Leatherhead

What is this place?

I find myself in a hideous charnel house of writhing bodies, their tortured limbs flailing in agony to a twisted, contorted beat which seems to emanate from the very bowels of the earth itself. I am in some kind of infernal cave, lit by a hellish blood-red light that pulses like the internal organs of some maleficient monster. Pale agonised faces dance before my eyes, a monstrous gallery of macabre mockery, mocking me monstrously in a macabre sort of way.

A jerking mannequin draped in tattered black rags tap dances crazily on silver boots across my tormented field of vision, as though driven to do so by some malevolent Michael O'Flatley. This wild phantom’s jet-black hair whips across my burning face like a cat o’ nine tails. “Come on, Kuntz!” The ghoulish deathly-white face lears at me with gimlet-eyes. Its voice cackles through vampiric lips the colour of fresh arterial blood. “They're playing Get Down With It!” Gnarled fingers grope at my flayed body, tugging at me, trying to drag me Down With It... to Hell, or worse. I pull away, a feeble, lifeless gesture - I am losing control of my limbs.

The witch-like temptress tap dances away, fading into the maelstrom of tangled, tormented bodies. A sense of impending horror paralyses me. Something is approaching, some misbegotten, misshapen fiend is shuffling inexorably towards me. Its malformed body is draped in a funereal shroud; a bowler hat sits on its enlarged head. As the vile creature approaches, I can see that it has no human face. There are slits where the eyes should be; a gash where the mouth should be. The rest is grey, putrid flesh. What perversion of humanity is this? What monstrosity has the devil now thought fit to assail me with.

“Alright, Kuntz?” The voice is sneering and cynical. “Who are you?” I ask, though my voice seems to come from a thousand miles away. “What? Are you taking the piss, Kuntz? I am Joseph Merrick. Obviously.” As it speaks the creature raises its arms, lifting the shroud - which I now see is a Victorian gentleman’s cape, XS-size - until it resembles the wings of a raven, or some other hideous, monstrous bird, perhaps a Fulmar, or a bat, even. “Joseph Merrick?” I stammer. “I don’t recall having met...”

At this query, genuinely meant, the creature becomes agitated - I seem to have angered the beast with my ignorant foolish ignorance. “Why you little…” The creature waves a clenched fist at me, exasperated. “You’re a fucking cunt, Kuntz. You know exactly who Joseph Merrick is. Joseph Merrick... The Elephant Man.” I am still baffled. “The Elephant Man?” I respond. “Did we meet at a party or something?” “For fuck’s sake, Kuntz. The Elephant Man, you know? Also known as...” The creature pauses, taunting me with my ignorance. “Jack the Ripper!” At this revelation, the hideous figure takes a step backwards that I might take in the full horror of what it is that confronts me. I am overcome with a nameless dread. I can feel myself tumbling into unconsciousness, and as the room and its writhing occupants recede into infinity, a voice echoes down the vast eons of time to rattle against my tortured eardrums. “Enjoying your cocktail, Kuntz?”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Where am I now?

I wake to find a grotesque, hydra-headed gargoyle looming above me, it’s drooling jaws twisted into a hideously-mangled sneer. “Kuntz!” The voice tears through my very soul like the Devil’s own Aldi Brand Powerflex Economy Combined Bandsaw and Twigboy Shredder, a mere twenty-nine pounds and ninety pence in what you British laughingly call your sterling money. But only while stocks last. When they’re gone, they’re gone. GONE, I tell you! NEVER to return...

“Kuntz!” It is as though my eardrums are being assailed by a thousand angry honeybadgers, those dread Masters of Mayhem, high on a corrupted cocktail of amphetamines and Pro-Plus, blended violently in a Costa-coffee double-shot triple Americano siphoned from some diabolical urinary tract - and laced with High Commissioner for extra mayhem. To go. “Come on Kuntz! Condition of being insane! Seven letters. ‘M’ something; ‘D’; ‘N’ something, something ‘S’! Come on Kuntz!” A chorus of satanic voices joins in. “Come on, Kuntz! Come on, Kuntz!”

As the demented choir chants discordantly, a voice joins them, its gutteral Bavarian tones as harsh as any Wagnerian underworld demon: “Answer ze kvestion, Kuntz. You VILL answer ze kvestion!” Pallid faces fade in and out of the blood red mist that hangs in curtains before my tortured eyes, their mouths contorted, tongues lolling, teeth decayed and collapsing. I try desperately to protest that this isn’t strictly speaking a question at all, but the words that emerge from my dribbling maw are unrecognisable, even to me. Some malevolent puppet-master is controlling my lips.

Strange runes shudder across the demonic landscape of my madness; they form biblical names, dark and terrifying - St Ella, St Etienne - it is as though the very hosts of Heaven have themselves made a dark pact with their old drinking buddy, Lucifer, and have embarked on an apocalyptic pub-crawl through the Wetherspoons and late-night Travelodge bars of my skull.

A sinister voice whispers to me over my shoulder: “Alright, chief?” I turn slowly, and find myself face to face with what surely must be the Sabbath Goat Himself, or at least one of his trusted lieutenants. Horns protrude from this monster’s bald pate, the polished surface of which reflects the garish lighting of this abbatoir of insanity in which I have been incarcerated. A pair of hideous yellow hands appear clutching some kind of shroud and begin ritualistically to caress what passes for the demon’s scalp, bringing it to a lurid shine before passing on to torture some other poor victim of the Devil’s dread machinations.

“Not far now, Kuntz.” The voice rasps, taunting me with the promise of an end to this crazed nightmare. “Less than one mile.” All around me the demonic choir takes up the chant: “One mile! One mile!” The rasping voice retorts: “Less than one mile, I reckon. Roughly speaking.” And the voice is rough indeed, as rough as a Lidl Extra Rough Electronic Sanding Block With Cocktail Shaker Attachment, the equivalent of thirty-seven of our good European euros; offer available throughout eternity. Or while stocks last.

I laugh uncontrollably. One mile. It is surely the funniest phrase in the entire history of the world so why does no-one else laugh? I try to spit out an insult at these humourless devils, but I cannot seem to form words.

A deep rumble begins, reverberating throughout my entire body. It is as though the gates of Hell are being dragged open by teams of infernal drunken mammoths wearing leaden Ugg boots. The demonic choir begins to chant a new refrain as though to announce the impending arrival of some fresh horror.

Gabba Gabba, Hey! Gabba Gabba, Hey!

The rumble resolves itself into a voice so low that it is like the sonic attack that Messrs Hawkwind and Co warned us about all those years ago. A voice so low that it unsettles the very fabric of the universe, simultaneously loosening one’s fillings and one’s bowels. And then I know with absolute and utter certainty that I am finally in the presence of BeelzeBob Himself, the High Commissioner of Hell. “Got any food on you, Kuntz?" booms The Voice. "I’m starving.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

How long have I endured this diabolical torture? How long have I travelled in this infernal transport on the Highway to Hell? When will this torture end?

As though in answer to my unspoken questions a voice drifts into my head, a soft, flowing, melifluous voice, strangely comforting in this dread place. “Hang on, Kuntz! Not much further now. We’re going hell for leather.”

Hell for Leather.

The demented choir takes up the diabolical refrain: “Hell for leather, hell for leather, hell for leather.”

It seems we’re going hell for leather.

Hell for...

Hell or...

Leatherhead?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

What is this place?

I am lying on my back on a bed in a white room. Is this some kind of operating theatre? Are the infamous Barber-Surgeons of Hades about to commence the amputation of my soul? My head is being pounded from the inside by a thousand devilish trolls who have all been issued with blunt pickaxes for maximum cruelty. My eyes are burning like hot cinders and my mouth is so dry it must surely have been stuffed with infernal blotting paper from the Devil’s own stationery cupboard.

Time passes. I drift in and out of consciousness. Each time I surface the pounding in my head is a little more distant, a little less intrusive, and my eyes feel less raw. After who knows how many eons I realise that I can feel my limbs again, and that I can move them at will. As my eyes improve, the room comes into focus: there are light fittings, curtains, a kettle, a mirror, doors leading... where? My mouth is painfully dry. A kettle suggests water. I decide that it is time I tried to get up and find something to drink. As I pull myself upright, something falls from chest. It is an envelope containing a short, hand-written note and some money - £10 in coins to be precise. The note reads:

“Dear Randy, welcome to Leatherhead Travelodge. We decided it would be safer to leave you here than to bring you back to Wolverhampton with us (that Dr Jones… What is he like, eh? What is he even like? Still, he’s lovely really...) We all hope you enjoyed the tour. If you’re hungry when you wake up there’s a Wetherspoon’s up the road a bit. They’ll do you a lovely full English and you’ll still have enough change for the bus up to London, yeah? Keep in touch! Love, the ‘gales.”

Rock ‘n’ roll.

It’s a funny old spiele.

Coda: The Descent Into the Maelstrom... Part Two

It’s now 11.30pm, and the Prince Albert staff are gently clearing the pub of customers. Later on we will drive to the Travelodge at Leatherhead en route back to the Midlands, but it’s the last night of the tour and right now it’s party time, But where to go? Phil and Shelley suggest that we head across the street for cocktails and late-night live music to the Green Door – a late night haunt for Brighton’s glitterati.

When we arrive, there is a queue of several dozen scantily clad local ‘faces’ waiting to find out if they’ll be let inside tonight, but Phil knows the guys on the door. The security rope is pulled aside to admit the band as Brighton’s Bright Young Things crane their necks for a glimpse of these unlikely celebrities. A tottering Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd is stopped by the doormen and asked to surrender an almost depleted bottle of his beloved High Commissioner. It is a tense moment as Lloyd squares up to the two doormen, seemingly prepared to defend his hard-earned third bottle of the evening against whatever they can throw at him. But before any blows can be exchanged, Lloyd slowly, defiantly lifts the bottle to his lips and drains the contents in one go before staggering triumphantly into the club. And they say that the spirit of punk is dead!

Inside, we are led by Phil to a booth which has been reserved especially for the band. There is a plush, semi-circular bench-seat clad in dark red leather arranged around a gloss-black circular table – room enough to seat the entire entourage. The booth’s sole occupant – a harrassed-looking Tobi Juggs – sits nursing a lemonade. He gets up as we approach and has to shout to be heard over the band playing live on stage: “I know. I know,” he says, “it’s my round.” And with an air of infinitely resigned sadness he mopes off in the direction of the bar.

As we settle ourselves around the table, we realise that Mark ‘Ace’ Jones is nowhere to be seen. “Sit. Stay. Enjoy,” says Phil calmly. “I’ll go look for him.” The club, meanwhile, is buzzing and the dance floor is full. Onstage, live blues is provided by local heroes The Sussex Shitkickers who are entertaining the joyously inebriated party animals of Brighton with a selection of classic rock ‘n’ roll numbers. I thought that Status Quo had cornered the market on the denim-waistcoats-and-jeans combo, topped off with long grey hair tied in a pony tail, but I was wrong.

Juggs arrives with a tray of drinks and the band settle back, winding down. It’s been a magnificent tour, but now it’s time to relax. To my left, Andreus ‘Andi’ Schmid is quietly chatting to Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell. Over the course of the tour I’ve become aware of an oddly affectionate respect that these two seem to have for each other. Big Dave, for example, is the only member of the band who calls Schmid ‘And’ rather than Andi. When I finally ask Schmid about this his reply surprises me. “So, you call yourself a German, eh, Kuntz? And yet you don’t recognise a kindred Germanic soul shining forth, though admittedly it shines forth from a sehr unordentlich exterior. It must be your stupid, industrial northern upbringing that has blinded you to the real German soul, my friend.”

I’m baffled and intrigued by Schmid’s allusion to Big Dave’s ‘Germanic soul’, and ask him to explain. It turns out to be the case that Big Dave, though British to the core, actually has some German blood running through his veins. A strand of his family on his mother’s side originally hailed from the town of Bielefeld in Westphalia. Dave's knowledge of these relatives is sketchy, but it seems that some scandal or other soured relations with the Bielefelder branch of the Wassell family and they were rarely talked of again. All that Big Dave has been able to establish is that there was a great uncle Ludwig Wassell whose son – Horst – appears to have abandoned a promising musical career to take up with a bunch of unsavoury political activists, sometime during the 1930s or thereabouts. I glance across at Big Dave – all hydra-hair and sawn-off clothing, staring down at his newspaper, pen in hand, deep in thought – and see him in a new light. The light of a Germanic soul, perhaps?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The music seems louder as does the conversation whirling around me, and the lights seem to explode like fireworks in time with the raucous rock ‘n’ roll music. As the familiar ringing guitar notes of “Johnny B Goode” (Chess, 1958. Cat. No. 1691. Produced by Little “Bongo” Kraus. Engineered by John “Johnnie” Johnson. Billboard Top 100 highest position reached: #8) bring the song to a close the audience erupts, clapping, stamping, demanding the next tune now now now. An ear-piercing scream rips from the PA system, silencing the crowd, and as the scream dies away the band pick up a loping riff which I’m sure I recognise, though I can’t actually recall what it is. The singer moves to the front of the stage, cups both hands around the microphone and begins to sing: “There’s a man walks the streets of London late at night...”

Suddenly, Mark ‘Ace’ Jones is standing in front of the table, bowler hat askew on his flowing locks, Ozzy Osbourne shades reflecting the pulsing strobe lights. There is what appears to be a cape draped across his shoulders, though it is rather small – a child’s dressing-up cape rather than a real one – and there is a tall cocktail glass half-full of a dark liquid in his right hand, a celery stick protruding from the top: a Bloody Mary, of course. In his left hand he holds another tall glass which is full to the brim with a yellow liquid. The glass is bedecked with several chunks of fruit, a swizzle stick, a paper umbrella and a sparkler which spits splinters of fire onto the surface of the table. From the PA speakers, the band's backing vocals rip through the club: “Ripper. Jack the Ripper.” Of course. They are playing the old Screaming Lord Sutch classic. (Decca, 1963. Cat. No. F11598. Produced by Joe “Telstar” Meek. Engineered by Heinz “Baked” Beanz. Banned by BBC: Radio Titanic Hot Hits 100 for 11 weeks.)

“I got you a drink, Kuntz. As it’s your last night and all.” Jones holds the glass of yellow liquid towards me, the faintest gesture of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he does so. “It's a cocktail, Kuntz. It’s called a Fruchtig Fruchtig Fruchtig Bananen, apparently.” This is most unexpected. What a very civilised offering! I’m very moved by this gift from the man whom I’d come to regard as something of a threat. What could I possibly have been thinking?Clearly, I have let my own insecurities blind me to Jones’s affectionate and humane nature. Hot tears of shame well up in my eyes though I fight them back and take the drink from Jones’s hand. “Mark... no, Ace... may I call you Ace?” He nods. “Ace, my friend, my brother... your very, very good health.” We touch glasses momentarily, and each down our cocktails in one, in true party spirit. “Delicious, Ace. Fruity, yes - a strong note of banana on the palate, as one would expect, though with an odd metallic finish that lingers at the back of the throat.” “That’s probably just the sparkler, Kuntz.” “Ah, of course, Ace. Of course. All the same... I’ll never forget this moment. Never. It’ll stay with me for as long as I live.”

Mark ‘Ace’ Jones puts his glass down on the table. “Yes, Kuntz. It'll stay with you as long as you live. Just for as long as you live...” And with that enigmatic phrase reverberating in my ears, Jones melts into the crowd and is gone.

Coda: The Descent Into the Maelstrom... Part One

The lights are up, the curtain – proverbially, at least – is down, and the tour is at an end. I join the band in the Prince Albert’s exclusive VIP smoking yard round the back by the dustbins. Lloyd is slumped on a seat in triumph, head lolling back victoriously. An empty bottle of High Commissioner slips slowly, languidly from his slackening grip. His work here is done, and it’s time to relax.

Chippington sits at a table, quietly smoking. A small group of acolytes sit spellbound at his feet. They are waiting, ever waiting for some word, some thought, some observation which they may carry with them throughout the rest of their troubled, ultimately futile lives. Yet Chippington’s enigmatic silence, his refusal to offer them easy solutions, is perhaps the greatest gift he can give them this evening, for in his very silence lies the opportunity to find their own voices. The silence proves too much for one young gunslinger, and with voice a-quiver he manages to speak: “Tell us a joke, Ted.” Chippington takes a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette, and when he eventually speaks, his voice is calm, serious, almost a whisper: “Sorry, mate. I don’t do jokes.” It is a masterclass in understatement, and it is surely one that these young followers will remember for the rest of their lives. As, indeed, will I.

Apperley and Squires sit at a table with Big Dave who, ever the seeker after truth, is still trying to complete the day’s crossword. “Cartoon character in The Beano comic (5,5)". Squires looks puzzled. “The Beano? Never heard of it,” says Squires, disarmingly. “What kind of super-power did this ‘Beano’ have?” Apperley informs Squires that it wasn’t that kind of comic and that ‘The Beano’ was it’s name, and not the name of a character that appeared in it. He then turns to Big Dave. “Biffo’s got five letters. Did he have a surname?” Squires is still puzzled. “Biffo? What kind of a name is that for a superhero? What kind of super-powers did he have, then?” “He was a bear, mate,” replies Apperley. “Biffo the Bear.” Squires looks incredulous. “What? His super-power was that he was a bear? That’s insane!” Big Dave interrupts this exchange: “Got it! It’s Billy Whizz.” Squires is bewildered. “Billy Whizz? Was he a bear, too?” Big Dave and Apperley look at each other in exasperation. With infinite patience, Apperley turns to Squires. “No, Paul. He’s a kid and he does have a super-power. Kind of. He can run really fast.” Squires looks at Apperley in frank disbelief. “What? That’s it? He can run really fast? That's his super-power? How lame is that...”

“And this is Randy. You know, the guy who’s been blogging our tour?” Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson grabs my arm and, wheeling me about, tears me away from the intellectual cut-and-thrust of Big Dave's crossword table. Kitson is standing with two people – a man and a woman, dressed identically in combat jackets, black jeans and Dr Marten boots. “Randy’s lovely. And German, too. Lovely and German. Oh listen to me! It’s coming out all wrong! Anyway, Randy, meet Id and Margi. They’re the ‘gales Number One Fans. They're really lovely.”

Kitson’s disappears into the throng and I shake hands with these two smiling, eager people. My journalistic instincts immediately recognise an opportunity to get to the heart of what it means to be a Nightingales fan. “Margi... and... Id? Did I hear that correctly? Id?” Margi answers on Id’s behalf. “Yes. His parents were both Freudian psychoanalysts and they...” Seemlessly, Id takes up the narrative: “... named me Id after one of the three parts of Freud’s model of the...” And just as seemlessly, the narrative passes back again to Margi: “... human psyche. Id has two brothers. Unfortunately, he was...” Id, again: “... the youngest of the three.”

I’m intrigued by this couple’s habit of finishing each other’s sentences. It’s as though their minds are linked by some powerful telepathic connection. “Forgive me for interrupting,” I say. “But are you brother and sister? Twins, maybe?” Their laughter at my question is not mocking; I’m obviously not the first to have made this mistake. “Goodness, no!” Margi, this time. “No no no. We’re married. Have been for nearly...” Id takes up the sentence: “... nine years. Nine years this September.” This last word is chimed in unison, and causes more laughter. This level of closeness is rare indeed, and I find myself more than a little envious of their instinctive knowledge of each other’s thought-processes.

But charming as this couple is, I remember why it is that I’m talking to them in this place and on this night. “So, you’re the band’s number one fans, are you?” At which they both throw open their combat jackets to reveal identical T-shirts on which is scrawled – in a passable imitation of the official Nightingales font – the legend: I’m a Gailette For Fuck’s Sake. “We made them...” says Margi. “... ourselves” says Id.

Over the next half-an-hour I learn a lot more about this intriguing couple and their quite extraordinary devotion to the maverick misfits whose end-of-tour gig we’ve all just witnessed. I learn of the summer house which they built in the grounds of their Brighton-based home, and which houses their archive of Nightingales paraphernalia. They have made it their mission unofficially to curate the band’s legacy, and to this end they have trawled the record shops and second-hand stalls of the world – whether in person or via the web – to ensure that their collection of discs, posters, T-shirts, kazoos, badges and other merchandise is the most complete in the world. “There’s a guy in Wisconsin who claims...” says Id. Over to Margi: “... that his collection is more complete than...” Back to Id: “... ours. But he refuses to...” Margi, once more: “... produce a catalogue, so we just...” Id again: “... don’t believe him. And anyway...” At this point, the pair look at each other with conspiratorial eyes, then Margi takes up the sentence: “... he doesn’t have a Nightingales Vajazzle Kit!” “No,” says Id. “And we know this for sure, because there were only six of them ever made... “ Back to Margi: “... and we can account for all of them. We’ve spoken to the owners of the other five...”

The call for last orders brings our fascinating conversation to an abrupt end, and Id and Margi disappear inside. “I’m going to finish with a pint of Trubshaw’s Lament,” says Id as they make their way into the pub. “Which, if I remember correctly, has an ABV of 4.3%.” Margi’s voice drifts back through the open door: “I think you’ll find it’s 4.4% my darling.” An extraordinary couple indeed.



Gig #16: Prince Albert, Brighton 27 April 2014

I head back up to the venue with the band. At the top of the stairs a troubled-looking youth with high cheek-bones and a rockabilly quiff of near-Marge Simpson proportions is taking tickets. In spite of the sunshine outside he wears a ski jumper which I can only guess is intended as an ironic comment upon the balmy April weather. Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd introduces us: “Tobi. Meet Randy Kuntz. He’s German. Randy, meet Tobi Juggs. He’s not German.” We shake hands, and chat for a few moments while behind me Shelley paces up and down, stiletto heels clicking on the wooden floor, phone clamped to her ear. “Yeah. It’s all good. The support’s about to go on. Yeah, sure. I’ll fax them over to you now. No, that’s taken care of. Everything’s under control at this end...” I leave Tobi to his ticket-collecting duties, and enter the venue.

Support this evening is Helen McCookerybook, formerly of Brighton-based band The Chefs (and later Helen and the Horns). McCookerybook stands onstage, fairly hidden behind the guitar she picks so expertly, and sings her self-penned songs in a voice that sounds at once joyful and anxious, as though after years of performing in her bedroom to only her cat, her budgerigar and occasional embarrassed glimpses of herself in the dressing-table mirror, she can’t quite believe she’s actually playing on a real stage to a real audience in a real venue. Onstage her manner is self-deprecating, though there is a worldliness about her songs that is anything but.

I confess, I was a little baffled by the audience’s reaction to McCookerybook’s set. During the course of each song the audience members listen with a rare intensity, brows furrowed in concentration, occasionally scribbling notes on scraps of paper or in notebooks which they happen to have brought with them. What’s going on? Can this really be an audience entirely comprised of music journalists bent on reviewing the gig? At the end of each song there is a smattering of distracted applause which soon gives way to the murmur of voices as members of the audience confer with each other. Reviewers exchanging notes? It’s unheard of.

Noticing my bewilderment, Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd takes a long quaff from his pint glass of High Commissioner and proceeds to explain. It seems that woven into each song in McCookerybook’s set – regardless of the ostensible subject-matter – is a recipe from any one of the many Michelin-starred gourmet bistros with which Brighton is endowed, though the recipe will be woven into each song in the form of a puzzle. It might be in the form of an acrostic, with the first letter of each line spelling out the ingredients; or it might be that the recipe’s name is announced in the form of a pun (I heard her sing: “and the lad I once knew, he was Irish too”. The recipe? ‘Irish too’ becomes Irish stew. Ingenious!)

At the end of her set, McCookerybook retires to a corner of the venue and begins marking the various papers which the audience have handed to her. Later, in a brief, improvised ceremony, she will present a Marco Pierre White De-luxe Gourmet Combined Whisk and Walnut Cracker to the person who has had most success in decoding the gig’s recipes. Out of the corner of my eye I notice bowler-hatted Mark ‘Ace’ Jones glowering enviously in McCookerybook’s direction. Her merchandising idea is far more ingenious than any of the various trinkets and gewgaws ranged on the table before him.

This far into the tour social media has done its work and the audience is well aware that once Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington takes the stage there’ll be no let up for well over an hour. The Nightingales’ non-stop set has become something of a talking point during the course of this tour, and the twittersphere has been alive with tales of unwitting punters caught short during the band’s relentless scatterbox delivery. With this in mind, and having handed their recipe sheets to McCookerybook, the audience vacates the room. Downstairs, drinks are bought, cigarettes are smoked, and a queue forms for the toilet while upstairs Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires takes up his position at the mixing desk. Tonight is going to be brutal. No doubt about it.

Fifteen minutes later the room is packed, and the atmosphere is electric. A spontaneous cheer goes up and Chippington is onstage, familiar can of Stella Artois in his hand. As the cheers begin to subside someone in the crowd shouts “Alright, chief?” They say that comedy is all about timing and tonight Chippington proves the truth of this adage. He glares in the general direction of the voice, and a heartbeat later growls simply: “I won’t be doing any of my chief material this evening, mate.” The audience goes wild - Chippington’s only just started the fight, but he’s already won the war.

But tonight, it’s more than about winning, for Brighton is a seaside town and the Torquay material has a special resonance for this crowd. Subtle changes to his set - “I was walking along the beach the other day...” - demonstrate Chippington’s instinctive rapport with tonight’s audience. I spot several pairs of Torquay trousers amongst the audience, a self-conscious statement of solidarity with their hero. Chippington’s set tonight is a Tour de France of biting social commentary, bitter political observation and wry, satirical humour, all delivered in the strange hypnotic acapella rap style he has made his own.

Chippington leaves the stage to wild applause, but before the cacophony can begin to fade down the Nightingales are onstage and the opening riff of viral hit “Bullet for Gove” rings out. Chippington may have lit the fuse, but tonight the Nightingales are the dynamite: the crowd erupts, and for the next hour they are alternately punched and pummeled, battered and berated, tickled and tormented, slapped and stroked, and occasionally led down a dark alley on a moonless night to be mugged and left for dead, only to be revived by some passing Good Samaritan before the whole damn nightmare starts all over again. Now that’s rock ‘n’ roll! Or as we say in Germany: das ist der Rocken ‘n’ der Rollen!

The band’s latest LP For Fuck’s Sake has been getting a considerable amount of airplay during the course of the tour, and it’s good to see a crowd that is evidently familiar with much of the new material. It’s also clear that the band can sense the audience’s enthusiasm - this may be the last date of the tour but their rock ‘n’ roll mojos are clearly being recharged by the energy pouring from the crowd. Schmid, Kitson and Apperley are playing tonight with an effortless, swaggering attack, switchblading between numbers, tempo changes, light and shade - Schmid with eyes closed, Kitson hair flailing, face hidden, occasionally surfacing to exchange a grin with Apperley. And Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd, barely moving from centre-stage from where he fires off his barrage of lyrics, occasionally crouching down to give the band some visual space.

As the psyechedelic tornado that is “Real Gone Daddy” batters the room, I feel something sharp poke me in the back. I turn quickly, and out of the corner of my eye I glimpse the flash of a blade. The room is crowded and the lights are pulsing a multi-coloured strobe pattern in time with the song so it’s difficult to see clearly, but I’m sure I can make out a dark figure slipping through the crowd in the direction of the merch desk. As best I can I feel my back for any wounds but thankfully there’s nothing. Am I imagining things? Is my paranoia running away with me? I crane my neck in the direction of the merch desk. Mark ‘Ace’ Jones is there sure enough, bowler hatted head nodding woozily in time with the music, Ozzy Osborne glasses flickering with reflected light, a half-empty glass of beer in each hand.

It’s the last night of the UK tour, and so the band – as much for their own enjoyment as to reward the audiences’s enthusiasm – play that rare thing... an encore. Tonight, Don’t’cha Rock is followed by a cover of one of the more obscure Troggs numbers – 10 Downing Street – complete with twee, falsetto backing vocals from Apperley and Kitson. It’s unexpected, and it’s a triumph. It’s followed by the last number of the night – and of the tour – and it’s completely out of left field. It’s a cover of Right Said Fred’s one-off No. 1 global smash hit Deeply Dippy. The band have covered this number on previous tours, and RSF’s main man Richard ‘Out-and-rageous-with-it’ Fairbrass has been tweeting about the gig all week, so this cover is no doubt by way of a thank you to one of the Nightingales’ greatest inspirations (alongside Reg ‘Elvis’ Presley and the Ramones, off course.)

Unfortunately, Fairbrass is in Bognor this evening playing Widow Twankey in Werner Herzog’s neo-expressionist stage version of the otherwise-populist pantomime Aladdin and so has sent along his third cousin, twice removed – Charlie ‘Chuckles’ Finklebaum – as his Brighton-based representative and the ‘gales feel sufficiently honoured to acknowledge his presence with their re-imagining of Finklebaum’s distant cousin’s one-off No. 1 smash hit record. It’s a stormer, and takes the audience completely by surprise. As the band leave the stage to thunderous applause, Finklebaum smiles quietly to himself before lifting his phone to his ear. No doubt his distant cousin is waiting with baited breath for the low-down on the Nightingales’ tribute to his immortal pop smash. As I brush past Finklebaum, I hear the word ‘awesome’. Or perhaps it was ‘lawsuit’?

Day 16: Is this the end, beautiful friends?

And so, the final day of the UK leg of the Nightingales’ For Fuck’s Sake tour begins where it all started – at the band’s Oaklands Road headquarters (Proprietor: Mark ‘Ace’ Jones’) in Wolverhampton. Tonight’s gig is in Brighton and an early start is needed if the band are to arrive in time for their soundcheck. But the band drove back from Bradford after last night’s gig, and the late night appears to be taking it’s toll: it’s eleven o’clock and the only person to have emerged so far, apart from myself, is legendary Nightingales guitarist Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley who flits from room to room wearing an apron on which is written the legend I’m with stoopid – probably the name of some obscure punk band from the late 1970s he admires – and carrying a Dyson Cyclonic Mk. III Turbo electric feather duster. As usual, his delicate guitar player’s hands are protected by a pair of his trademark yellow Marigold gloves.

I’m working at the kitchen table when Apperley joins me for a tea break, and so I decide to take the opportunity to interview him. I break the ice by asking him about his nickname: ‘Roots’. “It dates from my time with The Prefects,” he explains. “Of course we all started out with short spiky haircuts – we were young and naive – but it wasn’t long before we got bored with the uniform.” This was the time, not only of punk rock, but also of the tail end of the disco phenomenon, and Apperley’s curly hair it seems was popularly thought to resemble an ‘Afro’. This resemblance to the favoured hairstyle of black American soul artists, when coupled with Apperley’s love of reggae music and the broadcasting, at that time, of the TV dramatisation of Roots - African-American author Alex Haley’s autobiographical novel tracing his roots back to the days of slavery - perhaps inevitably led to his nickname. “Yes, it was all those things,” he agrees. “And also the fact that I have a natural sense of rythmn and an enormous cock.”

As Apperley resumes his housework, an email arrives from my editor at Der Mojo, Hermann Wilhelm (‘H. W.’) Schinkentrinkengrüber, informing me that the management team have turned down my request for funds to accompany the Nightingales on the Irish leg of their tour. Gott im Himmel! These bureaucrats are all the same! It seems that tonight’s gig in Brighton will be my last night with this enigmatic, talented and largely unknown group.

Somehow, by the time Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell arrives, the band are up and ready to roll, and just as soon as Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd has finished rinsing his teeth with High Commissioner, we can depart for Brighton. But where is Mark ‘Ace’ Jones? He appears just in time to supervise the loading of the several trunk-loads of merchandise he feels will be needed for tonight’s gig. For the first time on this tour, Jones (pictured left - photograph by Paul 'Carpet' Squires. Used with permission.) is sporting a bowler hat and is wearing a T-shirt on which is crudely inscribed in felt pen: ‘Jones is the one who will not be blamed for nothing’. What can it all mean?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

“First services, Dave!” Just over an hour after leaving Wolverhampton, we turn off the motorway into the historic Cherwell Valley service area where Big Dave commences his traditional five laps of the car park before pulling into a vacant space. This careful reconnoitre of the site pays off: as the doors of the van slide open we are greeted with a superb panoramic view of the entire service station area, its rolling acres of tarmac edged with utilitarian greenery and dotted here and there with joyful, picnicking families. In the mid-afternoon sunshine, the scene assumes a dream-like quality. In the distance, like a shimmering mirage in the afternoon heat, we can just about make out the service station building itself. So enticing is the vista that greets our eyes that, before Big Dave has had a chance to complete the complex array of engine shut-down procedures, the band are out in the sunshine, and playfully running across the largely vacant car-park towards the toilets.

The engine finally falls silent, and I find myself alone in the body of the van amidst a sea of empty Stella Artois cans. Up front, Big Dave turns his attention to his newspaper. He may look like a refugee from the Hawkwind road crew, but appearances can be deceptive, for whenever there is a spare moment away from his driving duties you are likely to find Big Dave poring over his newspaper, no doubt keeping up with the latest developments in politics and current affairs, or the ups and downs off the domestic economy and the fortunes of the global financial markets. “Anyone in the van?” he asks. I answer in the affirmative. “OK, Kuntz. The clue is Domestic animal which isn’t a dog (3). The middle letter’s an ‘a’, so I reckon it could be ‘Rat’...”

The band return, ambling slowly across the vast plains of the car-park. As they gather at the van, Big Dave folds his newspaper and gets out to stretch his legs. “Right, I’m off to get a coffee. Anybody want anything?” And with these words, Big Dave begins the long trek towards the service station building.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

As the sun begins its slow descent into evening, we arrive at the Prince Albert in Brighton. It is a venue that the Nightingales have played many times before, and the landlord - affectionately known by musicians the world over as Grizzled Chris - greets the band like old friends. Pints of Pantsdown Brewery’s oddly-named Battyboys’ Upchuff (ABV 4.2%) are lined up on the bar, and the band toast the health of the landlord and his motley staff before emptying their glasses and heading upstairs for their soundcheck.

In the venue itself, representatives from the internationally-renowned Spinningchilli Corporation (Entertainments Division UK) plc are on hand to ensure that the band have everything they need. Shelley and Phil are Spinningchilli’s UK representatives for this evening, and they are on the case. Shelley paces the room in her leather catsuit and stiletto-heeled fetish boots, Vivienne Westwood shades framed by her tumbling jet-black Siouxsie Sue locks, smart phone clamped permanently to her ear. She is liaising with Spinningchilli’s corporate headquarters in the Cayman Islands while Phil, dressed in his three-quarter length leather trenchcoat and tartan strides, chews thoughfully on the arm of his Ray-Ban Wayfarers as he listens to Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd’s list of concerns. I hear Robert’s voice murmuring the phrase ‘High Commissioner’ to which Phil nods understandingly before reaching for his own phone.

From the mixing desk cockpit, Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires is already barking insults at the band as they unpack their equipment and set up. Apperley is already in tears - it’s going to be an emotional night all round. Meanwhile, Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington is prowling the room, re-aquainting himself with the space, getting a sense of how the gig will feel from the perspective of the audience. It is this kind of preparation, this attention to detail, that makes him such a formidable performer.

At the back of the room there is a small bar at which Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell sits, newspaper in front of him, pen in hand. Beside him stands bowler-hatted Mark ‘Ace’ Jones busily avoiding setting up the merch desk. Jones drank steadily on the journey down and said little. Cluching a pint of beer in each hand, he appears to be muttering darkly to himself whilst swaying gently to and fro. Though I try to avoid direct eye contact with him - or at least with his trademark Ozzy Osbourne shades - I can’t shake the feeling that I am somehow the object of his attention. Perhaps I’m just tired after a long and emotional day; I must try to shake off these paranoid fears.

“Look.” A sharp voice cuts through the background noise waking me from my reverie. It is Phil. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your budgets. I’ve got my artist standing here NOW. He needs his High Commissioner NOW. Not tomorrow. Not tonight. Not in an hour. NOW! Don’t give me excuses. I can’t give my artist excuses. He can’t drink excuses.” Everyone in the room has stopped what they’re doing to watch Phil in action. “Let me spell it out for you, Juggs: if it’s not here in the next five minutes I will personally guarantee that you’re back washing condoms at Fat Larry’s place down by the pier before the first punter arrives. Am I getting through to you, Juggs? Am I? Well, am I?” Lowering his phone, he turns to Lloyd, a faint smile playing at the edges of his mouth. His voice is calm; it’s as though he’s never been angry in his life. “On it’s way, Robert. Five minutes.” Robert nods acknowledgement and steps up to the microphone for the soundcheck.

I leave the band to it and head downstairs to sit in the small outdoor area. It’s my last night with the band, and I must admit to feeling a little melancholy. I figure that a few minutes alone in the evening sunshine with a pint of the Marston Brewery’s famous Owd Rogering (ABV 7.6%) will give me a chance to gather my thoughts for the evening ahead. Outside there is a buzz of excitement in the air and the talk is all of the evening’s gig: “Who’s playing? The Nine Inch Nails? I’ve heard of them haven’t I?”; “Attacked the audience with a mop, so I heard”; “Threw the empty bottle into the crowd then fell off the stage”; “Nightingales? Are they still going then?” and so on. My journalistic instincts kick in - I need to capture these comments for my article. I pull my laptop from its case and open the lid. A note falls out onto the table. Though it’s handwritten - in red ink - it doesn’t seem to have been written with a pen so much as scratched into the paper by a rusty nail. It reads: “There will be blood. One will die. You have been warned.” It is signed simply: “Jack”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"Alles gut, Kuntz?” I’m joined by Andreas ‘Andi’ Schmid, clutching a pint of ale. Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson is not far behind: “Everything OK, Randy? You look a bit pale.” The rest of the band join us. “I think Kuntz has been hitting the Owd Rogering a bit too hard,” says Apperley. “He’s obviously not used to a right good rogering,” quips Squires, upon which he and Apperley hi-five each other. I know they all mean well, and I’m touched by their concern - I will miss them all when I’m back in the Fatherland. “Alright, Kuntz?” Big Dave emerges from the building – newspaper in one hand, pen in the other – and sits down with us. “Here’s one. Illegal killing (6). ‘M’ something; something,’D’; something ‘R’?” Without hesitation, everyone choruses the answer: “Murder, Dave.”

I notice that Jones has not joined us. “He’s finally decided to sort the merch desk out,” says Kitson. “He’ll be up there for at least an hour now.” Should I show them the note? I’m not sure... Big Dave’s voice sweeps away my dark musings. “Here’s another one. Not of sound mind (6). ‘I’ something; something...” Before Big Dave can finish, the band once again chorus the answer: “Insane, Dave.”

Shelley joins us, talking quietly into her phone. “Yeah, yeah. We’re good. Yeah, we’re on it. No, the paperwork is all sorted - we’re faxing it over now. Yeah, yeah. Phil’s on the case. No, we’re all good to go here. It’s gonna be awesome. Later. Ciao. Ciao.” She puts the phone down on the table and surveys the band through her Vivienne Westwood shades before breaking into a grin. “Come on, guys! Let’s see some smiles on those faces. It’s all good news. We’ve got press coming down later. The Brighton and Hove Examiner is sending someone over; the Sussex Advertiser too, and the Portslade Cryer. I’m waiting for confirmation from the guys at Laid, but that’s only a local ‘what’s on’ thing so no biggie if they don’t send someone. We tried for Thrust, too. It’s a sado-masochist thing but we thought, well hey: edgy, you know? Edgy’s good, yeah? Am I right?” Her phone rings. “Excuse me guys. Gotta take this. Love you all. Ola Eduardo, cómo estás...?” As Shelley disappears back inside, Dave has another poser for us: “One who tears things up (6). ‘R’ something; ‘P’ something; something ‘R’.” This time, Big Dave is met with a puzzled silence. It seems this time only I know the answer. “It’s ‘Ripper’, Dave.”

Gig #15: 1 in 12 Club, Bradford 26 April 2014

Tonight’s support act is local Bradford heroes The Family Elan. This unique trio, led by Chris Hladowski, are often described as playing ‘psychedelic folk-rock’ but if you think you’re going to get a Byrds-soundalike, or Country Joe and The Fish wannabes you’re barking up the wrong tree, sister. Think David Lindley’s Kaleidoscope instead. Then think Kaleidoscope’s “Egyptian Gardens” or “Rampè Rampè” and you’re getting close. The Family Elan is the 1960s routed not through the Indian sub-continent and it’s incense and meditation, but through Greece, Turkey and the souks, hookah bars and mosques of north Africa. Supported by a bass-and-drum rythmn section, Hladowski alternates between the bouzouki and the baglama saz (‘elektrosaz’) played through a series of effects pedals, producing a shimmering, spine-tingling wall of sound that’s danceable, too. It’s like being caught in one of Scheherezade’s dreams after she’s quaffed a glass of honeyed tea laced with LSD. Intense and very enjoyable.

It’s also worth noting that Hladowski is one of that elite group of maverick musicians – alongside Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd – who continue to pioneer the wearing of glasses onstage.

Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington is up next, and though he soon has the audience mesmerised and chanting along to his strange, acapella rap numbers he is clearly not a happy man tonight. He’s been told, in no uncertain terms, that he cannot take a can of his beloved Stella Artois onstage with him this evening. The 1 in 12 security team in their hi-viz cable-knit blousons have informed Chippington that the drink’s reputation – captured neatly in its street name: ‘Wife Beater’ – does not sit well with the superior ethical stance of the club, or the aims of BWA.

 

Chippington’s mood was not improved when, just as he was about to take the stage, a special emergency meeting of the club’s steering committee had to be convened to vote on whether or not to allow him to go onstage clutching a can of Aldi’s St. Etienne Premium Belgian-style lager (pictured left: ABV 5%) owing to its uncanny resemblance to the reassuringly more expensive Stella Artois product. Their decision, published here at the committee’s insistence, follows:

“The Artist [viz. Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington] may exceptionally take onstage a can of the disputed lager [viz. Aldi St. Etienne Premium Belgian-style ABV 5%] provided that the following conditions be observed: (1) That no more than one can of said lager be consumed per hour played thereon; (2) That the prominent St. Etienne label be alternatively turned away from the audience, or shielded from said audience by said Artist’s hand for the entirety of the performance; (3) That the decision reached by the committee, and ratified ipso facto e pluribus unum on this day, be published in full on all social media or otherwise public spaces used by, or associated with, Mr. Chippington and his heirs, goods and chattels in perpetuity, so help us God (or Gods) assuming S/He (or They) exist.”

 

Chippington, of course, is a pro, and the audience get no wind of the tense negotiations that he and Mark ‘Ace’ Jones have had to endure prior to his set. He leaves the stage to rapturous and obedient applause, and after a short interval in which the audience are treated to traditional protest songs from the 1960s (Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind” and Donovan’s “Catch the Wind” are two that spring to mind) the band walk onstage to... The Scorpions’ classic hit single “Wind of Change”! Readers interested enough to have checked out my profile will know that I, along with my son Rudi, play in a Scorpions tribute band called Wind of Change. I take this choice of music as a mark of the affection that has grown up over the past two weeks between the band and myself.

Fuelled by their gourmet vegan burgers and copious amounts of Aldi’s St. Etienne Premium Belgian-style lager, the band are certainly pumping tonight. They seem to have the wind at their back as they breeze through their set. It’s as though the imminent end of the tour (this is the penultimate gig of the UK leg) has induced in them an urgency to let it all out, to lay their cards on the table, so to speak. You can almost cut the atmosphere with a knife. Bass notes explode from behind Schmid as he hunches over his guitar; Lloyd – harmonica in hand – squeezes out strangled honking sounds which are blown offstage by the hurricane unleashed by Kitson. Apperley’s gut-wrenching guitar-playing seems to bubble up from the very bowels of rock ‘n’ roll. It’s an intoxicating brew and the audience are clearly blown away by it. The band leave the stage to tumultuous applause and rush backstage keen, no doubt, to relax after their triumphant night's work.

Day 15: Will ye no come back again?

We leave Edinburgh, bound for our Newcastle Travelodge. Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell’s van-driver’s instinct - honed over years of driving the cream of Birmingham’s musical elite (such as The Wanking Tossers, Shit-Vomit Salad, and Arsewipe) around the country - tells him to avoid the major roads in favour of the old smuggler’s highway: the A1. This little-known alternative route south hugs the coast of England all the way down to Newcastle itself, and Big Dave is keen to breathe the cool North Sea air as we travel. “It’ll chill us all out after the gig, man. I knew this bloke, right...”

Unfortunately, before Big Dave can entertain us for hours about his friend, we are plunged into thick celtic sea mist and find ourselves travelling at less than ten miles per hour. Big Dave makes the strategic decision to concentrate on driving safely rather than talk, so music will have to fill the silence. But as he reaches for yet another Northern Soul collection, co-driver Apperley gently stays Big Dave’s hand. “Let’s have some rockabilly for a change, Dave. I think the guys would like it.”

Minutes later, we’re listening to Horatio ‘Hornblower’ Hampton and his Hopped-Up Hep-Cats pounding their way through their one and only hit record, the 1956 classic “Ants? Pants? Man, Let’s Dance!” (Spitball Records, Cat. No. 00001. Produced by Barney ‘Rocks’ Rubble. Engineered by Fred ‘Wilma!’ Flintstone. Carter’s Quality Cornmeal Rockin’ Good Radio Station LX39 Chart Position 17 for twenty-five weeks.) It’s going to be a long journey back to Newcastle.

We arrive at our Newcastle Travelodge so exhausted after our fraught fog-bound journey that tour manager Mark ‘Ace’ Jones can barely muster the strength for his traditional argument with the duty assistant before we each depart for our individual rooms. No sooner has my head hit the pillow than I’m roused from my sleep by the murmur of a voice below my first floor window. I look out, and see the band’s elite cadre of smokers – Jones, Lloyd, Kitson, Schmid, Chippington – gathered outside the hotel’s entrance for the ritual Last Cigarette of the Night. “So anyway, there was this bloke, right...” The voice, of course, is Big Dave’s.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Tonight, the Nightingales will play a benefit gig for Bradford Women’s Aid at the 1 in 12 Club. En route to the venue, Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd fills me in on the background to this gig. Bradford, he tells me, was one of the great cities of the British Industrial Revolution, famous for its woollen industries. Women, it seems, comprised the bulk of the factory workers at that time because the vast majority of men, when they weren’t watching the fledgling Bradford City football club, would spent most of their day in Bradford’s many pubs, brothels or opium dens, only coming home at night to drunkenly beat their wives before eating a hearty meal of lamb curry. Bradford Women’s Aid was set up in 1923 by a group of Bradford-based Manchester Guardian readers, keen to interfere in any way they could in the daily lives of ordinary working class folk.

Wearing their trademark woollen blousons, this group would venture forth into the pubs, brothels and opium dens of Bradford in order to educate the male population in the art of treating their women as ‘Ladies’ rather than punchbags. And as lovers of wool, they also pioneered the protection of sheep by simultaneously promoting strict vegan dieting principles. These noble principles underpin the ongoing work of the refuge, even today, Lloyd assures me. “Like these pioneers of tolerance,” concludes Lloyd, “I too love the ladies, and I’m proud that this band can make some small contribution to the organisation’s continuing good work.” And what about the sheep, I enquire? Lloyd’s response is swift and unequivocal: “I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m looking forward to sinking my teeth into one of the club’s famous vegan burgers.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

We arrive at the venue early and so decamp to a nearby pub while Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell finds somewhere to park the van. We order a round of local brew Patel’s Desi Porter (ABV 3.8%) and – to get us in the mood for tonight’s vegan cuisine – we order a plateful of vegan cheese and onion crusty cobs, which turn out to contain only onion. “It’s an old Bradford tradition,” landlord Desmond ‘Desi’ Patel assures us. As we eat our cobs, tears streaming down our cheeks, Big Dave rushes into the pub in a state of agitation. “Some cunt’s broken into the van!”

It seems that, having parked the van in a side-street, Big Dave decided to go for a walk around the city centre. While he was gone – no more than twenty minutes – someone smashed the side window of the van. Fearing the worst, the band desert their pints and the remainder of their cobs and head around the corner to where the van is parked. Luckily, it seems to have been an amateurish smash-and-grab raid, with only a few visible items snatched from the driver’s cab. None of the band’s equipment has been touched so the gig is not in jeopardy.

“The fucking cunts!” Dave is apoplectic with rage – I’ve never seen him so angry. “The CDs. They’ve all gone. They’ve had me entire Northern Soul collection! The fuckers!”