn’t know what to expect, particularly in the light of having heard previous Blur material and been largely indifferent. Added to which, I’d been working in a studio alongside Damon not long prior to this pre-release listen (on my own stuff alongside another much missed great pal and musical collaborator Dece Gambe), and from the little I could hear, I hadn’t developed cause to alter my stance. The only thing I could remember relating back to that particular occasion, was the business of Damon sending his engineer into the room we were working in, to see if we had anything by way of combustibles he could scrounge.

So ever-present indifference at the ready, you can envisage my total wrong footing when I was hit full-on with the keys, drum machine and – most significantly for me – loopy upfront bass stylings that constitutes ‘Girls and Boys’. I was genuinely enthralled and said as much, remarking upon how the bass sound reminded me of Duran Duran (coincidentally, the same way Alex James is on record as describing it as well). That aside, it was difficult to classify, but nonetheless, I was really pleased to be able to say how much I liked it.

Admittedly, it would also have been great to be able to say that  I’d issued forth with something along the lines of ‘I reckon this single represents the first critical sighting of a new cultural epoch that will ultimately come to be known as Britpop which, in turn, will come to be the defining movement of the 1990s (progressive sounds in dance music notwithstanding): the point at which previously perceived left-of-centre indie bands will move into the mainstream, everybody has a massive party, and we all get to make a hugely ironic nod to the nation’s heritage whilst simultaneously detaching ourselves from the more unfortunate tendencies that come with the accompanying historical baggage’.

But I didn’t say that obviously… I just made remarks to the effect that acknowledged the song’s potential for greatness, and undoubtedly headed back out into the cold Camden air, pre-occupied both with a forthcoming stand-up gig, and the business of working out the whereabouts of the next short term thrill… the Pop Quiz now long behind me.

 

 

 

Despite having cooler musical affiliations – the sort that will get you admitted into a group of like-minded similarly self-conscious individuals – I’ve always had a bit of a thing for manufactured pop. I’m quite happy to admit that one of my favourite tunes of all-time is ‘Tarzan Boy’ by Baltimora… largely because – like all music – it evokes a particular moment in time in relation to my own experience. ‘Tarzan Boy’ is obviously an ‘80s classic but for me, the halcyon time for manufactured pop relates directly to the business of growing up in the 1970s: a period that is pretty much inseparable from an annual visit or two to Hull Fair.

Manufactured pop is by its very nature made to entertain the crowd: I’ve yet to come across an example that was designed to appeal to sensitive young men hunched over their guitars in the comfort of their own bedsit; no pretentiousness, no allusions to art, just great tunes tailor-made for immediate impact. And if you’re from Hull, and too young to get into the club, the best place to experience the exhilarating nature of a great piece of manufactured pop in a crowd is at Hull Fair… complete with the lights, the noise, the smells and the sheer exhilaration of the surrounding atmosphere.

Here’s a few that did it for me back then… and still do.

 

Sugar, Sugar – The Archies (1969)

OK it’s 1969, but ’Sugar, Sugar’ was doing the rounds for a long time after at the fair, such is its brilliance. It may even be the most supreme example of a manufactured song in pop history, insofar as the whole thing was fronted by a cartoon outfit. No surly temperamental diva-like fakers demanding they have a bigger say in the process or they’ll go public. Just session guys paid to do a job, and then clocking off when finished. And yet, it’s still a work of art.

It’s also pretty spot on when it comes to business of the confectionary on offer at the fair too. Brandy Snap, Toffees Apples and Nougat (which anyone from Hull will tell you is pronounced ‘Nugget’… Noogah, get out of here); Willy Wonka’s got nothing on this lot. And then there’s Cinder Toffee. Cinder Toffee always used to seem so unique, interesting and particular to the fair… until you realised it was just a Crunchie bar without the benefit of a coating of chocolate. Another illusion shattered.

 

Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes) – Edison Lighthouse (1970)

This is a classic case of a couple of seasoned writers putting something together with a session singer, and then needing to create a full band fairly promptly, once the record starting rapidly ascending the charts. Singer Tony Burrows – for it is he – lays claim to being the only person ever to front three different manufactured bands on the same edition of Top of the Pops, the others being The Brotherhood of Man (well before the Eurovision revival) and White Plains… just to add to the prestige.

If like me, you grew up in Kings Bench Street, you’d approach the fair from the Anlaby Road end, taking in the fantastic variety of stalls, and allowing the tension to develop as you get nearer to the rides. This – it transpires – is the correct way to do things. To this day, even when parking the car on Spring Bank West, I’d rather walk down Albemarle or De La Pole Ave just to achieve the same objective. To do otherwise would constitute an act of philistine-like proportions, in my humble estimation.

 

Crazy Horses – The Osmonds (1972)

This is the sound of a band wishing to escape the manufacturing process by writing their own material and demonstrating they were more than up to the job: it’s an absolute belter. Further to which, the horses in question refer to cars, and it’s actually an early attempt at an environmentally-conscious protest song, bless ‘em. In all earnestness though, given that the Osmonds were a massive family who in turn have all gone on to have their own massive families, you’d have to ask just how environmentally committed they really are, wouldn’t you? A pop classic nonetheless.

Of course, if you’re going to speak of environmental change, it’s an absolute plus that we don’t get to play aquatic-roulette with the ‘Goldfish in the Bag’ anymore. Growth-restricted by their surrounds, and looking as miserable as one assumes a goldfish can look, the objective of the exercise was always to get the thing home before it did a 180 degree spin and floated belly side up. Then one would have to experience the existential pain of watching a parent flushing the poor thing down the toilet accompanied by dark whispers of one’s own mortality, as well as morbid ideas about meeting your end, in a similar way.

 

Block Buster! – The Sweet (1973)

Was there a more disconcerting presence in the whole of 1970s pop than Sweet bass player, Steve Priest? Despite the androgynous times in which he inhabited, Steve somehow managed to take things a step further and morph into an entity that was part-clown and part-weird-stuttery-vocal-style, underscored by an implication that you wouldn’t want to find yourself in a darkened room alone with him. The Sweet were a fantastically capable rock band, as their earlier self-penned B-sides and later self-penned A-sides will attest. Being fame-hungry however, they elected to go down a more manufactured route with Glam Rock kingmakers Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman, and this song is where things really began to kick in. It’s got a siren on it as well, and sirens in pop and rock are a very good and frequently occurring thing, as everyone knows; as is stuttering, but that’s another playlist altogether.

Of course, the last thing you want to hear at the fair is a genuine siren. There are occasions however, when the odd punter falls prey to a little misfortune, and then the only option is for the ambulance driver to slowly make their way down a street consisting of similarly flashing lights and loud siren-like noises. You invariably don’t see them until they’re upon you, which back in the 70s could well mean you’d drop the booty you acquired in the form of a bow-and-arrow, a plastic sword, and the ‘cuddly toy de jour’ … probably a terrible replica of Orinoco from the Wombles.

 

Dancin’ (on a Saturday Night) – Barry Blue (1973)

It would be something of an oversight if we weren’t to have some sort Glitter Stomp on this ‘ere play list. At the same time, we wouldn’t want to create a different kind of Elephant in the room, in so doing. Happily, this particular tom-tom driven gem more than fulfils the need, and is a top notch thing of beauty in its own right. Co-written by Mr Blue (real name Mr Green… Reservoir Dogs, anybody?) and pocket-songstress and onetime James Coburn beau Lynsey de Paul, they somehow arrived at the idea that Greek-sounding instrumentation would be the perfect finish to the glitter mix. No, me neither.  It’s a big ride tune obviously, but should there have been a stall that involved smashing plates, this would clearly be the obvious choice. Bear this tune in mind next time, you organise a village fete.

I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody – or for that matter – seen anybody who’s ever won anything on a stall; aside from the ones that guarantee a prize. Balls that bounce out of strategically placed buckets, footballs kicked towards holes just large enough to accommodate them, firing ranges that would test the prowess of a police marksmen, and low scores on a dartboard that are harder to achieve than high scoring trebles… there are an endless succession of ways in which to lose your money, and yet a similarly endless succession of show-off dads queue up to demonstrate superstar status to disbelieving mothers and children: resulting in a palpable whiff of disappointment that is as much a part of the fair as all of the other wonderful smells on offer.

 

Sugar Baby Love – The Rubettes (1974)

This is another instance in which the song was created first, and then a band assembled to front the situation once the song started tearing up the charts: the only problem being that the lead vocal  consisted of such a distinctive falsetto, it was quite obvious from subsequent Rubettes’ releases that, you were talking about a different sound completely. But what an act of manufacturing it was: the writers deciding that the three most frequently used words in pop music were ‘Sugar, ‘Baby’ and ‘Love’, and then tripling their chances of having a hit, by putting them all together in one song. Did the trick, didn’t it? Pop perfection.

I think I might have braved the Waltzers to this tune, which ended in tears obviously… or more appropriately, nausea. I think the ‘Whips’ (for that is their name) spot your obvious ill-disposition and spin ‘em even faster, thus accelerating the vomiting process. As David Essex so eloquently put it in the film ‘That’ll Be the Day’, ‘I’m the bloke that everybody wishes would fall into the machinery and get his kidney’. A sentiment that is hardly helped even at the present time by the image of an emaciated bare-chested macho strutting would-be tough-guy/peacock covered in homemade tattoos, and a narcissistic lack of self-awareness that would give Donald Trump a run for his money. Are these guys attractive to women? Apparently so.

 

Beach Baby – The First Class (1974)

It’s Tony Burrows again – albeit this time with a different couple of songwriters – once more demonstrating his ubiquity with a one-hit wonder (if that doesn’t stand as some sort of contradiction?). It’s also another case of the original singer not wanting to promote the song and so, a bunch of anonymous studio musicians set about the business of fronting the enterprise. They looking nothing like the bronzed Californian idea implicit in the song; but then, the Beach Boys didn’t exactly look the part either. Released on the classic manufactured pop/one-hit wonder record label UK (presided over by another individual who has subsequently left a less than pleasant legacy… if we suggest that UK stands for United King, you’ll get the picture). There’s also a seemingly well-known French version ‘Vite, Cherie, Vite’ out there as well, sung by Sacha Distel. Who knew?

I think by this stage, I would have been going to the fair with my mates, as opposed to the parents; if only during the day on the Saturday. One was nonetheless obliged to observe Mother’s sagely parting words of advice (adopts Alan Bennett voice), ‘Always give them the exact money; if you give them a note, you won’t see it again’. All well and good, until you find yourself upside down on the American Wheel, and everything in your pockets is immediately given – by way of charitable donation – to the punters watching below; flares flapping in the wind, and Wrangler jacket hugging close to one’s frozen chest, in the process.

 

Daddy Cool – Boney M. (1976)

Remember the solitary male dancer in the Boney M. line-up weaving in and out of the three slightly less animated ladies, whilst adding the occasional vocal twist? That wasn’t him singing. That was a German producer and writer called Frank Farian. To provide further context, he was also the man who presided over the Milli Vanilli scandal; pretty much an extension of the ideas developed with Boney M. Admittedly, two of the three ladies in Boney M. did actually contribute to the vocals but whichever you look at it, it works to fantastic effect, and is a testament to the whole argument that sometimes the people who put the tracks together in the studio aren’t necessarily the right ones to go out and sell the idea thereafter. And that’s the whole point of manufactured pop music: never let authenticity stand in the way of a great idea.

I think it’s fair to say that there was always someone in your school, who be mouthing off about the fact they had a job at the fair, and claiming ‘cool points’ at everyone else’s expense. Which sounded great, until you went along and saw that the much bragged-about job consisted of hosting the ‘Hook-a-Duck’ stall, immediately eradicating any such notions of the aforementioned cool; if anything, it created a notion of reverse-cool. ‘Hook-a-Duck’ you’d exclaim – or something that sounded similar – and spend the rest of the school year, taunting them with cries of ‘You can have anything from the bottom shelf’. Good times.

 

Of course, I dare say, there’s probably loads I’ve missed off… that’s where you come in!

Back when pop music was more or less in its infancy, there was a cliché attached to the business of playing the bass guitar: it was the default option of the worst guitarist in any place where three or more guitars gathered, to create a beat combo.

This was a belief that eluded me. My interest in the instrument was piqued due to an inability to identify its presence immediately in the context of the songs that provided my formative initiation into the world of pop. Being able to hear other components such as guitar, drums and vocals was fairly immediate but checking the credits on those early vinyl purchases suggested there was something further I should be looking out for?

Having said that, you’d be hard pushed to miss an individual like Steve Priest of The Sweet, with his odd-shaped Dan Electro, excessive make-up and Native American-style feathered headdress. Or for that matter, Slade’s Jim Lea who, it was quite apparent was one half of the team behind the hits. Only a fool would dismiss either as the poorest musician in any outfit.

Further investigation would confirm this, and reveal that Steve Priest had quite the singing voice, while Jim Lea’s compositional skills extended to writing some fantastically ornate bass lines to add to the mix; as well as having both violin and piano in his armoury. Witness if you will, ‘How Does It Feel?’, a high point in Slade’s already impressive back catalogue and a prog-pop classic that ranks as one of the stand out tracks of the whole ‘Glam’ period.

Anyway, after a period of propping one’s ears too close to the tinny speakers, attempting to decipher the low end rumblings of the mystery component, I set about the business of badgering my parents with a view to making a purchase; a purchase which was consolidated by a promise to pursue Double Bass lessons at school, and thereby counterbalancing an opposing view that a bass guitar wasn’t much cop on its own.

Purchase complete, and lessons installed, progress was nonetheless slow. No doubt, in part due to the lack of anything with which to fully latch on to, in terms of a musical affiliation. But I needn’t have despaired, for things were about to get interesting… very interesting: punk was about to happen.

1 Bruce Foxton

‘In the City’ constituted my first album purchase with regard to the punk rock phenomena – The Jam were not punk, strictly speaking, I know – based almost entirely on the look of the front cover; although in fairness it was drummer Rick Buckler’s glasses that held the most appeal.

Remember when we used to buy things on spec (no pun intended)? I’d already taken a similar approach to buying ‘God Save The Queen’ and was therefore exhilarated by the possibilities, posed by the Jam’s debut.

Needless to say, The Jam didn’t disappoint. Not only was it conceivable to hear what Bruce Foxton was doing within the context of the outfit – they were a three piece after all – I correctly ascribed the ability to do so, on the basis of his choice of instrument: a black Rickenbacker4001, according to the back cover.

Copping a feel, if not the actual licks, and applying the confidence-boosting DIY ethos of the punk movement, I decided I too was going to be heard, and further down the line, did precisely that in the context of a working men’s club band in which I inherited a place; executed on the requisite trebly-sounding black ‘Ricky copy’, naturally. This I did, much to the chagrin of my fellow band members who, if the truth be told, would have preferred something a little more subdued and ‘traditional’ in the bass department.

2 Jean-Jacques Burnel

Prior to that however, I had formed a punk band with a couple of classmates, and a more able guitar-wielding chap who was a year above us, at a time when a school year really made a difference.

Given that the guitar-wielding chap and I lived close by to each other, he set about the business of teaching me a variety of Stranglers’ bass lines, so that I might provide him with the more musically proficient accompaniment not attainable within the confines of our group. As a consequence, the Stranglers became my new favourite band.

Bless the Stranglers. More musically able than the punks they found themselves tarred with, they also delighted in winding the unwitting up, with their ‘near-the-knuckle’ lyrical content, alongside an all-pervasive air of violence largely manifest in their karate-kicking bass man: a threat made good on the two occasions I saw them play.

Nonetheless, Jean-Jacques became the very model of bass extroversion that I sought to emulate, out front and audible, and like Bruce Foxton, he was quite happy to step up to the mic when it came to handling a bit of lead vocal.

While there’s many a Stranglers track I could have showcased, here is one that feature’s a particularly prominent bass line (as well as a stripper when it came to the live show… different times etc…):

3 Chris Squire

So, having accelerated one’s musicality beyond the restrictions of punk rock, what does one do next, in order to expand the bass palette? Commit heresy, that’s what.

Despite the fact, a whole swathe of punk luminaries, had a declared a ‘Year Zero’ with regard to much of what had come before musically, it was obvious – given their respective ages – that many of them were all too familiar with that most taboo of musical entities: Prog Rock (something they were only able to admit later on, after the potential for a witch hunt had subsided).

Guilelessly, I ignored the ban, seeking further bass enlightenment from friends’ older brothers, and sixth formers alike. It wasn’t too long before I found myself in the company of Chris Squire and Yes, he being the bass ‘Numero Uno’, in a field hardly devoid of capable musos.

Once again, we’re talking Rickenbacker-induced, trebly out-front bass-playing here but, this time, we’re also talking bass lines of a most intricate nature wedded to odd time signatures as well; along with the ‘no small business’ of contributing to the delicate vocal harmonies which are so much a feature of Yes’ music.

Given that it is impossible to isolate Chris Squire’s contribution to Yes from the music itself, I ended becoming something of a fan, and subsequently, I can never understand why somebody would want to criticise something as monumental as ‘Close to the Edge’.

Admittedly, the success of CTTE led Yes to travel beyond the edge into – arguably – excesses that didn’t stand-up to the same extent musically, but check out this glorious title track on the album of the same name. First and foremost, it’s a song! A song with all of the features of any song: verses, choruses, a middle section and various instrumental sections; a longer song but a song nonetheless.

Suitably influenced, I was now in a position to start adding top end frills and spills on my black ‘Ricky copy’ to the club gigs I was performing at. A bit galling for my bandmates no doubt, having to deal with the bass man soloing over the likes of ‘Feelings’ by Charles Aznavour but hilarious looking back.

Probably, one of the many reasons, I got the sack… I mean, it’s pretty much a given that there has to be at least one idiot in any band, and in the absence of such, I was obviously happy to volunteer.

4 Bernard Edwards

If checking out ‘Prog Rock’ constituted a form of heresy in relation to the punk rock manifesto, there was also something similarly transgressive about pledging anything in the form of allegiance to the late 70s Disco movement.

‘Disco Sucks’ went the middle class white rocker’ slogan du jour; a slur as much laced with racism as it was with snobbery, albeit a slogan that seemed to carry more racist weight in America than the UK, where disco was more the terrain of working class kids letting their hair down at the weekend.

Coalescing around the success of ‘Saturday Night Fever’, the form was purpose-built to feature extrovert bass lines allied to a straightforward drum pattern, and songs such as McFadden and Whitehead’s ‘Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now’, Narada Michael Walden’s ‘I Shoulda Loved Ya’, and The Whispers’ ‘And The Beat Goes On’ are fine examples of the genre.

The undisputed king of the ‘Disco Bass’ however, had to be Bernard Edwards who, in partnership with guitarist Nile Rodgers created some of the most memorable tunes in the history of popular music; let alone disco.

While it goes without saying that ‘Good Times’ is quite feasibly the best bass line ever written, I’m equally partial to his playing on more straight ahead stuff as well, like ‘Spacer’ by Sheila B. Devotion. As it stands, I’ve gone with ‘Everybody Dance’ featuring his self-styled ‘chucking’ technique… whatever that is?

5 Jaco Pastorius

Start getting a little flash in your approach to your instrument and sooner or later, someone is going to chuck the ‘J’ word into the equation which, in this instance, would more obviously suggest ‘Jazz’, but for a bass player, more equally, a man synonymous with the form: ‘Jaco’, as in Jaco Pastorius.

When people talk in terms of a single individual revolutionising the approach to a particular instrument, the list of greats suddenly gets smaller. To provide specific context – and to reiterate a cliché – what Jimi Hendrix is to the guitar, Jaco Pastorius is to the bass: pulling up the frets to create an entire new sound; incorporating harmonics and chord voicings as a means of providing a mid-range accompaniment; along with a tendency to create tremendous staccato-orientated sixteenth note funk grooves, and thereby fulfilling a more traditional bass role.

‘Larger than life’, and – as his career progressed – increasingly challenging to work with, largely due to what would now be more straightforwardly diagnosed as a bi-polar disorder, his life was tragically cut short during an altercation with a nightclub bouncer in his home state of Florida.

Nonetheless, he left a massive musical legacy, a whole load of copycats in his wake, and the awareness that there was a way of approaching the bass guitar as an instrument prior to his arrival, and an entirely different one after it.

There’s any number of Jaco pieces with which to indulge oneself, from his solo work, through to his tenure with ‘Jazz Fusion’ giants Weather Report and notable collaborations with the likes of Joni Mitchell. I’ve opted for ‘Punk Jazz’ from the Weather Report album ‘Mr Gone’ which – as a first purchase on my part – resonated to a greater extent than its more acclaimed predecessor ‘Heavy Weather’.

6 Louis Johnson

Now, if all of this wasn’t enough in terms of intimidation by virtuosity, a new phenomenon was boring its way into the lives of the hapless guitar shop assistant (albeit belatedly, in this particularly corner of the world): Slap Bass. And the role of the ‘worst guitarist in the band’ would never be the same again.

Here at last was a guaranteed, cast-iron, sure-fire method by which the previously unassuming low end merchant could step out from next to the drums and into the spotlight of the centre stage. So much so that, the rest of the band now had a battle on their hands controlling not only the excesses of the lead guitarist but those of the bass guitarist as well.

Fun to execute, and not nearly as vigorous as it appeared (once one had established that the left-hand played nearly as an important role as that of the right), slap bass could make a track in the 1980s, or – indeed – ruin one.

And it was all thanks to Sly and the Family Stone’s Larry Graham who devised the method back in the 1960s as a means of adding extra percussion to accompany his mum, in the absence of a drummer. Little did he realise at the time, his innovation would give rise to bass tutors at Berklee College of Music having to teach to the accompaniment of a hall full of individuals operating akin to a massive ‘Typing Pool’; amongst a multiplicity of other side effects, ‘music-shop assistant ire’ amongst them.

So, if one is going to pursue such percussive matters, where to start? Well, the first thing to really grab my attention in relation to the ‘Slap Bass’ beast was the solo plum smack in the middle of ‘Stomp!’ courtesy of the Brothers Johnson; and that’s before we even factor in the already fantastic accompanying line sitting in the rest of the track.

Nicknamed ‘Thunder-Thumbs’, and one of the frontrunners in the whole of the ‘Slap Bass’ universe, on ‘Stomp!’, Louis Johnson demonstrates in solo form that which he’d previously consigned to creating the most excellent grooves with his older brother, such as on the magnificent ‘Get The Funk Out Ma Face’.

And if further non-slap proof should ever be required in relation to the man’s groove credentials , that’s him laying down one of the most famous bass lines in pop history: Michael Jackson’s ‘Billie Jean’.

7 Mark King

Fired by the possibilities, I’d pretty much reached a conclusion that a funky approach to playing the bass guitar was where it was at, and decided that a subscription to ‘Black Music’ magazine would therefore equally be where it was at.

Aside from discovering the delights of reggae into the bargain (Black Uhuru’s ‘Red’ is one such purchase, BM inspired me to make), I got to know a great deal more about the burgeoning Brit-Funk movement, in amongst which I developed a thing in particular for a band called Linx, featuring David Grant (better known nowadays, as a vocal coach and star of kids’ TV); or more specifically, in my case, the bass player Peter ‘Sketch’ Martin, who – to my ears – had something of the ‘Bernard Edwards’ about his playing.

However, the guy who ‘stole a march’ on everybody – by a significant margin – was Level 42’s Mark King. If we’d previously only got sneak previews of the ‘Slap Bass’ technique, Mark King put it right out there for all to see (and bear in mind, we’re talking a pre-internet age whereby such sightings were rare, and given that it was hard to discern the technique by listening alone, any visual was a bonus). And not only that, he was singing at the same time. A sickeningly capable individual.

It became quite the thing to malign Mark King later on – as the band hit the commercial heights – suggesting there was some sort of content over style thing going on (i.e. lots of notes, and little groove) but have a listen to the Level 42 debut album for starters, if you will, and there’s plenty on there, to suggest otherwise.

8 Mick Karn

Despite the ongoing funk immersion, if you’d have asked me at the time who my favourite band were, I’d have probably said ‘Talking Heads’. I’d kept up an ongoing commitment to the post-punk cause, despite having deviated from the rigour of the ethos, and as far as I was concerned, the arthouse leanings of David Byrne and co, were right up my proverbial.

They were also becoming very funk-orientated themselves, into the bargain, initially on the standout album – for me – ‘Fear of Music’, and ultimately, on the more ground breaking, ‘Remain in Light’.

And if artsy-funk was floating my boat, it was only a matter of time before late developers Japan were battling for equal billing on the ‘favourite band’ front as well; particularly as they possessed in Mick Karn, an astonishingly original and flamboyant fretless bass player.

Demonstrating all that the fretless bass had to offer in terms of slides, tone and vibrato, he also threw a few Eastern-type scale ideas into the mix, due – one assumes – to his Turkish-Cypriot heritage (as well as the abiding interest in all things Sino-Japanese that characterised the entire group). Live, he was also something of a front man – given David Sylvian’s obvious reluctance – moving geisha-like across the stage, whilst all the time never missing a beat.

As far as the selection is concerned, ‘Visions of China’ might have been a more obvious choice from the point-of-view of an up-front signature bass line, but I’m rather partial to the ‘The Art of Parties’ in its original funkified form, on which he still plays an absolute blinder.

9 Francis Rocco Prestia

And that was me for the time being. Having devoted most of the 80s to co-writing songs, I’d decided that the bass role was pretty much along the lines of supplying a funky accompaniment to a soul-orientated finish; the sort of thing in truth, for which ABC – more than any other 80s outfit, in my opinion – had already laid down the template.

However, as the 80s became the 90s, my interest in the bass guitar as an entity was renewed via a combination of joining a jazz class at Kingsway College in Camden, attending the Musician’s Academy above the Bass Centre in Wapping, and hanging around the fringes of the Rare Groove/Acid Jazz scene, centred to a large degree around Muswell Hill (for some reason); all in London, of course.

All of this served as means of investigating and absorbing new – or in many cases, old – sounds and styles… all of it amazing, but none more so – from the perspective of this particular bass player – than that of ‘Tower of Power’, and the extraordinary Francis Rocco Prestia.

Not only does ‘Rocco’ possess jaw-dropping capability when it comes to the continuous flurry of sixteenth notes that constitutes his technique, the fact that he allies it to the most astounding ‘pocket’ (‘tech speak’ denoting ability to provide a groove) is nothing short of breath-taking. It’s pretty much a given that Jaco Pastorius’ own approach to the ‘groove’ was inspired by the man.

I’ve also been fortunate enough to see him live, and even in a band that contains the level of musical accomplishment that ‘Tower of Power’ does, he still gets the most sustained response to the roll call at the end; to the point that you can detect a real measure of humility on his part, in relation to the sheer length and level of the adulation that is heaped upon him.

Here’s the signature piece:

10 James Jamerson

And finally, by way of coming full circle, I got around to the serious business of checking out the Godfather of modern bass playing, and the man to which pretty much any bass player worth his salt must defer: James Jamerson.

I’d always had a huge love of all things Motown – who doesn’t? – but never really taken enough time out, to investigate fully the stuff of which the grooves were made; such is the overall effect, it’s so easy to be distracted by the amazing performances, melodies and other parts of the arrangements anyway. Well, a certain 1989 publication entitled ‘Standing in the Shadows of Motown’ altered all of that.

Up until that point, it had been possible to pick up on some of what Jamerson was doing but due to the recording technology of the time, much of it merged with everything else that was going on, and would take some serious wearing out of vinyl records or cassette tapes to catch the bass in great detail; not aided by his incredible ability to embellish lines as the song progressed.

Well, here at last was a means by which the hitherto hidden could now be revealed, in all of its magisterial finery.  ‘Standing in the Shadows of Motown’ not only provided a biography of the man, but also transcripts of his playing in painstaking and wholly accurate detail; all of which was executed to a high level of performance by some of the top players of the day.

Something of a tragic figure – he died in 1983, aged 47 due to complications related to alcoholism – James Jamerson has more latterly received the full recognition that eluded him in his lifetime i.e. as an individual, and not just as part of the ensemble. ‘Standing in the Shadows of Motown’ is therefore a fitting tribute and a must-buy for all bass players.

There’s so many tracks one might have chosen by way of demonstrating Jamerson’s greatness, not least of which the likes of ‘(Reach Out), I’ll Be There’, ‘What’s Going On’ and ‘You Keep Me Hangin’ On’ but I’ve opted for ‘I Was Made To Love Her’. It’s performed by Marcus Miller in the book, and provides a great demonstration of many of James Jamerson’s technical capabilities: sixteenth note flourishes; raked open strings and passing notes; as well as an occasional muted string. It’s a study in itself, and worth bearing in mind that it’s far from the hardest piece in the book to execute.

Honorary mentions go to: Stanley Clarke (first two ‘Return to Forever’ albums), Michael Dempsey (‘Club Country’ by the Associates? What’s going on there?), Larry Graham (place in history assured, thanks to the ‘slap’ technique but check out his work with ‘Sly and the Family Stone’ as well); Mike Kerr (Royal Blood fella and first bass player to make me sit up in a while); Phil Lynott (bass playing frontman and poetic champion composer); Charles Mingus (double-bass playing legend and writer of genius); Dee Dee Ramone (simplicity itself… but another wayward poet); and Norman Watt-Roy (all Blockheads output, but if he hadn’t created the definitive ‘Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick’, somebody else would have had to).

Did I miss anybody? Over to you…

In his much celebrated pop-psych manual Outliers, journalist and author Malcolm Gladwell suggests that ‘genius’ and the outstanding achievement that goes with it, is for the most part, governed by explainable circumstance and hard work; rather than the idea that some sort of privilege has been bestowed upon an individual, specially chosen by the gods, fate or any other mysterious factor at work in the world.

In one particularly memorable section, he posits the idea that the majority of high profile Canadian hockey players are born in what constitutes the first few months of the school year, which according to Wikipedia is ‘because children born earlier in the year are statistically larger and more physically mature than their younger competitors, and they are often identified as better athletes, this leads to extra coaching and a higher likelihood of being selected for elite hockey leagues’: a phenomena he refers to as ‘accumulative advantage’.

Apparently, there are parallels with high achieving English football players as well, but as I’m unlikely to commit to the same levels of effort in researching said phenomena, as Mr Gladwell – who it transpires is born at the beginning of September and would therefore be one of the oldest students in his year, had he studied in a UK school – I can’t confirm the veracity of such an assertion. And I’d be more than happy to have it suggested by Mr Gladwell or any other reasonably informed individual, that any such research-orientated reluctance on my part has something to do with me being born in what constitutes the UK spring term, and therefore lacking in the sort of tenacity required for such matters.

Had I realised however, that I could have ascribed a semi-scientific theory to my own youthful veering away from the beautiful game, rather than the self-conscious belief that it might have something to do with being pale, thin and being in possession of a greater than average smattering of ginger genes, it would have been a source of comfort. Particularly, if one compares oneself to those early developers who, not only sustained a place in the school team, but stood around the changing rooms, replete with mutton chops and the sort of Y-fronted pose that could only be found in the form of a Marshall Ward catalogue model. But then I probably wouldn’t have immersed myself in rock‘n’roll to the same extent. Marshall Ward or Marshall Amplifiers, it’s a no-brainer, isn’t it?

Rock’n’roll is of course, the natural habitat of the wan, and from the early teens I took to the form with aplomb, picking up a bass guitar in the process, and learning via the means of punk rock: which conveniently stipulated that ability was no barrier to expression. And naturally, as all stories of this description go, my grades – which had previously been sufficient to convince anyone I had been born on the very first day of the school year – suffered in the process. But it wasn’t all bad: I formed a band with some school friends, we learnt a load of punk covers (Ramones, Pistols, Damned…), played a gig in a church hall, and one of our contemporaries even took the trouble to gob on us. Not only were we easily pleased, we were also keen to catch hepatitis, it would seem.

Shortly thereafter, in punk terms, I sold out. Not only had punk rock inspired a little bit of confidence in me, it had also given way to a little bit of competence as well, and it wasn’t long before I was invited to take my place in a school band that were playing the working men’s’ clubs, and – in so doing – had provided a platform for a number of other individuals to pass through the ranks before me.

My turn had come around, and before long I was catapulted into an adult world consisting of the occasional drink (lager rather than mild, in my case, and sometimes more than occasional), the occasional proposition from middle-aged women (declined in a terrified state, on every occasion), the occasional fight (women again, invariably), and the occasional stripper (always women). All of which took place against a backdrop of ‘Play That Funky Music’, 50s rock’n’roll and a disproportionate number of Eagles’ songs supplied by our good selves. The downside? Having to smile endearingly and wear the sort of stage gear that would cause any self-respecting punk rocker to vomit in disgust.

But I was getting paid to have a good time, and if that meant dodgy stage-gear and Eagles’ songs, so be it. And, if we had two gigs in any given week, not only did it pay, it paid well. Added to which, I managed to pass my exams with little to no effort – a conceit that would come back to bite me on the backside at a future juncture – and if  I had to pay a visit to the headmaster’s office once or twice, to answer his concerns about my lifestyle, it seemed like a sacrifice worth making. The fact is I was learning something that school could never teach me. I was learning that is not only is it possible to do something you enjoy, and do it outside of normal working hours but also, it’s possible make a living in the process; providing one could resist the temptations that come with the lifestyle, obviously. By which, I don’t just mean the middle-aged Mrs Robinsons.

Overall, my working men’s club period lasted about nine months, before I was replaced by a factory lad who the others were training up and bringing to the gig on a regular basis, so he might learn the music, and take over the role. I’d got the impression that the remnants of my punk rock sneeriness weren’t being too well received by my bandmates; along with a misjudged inclination on my part, to play trebly bass fills on a black Rickenbacker copy a la Bruce Foxton, at every available opportunity: particularly galling – or gauling, if you will – during a rendition of Charles Aznavour’s ‘Feelings’, I would imagine. In the end, I couldn’t say I blamed them. If I was in their position, I would have sacked me as well.

And that’s been pretty much the defining feature of my adult life i.e. the desire to do stuff be it music, comedy or otherwise that permitted a lifestyle that chimes with the nocturnal hours; as opposed to getting sacked on a frequent basis. Don’t get me wrong, I like a sunset morn as much as the next individual, but it’s possible to like it even more so when seen from the perspective of having stayed up all night. This is something that has caused me to wonder Malcolm Gladwell-style whether in my case – apart from the obvious wan-ness – whether having been born in the wee small hours of the morning had any sort of a bearing on one’s overall body clock, and inclination towards the nocturnal life. It’s a thought, isn’t it? Maybe I could research it and write something along those lines and call it Dirt Stop Outliers?

I haven’t always managed to sustain this idealised vision of a lifestyle, however. It was suggested to me further down the line – and rightly so – that it might be a good idea to re-assimilate into ‘normal society’, as there was a legitimate need to get one’s act together, and hopefully get a bit credit-worthy in the process. Thus, I ended up becoming an RE Teacher, if for no other reason than due to a certain amount of night-time consumption of the odd philosophical tome or two. Clearly the nocturnal life was still paying off. The re-assimilation process made perfect sense then, but despite that, it still managed to feel a little like the end scene in Goodfellas; the guns, drugs and killings notwithstanding.

Returning to the business of research briefly, a little while ago I saw that some scientists who, after much investigation, had discovered that people are at their most miserable on a Monday. Really? That sounds like a massively pointless undertaking for all concerned? I mean, whatever I might think of Malcolm Gladwell, I at least give him some credit for putting forward interesting ideas that make for further discussion. This sort of guff sounds as though it was funded by the NSS foundation, whereby the ‘N’ stands for the word ‘No’ and the latter ‘S’ stands for Sherlock (as opposed to the Nation Secular Society, with which I also have a connection). Do we honestly need to pay the over-qualified even more money to work this sort of stuff out? Repeated visits to any London commuter station throughout the process of any given week would be more than enough to confirm such speculative ideas immediately; without any need to invite a single soul into the lab.

Which brings me neatly around to the business of my presiding over the Punky Reggae Party on behalf of Hull Kingston Radio, Monday nights at 8pm. I’m told I’m the third incarnation in terms of featured show hosts so I guess that makes me the Jon Pertwee of the set-up; although the debonair spin Jon Pertwee put on his tenure as the Doctor hardly sits with the notion of punk or reggae. Unless, we fast forward a bit and see his Worzel Gummidge creation as some sort of early manifestion of the trustafarian, which it’s arguable was also in-part inspired by the punk movement?

Anyway, the point is that it covers all the bases. It’s on Monday so we can enliven an otherwise dull evening and put forward the notion of the weekend not having quite finished. It also provides an excellent opportunity to celebrate a brilliant period (or periods), in musical history, in a timeless sort of fashion, without – hopefully – waxing too sentimental. And because, for the foreseeable future, it’s going to be taking place after dark, I’m in my own little happy space as well. Who’d have thought that not making the football team could have proved so productive?* You can listen online as well: https://www.hullkingstonradio.com/

*Readers who have retained an affiliation with football may wish to learn that immediately preceding the ‘Punky Reggae Party’ is an hour’s worth of sport-orientated discussion entitled ‘Talking Balls’.

A little while ago, I was asked to contribute an article to a renowned Teacher blog and website: along the lines of how stand-up comedy might be compared to supply teaching. It didn’t make the cut. No biggie, really. The exposure would have been nice but given that I work as a stand-up comedian, rejection and failure are an ever present reality. While I can’t claim to enjoy those sensations any more than the next person, they are – thankfully – a minority outcome, and when they do happen, one learns to get philosophical fairly quickly.

In fact, like a supply teacher, as a stand-up comedian you reach a point – in most cases – whereby you see yourself as someone who is doing a job, and if the persons gathered in front of you don’t like what you do, so be it. Unless you say or do something truly outrageous, it doesn’t mean they have a problem with you as an individual; they just don’t like the cut of your jib.  Mostly, they are indifferent to you as a person, beyond the confines of the given environment. Experienced comedians, like experienced teachers seldom talk along the lines of how much ‘they hated me’ unless it’s with an ironic after-the-event-type-smile. They talk in terms of how the situation might be improved for all concerned.

‘They need to shut the place down. They don’t pay me enough to put myself through that sort of nonsense. Not now, not ever.’

Setting facetiousness aside, are there genuinely any links that can be made between stand-up and supply teaching, however tenuous?

If anything, stand-up comedy is easier. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had people say to me ‘Stand-up comedy? I couldn’t do that. That’s so brave’ but think about it, a comedy audience have paid to see you, and have an expectation that you will justify their investment. That’s a long way away from the potential ‘Great, we’ve got a cover teacher, let’s create mayhem’ outcome that is an ever present possibility at the outset of a day’s supply work. I know which the trickier situation to negotiate is by far.

And anyway, conflating the idea of stand-up comedy and bravery is a trifle excessive, is it not? While there have been instances of boundary-breaking comedians who set out to challenge convention, broaden the cultural palette, and in so doing faced a great deal of hostility, in the majority of cases, stand-up comedy is populated by a certain type of – albeit talented – narcissist who’s initial motive is an abiding need to have their existence validated in the immediate moment, by virtue of laughter.  The better ones are aware of this of course, and concentrate on getting good at the craft.  Whether they regard themselves as brave or not is a matter for the individual psyche, but I’ve yet to see a stand-up colleague featured on ‘The Pride of Britain’ awards; unless they’re the one presiding over the event.

Given then, the accepted belief that that we have a relatively short amount of time in which to make an impression, my experience suggests one is much more likely to receive a heckle from a student in a ‘supply’ situation rather than an audience member in a comedy club, irrespective of how much confidence is being exuded: ‘Sir, you look like Billy Connolly’ being a frequent contribution at one time, in my case. I don’t but what are the chances eh? And I’ve lost count of the number of times my surname has inspired a succession of poor but good natured Gollum impersonations.

In a comedy setting any dissent (i.e. heckling) is dealt with in the form of highly amusing spontaneous counter remark, or in many cases, a potentially brutal put-down. You can’t do that at the beginning of a day’s supply.

‘Sir, you look like Billy Connolly’

‘In which case, so will you one day, given the extent to which I know your mum’ (I assume we understand the thinly veneered and highly ‘hilarious’ comedy subtext being implied here?)

Any retorts, witty or otherwise at the start of the school day are likely to backfire. It’s too early, you haven’t won over the kids sufficiently, and anyway, you’re not being employed to provide entertainment. No, the approach that is required is to respond with an air of relaxed but controlled authority, and do your best to avoid clichés along the lines of ‘It’s your time you’re wasting. Any time we lose now, you will have to make up for, at break time’. If for no other reason than you don’t want to talking in terms of surrendering your own break time already, in the process.

And what of the material you might ask? Well, in a comedy situation, much of what one offers, is a bunch of ideas you’ve taken around the place already, polishing them as you go. Which is why, whenever I get complimented and an audience member asks me if I just made it up off the top of my head, I always tell them ‘yes’. I wouldn’t want to disappoint anybody.

Conversely, on a supply job, if the plans you’ve been handed by a helpful TA – always an asset – are any good, you’ve got about 10 – 15 minutes, in a primary situation, to reduce the first lesson to a series of bullet points, before the kids come in, and you have to hit the play button. Less so, in some secondary situations whereby you might have to absorb them at the top of the lesson, with the students already present in the room.

If anything it’s more akin to the semi-spontaneous skills required of the comedy MC: the individual who performs the thankless task of keeping the audience on track between the acts, and when not being met with indifference, meets with suggestions along the lines of ‘You were pretty good as well. You should have go at it’. Duh!

Teaching supply can also be like the role of the MC in that you to have to keep going back to the scene of the awfulness, if you’re having a rubbish time.  If a comedian ‘dies’ on a gig, they’re out of the building. Dying as an MC is much worse: ‘Hello, it’s me again. Yes, I’m still terrible, it would seem’. And so it is with supply. Start badly, and not only is there a chance that will continue, the likelihood is that it’s only going to get worse, as the kids get more animated, and you get more tired. And that’s before we factor in the possibilities of the high sugar content lunchtime, and ‘difficult to control’ open spaces such as drama studios and fields. Yup, there’s nothing quite like arriving at a supply job, and realising that there’s a lesson or two of PE on the agenda. If you ever thought PE teachers looked vaguely ridiculous encircling the throng with their whistles and their tracksuits, you want to try doing the same in a suit.

Overall though, in the case of both stand-up and supply teaching, it’s true to say that if you do well, you’ll get invited back. Obviously, there can be an element of ‘the face don’t fit’ in both instances but, for the most part, merit wins.  So much so that in both areas of endeavour, you can build up a bit of a portfolio of potential work outlets, and choose how to balance the two, or further, choose one over the other.  Over the same period of time, you may even get to grips with the sometimes trickier business of negotiating both the dressing rooms of the comedy world and the staff rooms of the teaching world. But those are a couple of other comparisons entirely.