Day 11: Oh Manchester, so much to answer fer...

We wake refreshed after a night at the Oaklands Road headquarters of the Nightingales, and one by one descend to the kitchen to eat the sumptuous breakfast Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley has prepared for us all. There is toast and kippers, bacon, eggs, sausages, potato cakes, mushrooms, black pudding (a type of local Blutwurst, I believe), grilled tomatoes, tinned beans (a distinctly British addition to the breakfast menu), fried green tomatoes (from the Whistlestop Cafe, around the corner), samosas, pakora, waffles, maple syrup, preserves (blackcurrant, apricot, strawberry, raspberry), a curious foul-tasting concoction called ‘Marmite’, cereals of various kinds, tea, coffee, juices, a selection of lagers (including Stella Artois, of course), Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer bars, and bananas.

As people enter the kitchen, Apperley breaks off from the ironing he is doing to serve each band member as he or she settles at the kitchen table. Last down to breakfast is Lloyd, who waives aside the cornucopia prepared by Apperley in favour of a simpler, more frugal breakfast: a litre bottle of his beloved High Commissioner whiskey.

The band are elated after last night’s peformance and are excited about tonight’s gig in Manchester, one of the great music cities of the UK. It is also, I learn, a city that has particular resonance for Lloyd and Apperley who, as members of ground-breaking punk band The Prefects, formed a particularly close relationship with the Manchester punk scene, influencing such bands as Buzzcocks, The Fall, Joy Division, The Smiths, Happy Mondays and The Stone Roses, none of whom would have existed had not The Prefects established the classic template of austere yet danceable guitar-based, lyrically-driven slices of existentialist angst, shot through with dark humour.

As we make our way to Manchester in Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell’s formidable land-cruiser, I sit beside Mark ‘Ace’ Jones who is clutching his first Stella Artois of the day. My pre-tour researches tell me that Jones is a widely-respected academic in the field of cultural studies. His specialist topic is Jack ‘The’ Ripper, and so I take the opportunity to ask him about his interest in this legendary Victorian villain. “My main concern,” says Jones, clearly animated by the topic, “is to show that everybody else’s theories as to who the Ripper might have been are not only misguided but are, in fact, totally wrong. If I can demonstrate that all the so-called Ripperologists to date are ludicrously awry as to who the Ripper was, then my own theory is, by default, the only one left standing."

I’m intrigued by Jones’s ambitions and press him on his own theory. If all the rival theories as to the identity of Jack ‘The‘ Ripper are wrong, as Jones clearly thinks they are, then who, in his opinion, was the real Jack? As I put this question to him, Jones’s demeanour changes. He scowls at me from between his curtains of hair, his dark-tinted Ozzy Ozbourne glasses seeming to darken even more as he speaks through gritted teeth: “Oh yes,” he hisses, “you’d love to know, wouldn’t you? You’d love me to reveal my secret theory to you so that you could steal it and pass it off as your own. I know your game, Kuntz. You’re all the same you unbelievers. But one day, one day, you’ll all bow down before my superior knowledge. One day you’ll all call me King of the Ripperologists. All hail the King of the Ripperologists!” Jones sinks back into his seat, muttering darkly to himself.

“Jack. He’s lovely, too,” says Kitson, briefly looking up from her phone.

Gig #10: The Hairy Dog, Derby 21 April 2014

“... and Tadger, and Ellie, and Tommo... They’re lovely too. Jibber... he’s another one who’s lovely. And Katy, and Jumby... oh, and Bilbo. Lovely. Billy-Bob, Bobby-Jo, Jimpy... they’re lovely as well. Oh, we’re here!”

And so we are. The Hairy Dog is a discreet venue, tucked somewhere down a pictureseque side-street in downtown Derby. By now, the Nightingales tour machine is finely-tuned and as soon as Big Dave gives the all-clear, the doors of the van fly open and the members of the band leap out to attend to their allotted tasks. As the equipment is unloaded and carried in under the supervision of Big Dave, Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd stands apart, thoughtfully smoking the cigarette that has been rolled for him, no doubt mentally preparing himself for this evening’s gig.

Inside the venue, Mark ‘Ace’ Jones has already begun to disgorge the vast array of merchandise from the eight hi-impact flight cases he requires on tour. Once emptied, these are stacked carefully behind the merchandise desk forming a wall on which Jones mounts the various individual mechandise posters.

As Jones goes about his business, sound engineer extraordinary Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires goes about his, barking orders at staff and band alike to ensure that the PA is in peak condition for the humiliating soundcheck that is to follow. Two hours later, four crushed and sobbing Nightingales stumble from the stage to make way for support act The Ornamental Gentlemen to soundcheck. Luckily, Anthony and Paul have arrived bearing food for the band (chilli and baked potatoes cooked by Paul’s wife - a very welcome change from the Ginster’s pasties the band eat most nights.)

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Call this lazy journalism if you wish, but it goes without saying now that the gig is yet another triumph, in a long, unbroken line of triumphs. As soon as the band vacate the stage, Jones is yet again besieged by a baying audience with requests for merchandise. As Apperley steps on stage to pack away the band’s equipment, I leave him and Jones to join the rest of Nightingales in the downstairs bar, where they are enjoying a post-gig cocktail with Anthony and Paul. The mood is exuberant, and the band are constantly asked by adoring fans (‘Gailettes’) to autograph various items of merchandise. Schmid signs his name on a Nightingales Vajazzle Kit before passing it to Kitson who is herself signing a copy of the new album For Fuck’s Sake before passing it to Apperley, who has just rejoined the group. Lloyd sits apart, head lolling back with pride, eyes half-closed. He is exhausted after his performance, and his High Commissioner-based cocktail – Shitfaced Donkeypunch (ABV 110%) – sits barely touched on the table in front of him.

Finally, the moment comes when Big Dave arrives with the van and the band must say their goodbyes to Anthony and Paul, to the Hairy Dog, and to the various Gailettes who are hanging about for a final glimpse of their heroes. We are all heading back to Oaklands Road (Proprietor: Mark ‘Ace’ Jones) tonight, for the last time on this tour.

Day 10: Derby Day in Nightingales World!

After the crowd has dispersed into the night, the staff of the Adelphi join the Nightingales for a few games of pool in the intimate back-room of the venue. Before too long a kind of quasi-international tournament has developed with Lloyd playing for England, Apperley for Ireland (his mother’s home country,) Kitson for Wales (the country of her birth,) and Chippington for Scotland (home of his beloved Celtic.) Germany being such a large country compared to the parochial UK, Schmid plays for southern Germany and I for the industrial north.

Soon, Wales and Ireland are fighting it out for the prize – a small tumbler-full of Lloyd’s beloved High Commissioner. But it is Wales’ night, and Kitson downs her hard-earned glass of cheap alcohol in triumph before briefly performing a victory tap-dance on the pool table.

From his vantage-point behind the bar, Paul ‘Jacko’ Jackson watches, the faint shadow of a paternal smile on his lips. He has witnessed so many nights like this under his careful stewardship of the venue and I catch him briefly – and, I think, proudly – casting a momentary glance at the picture of Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd which is pinned up behind the small bar, and on which is inscribed the legend “All the best, Jacko. Robert x”.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

But where was Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell? As we assemble at the van the next day, Big Dave regales us with tales of his exploits the previous evening. “Fucking unbelievable, man! This bloke, right, as I was leaving the hotel, he comes up to me right... I swear to god, man. He says, ‘got any spare change mate, I need to feed my wife and kids for the next week.’ Can you believe it? He even had a can of Special Brew in each of his back pockets, man. I mean, catch yer breath! I gave him 21p so that he could buy a tin of Best In Value mince and told him to fuck off, like.”

For the next hour, Big Dave holds us spell-bound as he recounts his various exchanges with the array of characters he seems to have met en route to the venue last night. Yet in spite of Big Dave’s picaresque tales of life on the streets of Hull, I’m afraid that I cannot for the life of me recall precisely why he didn’t turn up at the gig, and I was making notes as he told his convoluted tale.

Never mind. Tonight's gig is in Derby, at the Hairy Dog. The gig has been organised by long-standing Nightingales fans Anthony and Paul, and the band are looking forward to seeing them. It's been a while since the band last played Derby and they are keen to get on the road so as to arrive in plenty of time to have a look around the famous city.

The tightly-disciplined unit that is the Nightingales climb once more into Big Dave's tour bus, where they will sit for the next thirty minutes while Big Dave goes through the complex series of safety checks and pre-drive routines that are necessary before the mighty vehicle can hit the road. Fruit drink? Check! Chewing gum? Check! Newspaper? Check! Hall's mentholyptus cough drops? Check! Tunnock's Caramel Wafer bar? Check! Lighter? Check! And so it goes on. And on. Finally, the checks are complete, and Big Dave navigates the vehicle out into the teeming late-afternoon traffic.
 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson makes it her business to monitor the band’s social media presence and she can often be found poring over her phone, tweeting some nugget of information about the evening’s gig, or sharing a review that has appeared, or reporting on what she’s wearing on an hourly basis. As we depart the Hull Central Travelodge, Kitson announces to the band that tonight’s venue has already sold five advance tickets. It’s clear that the band’s confidence about tonight’s gig is significantly boosted by this good news.

I sit beside Kitson in the tour bus as we make our way to Derby and ask her why she spends so much time attending to the band’s social media profile. Her answer is refreshingly honest. “It’s because I love our fans – each and every one of them. There’s James, for example. He’s lovely. And then there’s Jeff. He’s lovely too. And Damien, Karl, Rocker, Shelley... they’re lovely, as well. Micko, Biffer, Frankie, Dipper, Dodger, Ramjam... They’re all lovely, really. I don’t even like to call them ‘fans’ – I just don’t think the word ‘fan’ really captures how lovely they are.” As Kitson dabs a tissue at the mascara running down her cheeks, I wonder aloud which word might be appropriate if ‘fans’ won’t do. Kitson is thoughtful for a moment before replying: “I think if I had to choose a word, it would be ‘Gailettes’. Yes, that’s it. ‘Gailettes’.”

Gig #9: The New Adelphi, Hull 20 April 2014

It is nine o’clock in the evening and we are halfway through support-act Schoolgirls’ anarchic, noise-drenched set. The venue has been filling slowly since doors opened an hour ago, and Schoolgirls’ colossal soundscapes pour like a rip tide through the narrowing spaces between the punters. The walls themselves seem to sweat history as the band launch wave after wave of sonic disruption into the room.

Towards the end of their set, a rival wave clashes with the Schoolgirls’ sonic tsunami as Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington arrives at the venue. A group of old friends from Chippington's days as a Hull Trucking Company lorry driver had driven up to Scarborough for last night’s gig, and at the end of the night had whisked Chippington to stay with them. A visibly refreshed Chippington slips through the crowd in the direction of the bar, followed by his entourage. There is, as yet, no sign of the ‘unleashed’ Big Dave.

Chippington’s own set this evening is relaxed and unusually informal. He is clearly amongst friends here tonight and there is little need to turn on the mesmeric charisma that has become his trademark. “I was walking down the road the other day...” says Chippington to roars of laughter and tumultuous applause. “No, no... I really was walking down the road the other day...” More laughter; more applause. “No, honestly, listen... this is a true story...” The crowd is moulded like spilled candle wax in Chippington’s expert hands.

The Nightingales take the stage in Chippington’s wake, sensing that they will need to pull something really special out of the bag tonight following the masterful performance the crowd has just witnessed. Lloyd is so focused and intent he could almost pass as sober, while the rest of the group pound away at their instruments, heads down, barely acknowledging the audience. Before the opening number – viral hit “Bullet For Gove” – has ended, several people are dancing at the front. It’s looking good for the band as they plough on relentlessly.

It is when the band hit the breakdown section of “Real Gone Daddy” two-thirds of the way through the set, that it becomes clear that their supremacy is assured, for without warning – and bear in mind that I’ve witnessed every soundcheck, every moment the band has been together for almost two weeks and seen no sign of planning for this moment – Lloyd moves to stage right as Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson steps out from behind her drumkit and launches into a tap-dancing solo.

The crowd goes wild. Even Paul ‘Jacko’ Jackson – who surely has seen it all – jumps into the seething crowd, as though all those ‘sixties dreams of communal living and group loving might finally have come to pass. As Kitson retreats behind her drumkit for what’s left of the set, Lloyd returns to centre stage and the two guitarists for the first time lift their heads and with playful smiles on their faces at last risk a glance at the audience. There is no longer any doubt: although Schoolgirls' and Chippington's sets have both, in their own way, succeeded, tonight the Adelphi belongs to the Nightingales.

Day 9: It's (not) only rock 'n' roll...

We leave Scarborough shortly after the gig, bound for our Hull Travelodge. We have a two hour drive, accompanied by Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell’s ceaseless flow of observations and witticisms: “There’s this bloke, right, and he’s got three arms... just on one side of his body! Y’know what I mean? It’s crazy! All on one side of his body, man... Fucking crazy shit!”; “My mate, Dodgy Derek, right... he’s got this fish tank. It’s full, right, of cigarette butts. No kidding. It’s fucking crazy! Like a big fucking ashtray, man! The fish are FUCKED!”; “The thing about molluscs, right...” And so on, for hour after hour. Hilarious.

Big Dave’s entertaining chatter is only interrupted by the occasional plaintive cry from a tired and emotional Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd, who sits in his trademark seat at the back of the van: “Dave, I’m hungry, mate. Find us a chippy. I need something hot. Now!”; “First services, Dave. Soon as you can, mate,” and “Dave, are we nearly there yet?”

At the Travelodge, the disciplined machine that is the Nightingales disembarks from Big Dave’s van and, guided by the whirling arms and flailing hair of tour-manager Mark ‘Ace’ Jones clutching his trademark can – or bottle – of lager, the band members disperse to their various Travelodge rooms.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Today’s gig is at the famous Adelphi club in Hull, one of the landmark venues on the notorious UK ‘Toilet’ circuit, so-called because the toilets are, apparently, a noted feature of each building. The Travelodge we wake up in is on the outskirts of Hull, but the band must decamp to another Travelodge closer to the venue, minutes away from the venue. So close is the hotel to the venue that, once the equipment has been dropped off, Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell will be able to have a rare night off.

Throughout the morning, as we hover outside the Travelodge waiting for Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd and Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington to emerge, individual members of the band quietly inform me that Big Dave ‘off the leash’ is likely to be ‘brutal’, ‘savage’, ‘like the Tasmanian Devil’ (not a cartoon character with which I am familiar...) or, as Mark ‘Ace’ Jones puts it “like something from the darkest regions of your worst nightmares, filtered through Charles Manson’s tortured fantasies.” I’m not sure that I understand what Jones is getting at, but I am keen to witness the spectacle for myself.

Eventually, Lloyd and Chippington appear, and the band climbs into the lemon-scented, newly-polished interior (Apperley has apparently been hard at work since eight o’clock this morning) of Big Dave’s van and hit the road.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The Adelphi (pictured left) is a unique venue. In it’s time, it has hosted many of the world’s greatest artists and groups when they were little known and struggling to build an audience for themselves. Elvis Presley was one of the first artists to appear at this venue when, on his first foray outside of the USA in 1954, he was billed under his real name of Chester T Wilmington, jnr III (thankfully his manager – at that time merely Major Tom Parker – soon realised that the artist’s name would be as important in marketing his prodigy as the young Wilmington’s soon-to-be-trademark hip-swinging ‘watusi’ moves.) Little ‘Richard’ Penniman, Jerry ‘Lee’ Lewis, Charles ‘Buddy’ Holly, Jiles ‘Big Bopper’ Richardson and Charles ‘Charlie’ Feathers all appeared at the Adelphi in its first flush of youth.

Since those formative days of what we now know as rock ‘n’ roll, the roster of groups appearing at the venue on their way to fame and fortune reads like an encyclopaedia of rock: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, The Troggs, Pinkerton’s Colours, Gentlemen’s Relish, Frabjous Day, and on into the seventies with such groups as T Rex, Slade, The Sweet, Wizziwig and Boney M all treading the hallowed Adelphi plywood. Since then the Sex Pistols, The Clash, Oasis, Blur, Pulp, Take That, Boyzone, and, most recently, One Direction, have all passed through the hands of the club’s proprietor, Paul ‘Jacko’ Jackson, whose face is as familiar to musicians across the world as is that of Jackson’s more famous distant cousin, Michael, to fans of sophisticated pop music everywhere. The Adelphi’s reputation as a stepping-stone to fame and fortune is assured.

Jackson welcomes the band in his trademark slippers and Bolshevik cap, and ushers them into the venue. Pints of local ale Rimmington’s Slugger (4.6% ABV) are poured and the band catch up on the latest gossip from the circuit. As they chat, I take a look around this famous venue. The walls are covered in memorabilia from across the decades, testament to the key role that Jackson’s venue has played in the history of rock ‘n’ roll.

A faded photograph of Jimi Hendrix is pinned behind the bar, a message scribbled across it: “All the best, Jacko. Jimi x”. Beside this is a photograph of the young ‘Elvis’ Wilmington also signed: “All the best, Jacko. Chester x”. There is a photograph of two grinning young men, instantly recognised as Jagger and Richards. It too is signed: “All the best, Jacko. Mick & Keef x”. A colour photograph of a young Kate Bush is signed “All the best, Jacko. Kate x”. I spy a photograph of the young Ray Davies (“All the best, Jacko. Ray x”) and a petulant, teenage Bob Dylan (“All the best, Jacko. Bob x”.) There is David Bowie (“All the best, Jacko, Dave x”) and Jim ‘Mr Mojo Rising’ Morrison (“All the best, Jacko. Jim x”.) This place is indeed a rock ‘n’ roll Hall of Fame.

Resident sound man James ‘Jim’ Soundman moves around the venue showing Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires the ins and outs of the room in preparation for the soundcheck. Meanwhile, Big Dave heads back to the city-centre Travelodge to rest and prepare for his big night out. The band drink their pints swiftly, refreshing their glasses and emptying them again, and again, fortifying themselves for the brutal soundcheck that will soon reduce them to tears.

Gig #8: The Spa, Scarborough 19 April 2014

The people of Scarborough are in luck this evening: they can see the Nightingales – currently the UK’s hottest ticket – for free. Tonight’s gig, organised jointly by Crumplehorns’ mover and shaker David ‘Jehan’ Yates (whose work adorns the Nightingales album covers) and Rob, the proprietor of Revolutions Records in the town, is in aid of International Record Store day. The Nightingales, whose latest album For Fuck’s Sake is only available as a vinyl long-player, are keen to support this worthy attempt to promote small, independent record stores, as are The Crumplehorns whose own limited edition vinyl EP “Backward Glances” is to be released today.

The gig is at The Spa pub, which apparently is a traditional British beer-and-Skittles pub (and let us be honest here: only the British would choose to accompany the finely-brewed ales of the region with the fruity confection known as Skittles.) I walk the short distance from the sea front to the venue with Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd, who has been posing for photographs to accompany an interview he has given to the Scarborough Sentinel to be published in this evening’s edition of the popular local newspaper.

When we arrive, the pub is a hive of activity. At the furthest end of the bar, Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires is busy photographing the unusual array of equipment he will be using to craft the Nightingales’ sound this evening. I sit in a quiet corner and access his Tumblr page. “OMG!!!! It’s a Yamaha C12!!! That’s AWESOME!!!!! Are you feelin’ me, homeys? It’s going to be SAVAGE, dudes!!!” [Etc.]

At the merchandise desk near the stage area, Mark ‘Ace’ Jones unpacks the various boxes of T-shirts, tote bags, CDs, LPs, nail-files, Vajazzle kits, and “Lucky Dip Dumb and Drummer Badge” sets which he will carefully scatter about the table in his trademark random fashion. As he works, Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson films him for the Nightingales’ TV channel (“Woodpile of the Day”, a Stix TV Production for Neasden TV plc.) Unfortunately, after eighteen minutes of careful unpacking the only item of merchandise that has so far appeared on the stall is a “Bullet For Gove” T-shirt which hangs from the rafters and flaps forlornly in the breeze above Jones’ head. Kitson cuts her losses and begins to assemble her drum kit instead.

For the band, the soundcheck is as traumatising as usual under the skillful haranguing of Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires, but the sound is good, and the band’s playing is tight. As they vacate the stage to allow the Crumplehorns to soundcheck, I note that a second item of merchandise – a Nightingales nail-file – has appeared on the stall. Like the band, Mark ‘Ace’ Jones is only just warming up.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The essence of Rock ‘n’ Roll is surely the small pub gig, packed to the rafters with ecstatic fans, hoarse from cheering on their musical heroes; the walls of the venue dripping with sweat. And this is just for The Crumplehorns who are currently onstage. Their set is by turns melodic and angular; spiky lyrics vie with flowing riffs and rythmns reminiscent of bands such as Gang of Four and The Wedding Present. Their lyrics are also by turns tender and provocative, thoughtful and shouty. An intriguing, unique group.

Next up is Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington. What must audiences unfamiliar with his act make of him? As he wanders up to the microphone, he immediately disarms the audience. Has he forgotten his instrument? Is he the janitor, or perhaps some refugee from the shuffling, sinister hordes which stalk the town’s claustrophobic streets? What follows is, as usual, extraordinary. Chippington embarks on his trademark improvised rap, taunting his audience with barely-believable stories of life, if life it be, from the dystopic streets and living rooms of Torquay. In Chippington’s world, rats run riot on the patios of the town’s suburban elite, while the poor are reduced to lighting their homes with candles, the wax from which poignantly dribbles onto the atlases which they pore over in the gloom of their homes, no doubt dreaming of other worlds, other lives. “How far is it to the railway station?” shouts Chippington, daring his audience to dream of a life beyond Scarborough’s mean streets. “One mile! One mile!” they chant in unison.

And then the Nightingales are on stage. For the next hour there is no let up in the torrent of music and lyrics as Lloyd and his co-conspirators stun the enthusiastic Scarborough audience with their seamlessly-executed set. The band sizzle and spit like top-quality sausages on a griddle, and as the set comes to its end the now-delirious crowd bay for an encore. But as usual, the band has given one hundred per cent and the audience must be content with that. It is now Mark ‘Ace’ Jones who must deal with the post-gig euphoria, as the merchandise table is besieged by fans eager to purchase some reminder of the gig they have just witnessed. It will be some time yet before the band can head off to their Travelodge haven.

Day 8: Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme

The Nightingales will today head to the east coast of Britain, to Scarborough, for their eighth gig of the tour. But first they must depart from the Warrington Travelodge in which they have spent a luxurious night, sleeping off the rigours of the previous evening’s gig in Liverpool. The band slowly assemble, one by one, at Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell’s spacious and hygienic tour-bus. Big Dave has been up since eight o’clock and has already eaten his traditional two breakfasts. As the band gather at the open door of the tour-bus, Big Dave busies about the van clearing yesterday’s debris – empty cans and High Commissioner bottles, pizza boxes, fish ‘n’ chip papers, and fragments of anything from half-eaten kebabs to screwed up Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer wrappers. By the time the band are gathered and ready to roll, the van is pristine and Big Dave is looking to eat the first of his lunches somewhere en route to the coast.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *



The Travelodge etiquette is long-established within the Nightingales tour camp. On arrival, a drunken Mark ‘Ace’ Jones leaps from the still-moving van, keen to get the band registered and into their respective rooms. The remainder of the band remain in the van while Big Dave drives several times around the half-empty car park, getting a feel for the layout of the space, using his van-driver’s knowledge, honed over the years, to find the ideal space in which to rest his beloved van for the night.

Having finally switched off the engine, the band finally decamp for the hotel where they will usually find Jones engaging in a friendly argument with the Travelodge receptionist. Fuming indignantly over some minor detail of the booking-in arrangements, Jones distributes the keycards – one to Kitson and Squires; one to Lloyd and Chippington; and one to Big Dave who requires a room all to himself, free from the band’s sleepless, post-gig chatter. The final keycard – which will access the room he will share with Apperley and Schmid – he clutches jealously to himself as he rolls one of his trademark liquorice-paper cigarettes, and totters outside to join the remaining smokers for the first of his final cigarettes of the night. My editor has arranged for me to have a room of my own for each night of the tour, and I reluctantly leave the band at the reception area to go to my own room, for my own working day is not over until I have filed my report.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The journey to Scarborough is arduous but straightforward though excitement mounts as the band approach the coast: who will be the first to catch sight of the mighty, undulating North Sea? “The sea! I can sea the sea! I win! I win!” The voice is that of Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd. “I love the seaside,” he says quietly as though to himself, his eyes shining with childish delight at the thought of wading through the enticing, brown coastal waters.

But the journey has taken longer than the band has anticipated, and they are late for an appointment. It is International Record Store Day and David ‘Jehan’ Yates, the uniquely-talented artist who has created all of the Nightingales’ album covers to date, is playing with his band The Crumplehorns at a local record store in the town. Big Dave drops the band near the record store in the town centre, and I accompany him on his search for a parking space. By the time we reach the venue The Crumplehorns are packing away their equipment in readiness for the evening’s gig supporting their heroes – none other than the Nightingales.

Gig #7: East Village Arts Club, Liverpool 18 April 2014

Support band Norweb take the stage and deliver a jagged burlesque of a set, which mixes sharp-elbowed riffing from bass and guitar, underpinned by subterranean volcanic drumbeats across which skips and stumbles the shower of words, like a handful of gravel thrown in the face of eternity. Their electric eclecticism appeals to a knowing and receptive Nightingales audience. Norweb will head home after this gig with a brace of new fans and bagfulls of Budweiser Supreme Quality Artisan Brew generously donated by new admirers, the Nightingales.

As Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington stalks purposefully onto the stage, his trademark can of Stella Artois in hand, the already charged atmosphere ratchets up a notch in anticipation. As Chippington fixes the audience with his steely glare, I retreat into the bar to stand with Mark ‘Ace’ Jones at the merchandise desk. We listen as Chippington’s interplay with the audience challenges them to reach deep inside themselves, and to scrutinise whatever dark things they might find there. “Anyone here from Birmingham?” Responding to this provocation like Pavlov’s dogs, the largely Liverpuddlian audience search their souls for any trace of ‘Brummie’ they can find. A lone voice responds in that instantly recognisable Liverpool accent: “Me gchreat-gchradma on me dad’s side, like. She was from Cchradely Heath, like. Dat’s close to dat dere Bermingum, ain’t it, Ted, me old mucker, like. Yeah?” Jones and I glance at each other; tonight will be yet another personal triumph for Chippington; another vindication of his strange, unsettling acapella rap performance.

With only the Velvet Underground’s “Here Comes The Sun” dividing their sets, the Nightingales take the stage after Chippington and deliver yet another blistering, seamless set of shifting tectonic songs. Lloyd’s throat is clearly a little sore after last night’s rousing performance, and so he sips continuously from his trademark litre bottle of cold tea. He is on masterful form as he pretends to forget the lyrics, challenging the audience – or even his own band – to feed him the next line, or to remind him where he is. “More Fliss in the monitors, Paul,” he shouts, daring even Squires the sound engineer to remind him that this isn’t the soundcheck. In this way, Lloyd proves himself a master manipulator of the crowd. Set over, the band leave the stage exhausted. There will be no encore again tonight. The band have given 100% already; 110% is not an option. Or even possible.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

After the gig, I mingle with the crowds milling about the merchandise desk. Of course, I cannot help but scan the faces looking for the familiar boyish grin of Lennon’s great songwriting partner, and solo artist in his own right, Paul McCartney. But there is no sign of him, as expected. I find myself leaning against the bar next to a short, wizened figure sporting a shaggy beard and wearing what looks like a plastic Beatle wig but must surely be expertly gelled hair. “Did you enjoy the gig?” I ask. He takes a long sip from his tumbler full of some heady cocktail or other, and ponders my question before offering his response. He takes the glass away from his lips leaving the novelty cocktail umbrella clinging to his matted, spittle-soaked beard, and his eyes focus for a moment on an answer: “I used to be in dat dere Beatles group, yeah?. Feckin’ McCartney. Always taught he was a better drummer dan me.. Feckin’ cunt.” I leave this strange character to his dark memories and head backstage.

Day 7: It’s not the leaving of Liverpool...

We’re briefly back at the Oaklands Road headquarters of the Nightingales (Proprietor: Mark ‘Ace’ Jones) after last night’s groundbreaking London gig at the famous Borderline club. The kitchen is a hive of activity as the band eat the full English breakfast fastidiously prepared by Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley. Fresh toast continually appears on the table, and coffee and tea-cups are refilled constantly in between bouts of washing-up, which Apperley executes wearing his trademark Marigold gloves, protection for his delicate guitarist’s fingers. Occasionally, he breaks off in order to light a cigarette, or indeed to roll one whenever any of the several smokers demands it.

The band is in good spirits, and are keen to hit the road in several hours’ time. Tonight’s gig is in Liverpool, the spiritual home of British rock ‘n’ roll, and in this respect it is a more important gig, as far as the band is concerned, than the London gig last night. Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd is especially keen to return to Liverpool. As a fan of the giant-killing Manchester United football team, Lloyd is brimming with the sportsman’s admiration for the all-conquering Anfield heroes and is keen to meet any supporters of the famous club who might turn up at the gig tonight.

Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell arrives, refreshed after a sound night’s narcotic-induced sleep. He is his usual chatty self and his presence immediately galvanises the members of the band, who hand their greasy plates to Apperley before disappearing off to pack their cases for the next leg of the tour. By one o’clock, Big Dave’s van is fully loaded and as soon as Mark ‘Ace’ Jones has located, by turns, the lighter, wallet, spare underwear and ‘Arab Strap’ he thinks he’s left in the house (all of which turn out to have been in the pockets of his capacious jacket all along) the band will depart for the great city of Liverpool.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The East Village Arts Centre is a legendary venue which, in its time, has hosted many of the nation’s greatest rock ‘n’ roll groups such as Anal Beard, Gimpfist, The Turdish Five and Fuck Da Beatles (the latter being a hip-hop tribute to the greatest Liverpuddlian band of all time – Gerry and the Pacemakers.) The band are on a high after last night’s glorious London triumph and the soundcheck is swift and good-humoured, with even the usually belligerent Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires cracking a smile as Lloyd performs his regular entertaining harmonica solo mid-way through his vocal mike check.

Later, in the dressing room above the venue the band relax as best they can while the support band soundcheck below, the incessant, monotonous pounding of the bass drum seeming to shake the dressing room to its very core. But with their slab of twenty-four cans of Stella Artois and the strangely-neglected seventy-five bottles of Budweiser’s specially-brewed Supreme Quality Artisan Brew (1.75% ABV) the band is content to ‘chill’ far away from the prying eyes of the public and Mark ‘Ace’ Jones downstairs at the merchandise table.

A rumour is circulating that ex-Beatle and Ivor Novello songwriting prize winner Sir Paul ‘Macca’ McCartney is in town and has been briefed by his people about the Nightingales. Ever keen to keep his musical ear to the ground in order to follow the latest musical trends, McCartney has apparently heard the buzz about last night’s performance at the Borderline and, rumour has it, may put in an appearance at tonight’s gig. The band are remarkably unaffected by this information. Ever the realists, they know better than to give such extravagant rumours too much credence.

Gig #6: The Borderline, London 17 April 2014

It is midnight, and we are loading out after the finest gig the Nightingales have ever played. Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell directs operations at the van while Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd does so in the belly of the venue itself. Equipment is carried upstairs by the rest of the band and out through the thronging metropolitan crowds jostling together outside the several nightclubs that surround the venue. The young clubbers’ boisterous chatter hushes as the band file through their scantily-clad ranks, and all around one can hear teenage voices whispering such phrases as “It’s the Nightingales. Awesome!”, “Dude, they’re, like, totally sick,” and “Cool. They're my gramps’ faves! Respect!” News of the band’s triumphant gig has already hit the Twittersphere, and these young social networkers are already aware of the momentous events that have taken place here this evening. Phone cameras flash as they add their own personal stories to the collective archive online.

As we travel back to the Midlands to the soundtrack of Big Dave’s ceaseless chatter, the band are quiet, pensive. They sense that this gig has wrought a step-change in their fortunes. Occasionally, their thoughts are interrupted by the voice of Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd as he tries out nascent lyrics for as yet unwritten Nightingales songs – “Dave, I need some hot food. Now mate”; “First services, Dave”; or “Dave, are we nearly there yet?” These finely-crafted lines are delivered in a slurred voice, for Lloyd is exhausted after the evening’s challenges and three bottles of High Commissioner. But he cannot help himself when the lyrical muse descends. Robert Lloyd: always working.

Day 6: Set the controls for the heart of the nation

The Nightingales and Ted Chippington are en route to London where this evening they will play the famous Borderline club, supported by Chin of Britain. The evening is to be compéred by national treasure Phill Jupitus, star of stage, screen and radio and a regular contributor to much-loved family TV quiz show Never Liked the Buzzcocks. Tonight Jupitus will perform as his alter ego ‘Porky the Poet’ and the band are anticipating a certain amount of playful rivalry between Jupitus – who some tip for the post of Poet Laureate just as soon as Carol Ann Duffy’s tenure ends – and Lloyd – the greatest lyric-writer of his generation, and winner of no less than three Ivor Novello consolation prize £25 book tokens. There will be a memorable war of words in the capital city tonight.

As we journey into the heart of the city, I sit beside bass-player and fellow German, Andreas ‘Andi’ Schmid. I take the opportunity to chat with him in our native language, though heralding as I do from the civilised and sophisticated industrial north of our great country, I find it hard to understand his peculiar, gutteral Schwabian accent which, frankly, sounds like a drunken Tibetan throat singer with a cold. Embarrassed at my inability to understand his answers to my probing questions, I switch to English. Immediately, the tone of Schmid’s voice changes to the boyish melodic tones with which the world is familiar.

Taking me into his confidence, I learn – amongst other things – of Schmid’s jealousy over the role of drummer in the band. Schmid, it seems, is an accomplished drummer himself and ever since he has known the band he has wanted to drum for them. Indeed, Schmid did so for a brief tour of Europe when Daren ‘Wildman’ Garrett suddenly and dramatically left the band citing musical differences, and before Kitson could be recruited. Schmid clearly thinks of this short tour as one of the highlights of his young life, and his eyes glisten as he recounts, in considerable detail on a song-by-song, night-by-night basis, the detailed beats and rythmns, the paradiddles, flams, shuffles and linear rolls, with which he drove the Nightingales’ music forward. Like Schmid’s account of the tour, the journey into the heart of the nation’s capital seems to be taking a very long time indeed.

Gig #5: The Portland Arms, Cambridge 16 April 2014

By the time the band take the stage, the room has filled to capacity and the excitement in the air is palpable. Onstage, the band appear slightly nervous, as though the brief lay-off has dissipated the tour adrenalin – it’s like the first gig of the tour all over again. Andy ‘Smokie’ Schmid steps forward to the microphone, and with his trademark “Gut efening, vee are ze Nightingales vom Birmingham, England. You vill enjoy” the band launch into their viral hit “Bullet For Gove”.

The initial nervousness is quickly and productively channelled into energy, and the band’s charged performance increases in power and authority with each successive number. As usual, the seamless set gives the audience no spaces in which to express their approval – or disapproval – so when the final note of “Good Morning, Midnight” chimes out, there is a moment of tense silence. Have the band won the argument? Have they convinced this intelligent, articulate audience, the cream of Britain’s higher education system, with their quirky, switchblade set?

The silence is broken with a single “Hurrah for the Nightingales!” and seconds later the crowd in unison echo the sentiment. Mortar boards are thrown high in the air, as though the assembled students had themselves just graduated. But it is the Nightingales who have graduated tonight. “Three cheers for the Nightingales! Hip hip...” The voice is none other than that of Sir Charles Montgomery himself. “Hooray!” The Nightingales could have no greater tribute to their talent in this scholarly arena.

 

Later that night, we sit around the Travelodge all-night bar, winding down. The talk is of the gig, though occasionally Big Dave interjects with some pithy observation - "I've got this mate, right... his name's Dodgy Greg..." - while in the background Mark 'Ace' Jones angrily berates the Travelodge lackey who is insisting that the band actually pay for the several rounds of beer and Jaeger-Bomb chasers they've consumed. Gradually, one by one, the band drift off to their individual suites leaving me, alone in the bar with only my thoughts, and the substantial bar tab to pay.

Day 5: Graduating with flying colours.

After a brief period of rest and recuperation, the Nightingales are back on the road. Tonight, the band is in Cambridge at the The Portland Arms, an ancient coaching inn at which it is rumoured that Queen ‘Good Queen Bess’ Elizabeth once stayed for a night, en route to a hog-roast held in her honour by a local nobleman, Sir Goddfrey of Little Lowerdown, who was, at that time, seeking preference in the eyes of Her Majesty in order to further his ambitions as a Private Equerry to the Master of the Rolls in the Duchy of Trumping Wattle. On tap is a local ale – Goddfrey’s Gobbler (3.7% ABV) – dedicated to the long-dead nobleman. The band quaff several pints of this heady brew before soundchecking with their usual ruthless efficiency.

The audience this evening clearly comprises of the ancient University town’s intellectual elite. I spy Sir Charles Montgomery, author of international best-seller Space, Time and Infinity: A User’s Guide, sweeping through the crowd, mortar-board perched precariously on his head, gown billowing around his ankles. Clutching his pint of Goddfrey’s Gobbler, he looks every inch the Cambridge Don, as do several members of the audience.

In the sun-dappled beer garden, Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd holds forth on the art of lyric-writing to a spellbound group of duffle-coated, bespectacled students. They are clearly honoured to be in the presence of one of the nation’s greatest ever lyricists, and seem to be writing down everything Lloyd says. “The trick,” says Lloyd, “is always to use at least one big word per sentence.” Heads nod; pencils scribble. “Take a word like ‘contemptuous’...” More nodding; more scribbling. “It’s got four beats to it, and that’s a big chunk of the lyric written already. See?” The students glance at each other, smiling. This is a moment they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.

Gig #4: Tom Thumb Theatre, Margate 12 April 2014

The Tom Thumb Theatre is a remarkable venue. Built in the 17^th century by none other than Saint William ‘The Bard’ Shakespeare himself in the spare moments between writing his classic plays Romeo and Juliet and Twelfth Night, the theatre occupies a particularly fond place in the hearts and minds of British theatre-goers the world over. Sir Laurence ‘Larry’ Olivier took his first tentative steps into the acting profession on this tiny stage (as ‘Baby #4’ in the long-forgotten musical Babies on Broadway.) Sir Ralph ‘Ralphy’ Richardson made the role of the Artful Dodger his own on these hallowed boards, and Sir Charles ‘Cheeky’ Chaplin directed his fiirst play – Quentin Falls In – before leaving these shores for America, forever. The Nightingales immediately feel at home in this unique space.

The band have evolved a highly-disciplined routine on arrival at any venue. Sound engineer extraordinary Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires is first into the venue where he will immediately take a photo of the mixing desk, before loading it up to his Tumblr account with some suitable technical critique. In this way, the community of sound engineers build up a collective knowledge of all the venues in the country. I watch as Squires uploads the picture with the comment “Wow dudes!!!! This desk is totally rad, man!!! It’s got brutal patches and no graphics. Awesome!!!! It’s gonna be savage. Touch me, fam!!!” I can’t pretend to understand this technical vocabulary, but clearly Squires is a man who has spent years honing his craft.

As Squires goes about his business, the other members of the band busy themselves carrying equipment into the venue under the watchful eyes of Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell and Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd. Having satisfied himself that the band is on the case, Lloyd drifts off into the dressing room to confirm that the rider is in place. He immediately pops the bottle of whisky into his personal baggage for safe keeping and checks that the lagers, bananas and Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer Bars are present, as requested.

In the theatre itself, Squires takes the band through the soundcheck with his usual mix of hectoring insults and vicious asides. As the band tearfully troupe offstage to console each other, Squires takes yet more photographs of the mixing desk before joining his bandmates in the dressing room for a welcome beer, before they all troop off to the seafront for the traditional fish-and-chip supper, leaving Lloyd to his pre-gig meditations.

The gig is yet another triumph. The ten-seater venue is packed, and the audience is receptive to the Nightingales’ quirky blend of drunken muttering and fractured musicianship. As the audience file out to join the band in the upstairs bar, Mark ‘Ace’ Jones extracts the maximum amount of cash in exchange for merchandise assisted by the imposing figure of Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell who stands behind Jones, arms folded, glowering at each audience member as they file past, emptying their wallets.

After cocktails in the New York-style bar above the venue, the band say their goodbyes to one and all, and climb wearily into Big Dave’s van for the long drive back to Wolverhampton, accompanied by the ever-present voice of Big Dave himself.

Day 4: Take me to my beach...

I wake to the comforting anonymity of the Reading Travelodge and rise to make coffee. In the double bed to my left, the outline of two bodies indicate to me that I have room-mates, though who they are yet I cannot tell, for I stumbled into my bed just as soon as we arrived at the hotel – at 3 am – exhausted by the rigours of life on the road. The rest of the entourage, hardened as they are to the capricious demands of touring, remained at the entrance to the building, smoking fragrant Turkish cigarettes and quietly chewing over the day’s events, the gig they had just played, the fans they had spoken to.

As the water begins to boil, a voice – which I recognise as that of Mark ‘Ace’ Jones – issues from beneath the duvet. “Coffee,” it says. As I reach for a second cup to set beside my own, Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley rises as though sleep-walking from the furthest side of the bed. He walks to the kettle and grabs the cup from my hand. “And a cigarette,” says the muffled voice from beneath the duvet, and sure enough Apperley turns to Jones’ jacket hanging on the back of the chair and retrieves the tobacco pouch. I crawl back into bed, leaving Apperley to his labours.

At mid-day, we assemble in the car-park of the hotel, at the open doors of Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell’s spacious tour bus. Big Dave has been up since 10 am performing basic maintenance on his vehicle and cleaning out the debris from the previous day. He has already eaten two breakfasts and is now keen to hit the road in search of lunch. We have a long drive ahead of us, and like the van he so lovingly maintains, Big Dave needs constant refuelling.

The band are in good spirits after last night’s triumphant gig, but there is no self-congratulatory back-slapping here. Ever moving forward, the talk is of this evening’s gig at the enigmatically-named Tom Thumb Theatre in the historic seaside town of Margate, enshrined forever in the popular Chas ‘n’ Dave track of the same name. It is a mark of the innate modesty of the Nightingales that they prefer these smaller, more intimate venues. I’m not sure I understand this. Does it not indicate a lack of aspiration on the part of the band? And is it really fair to those fans who are turned away, unable to get into the venue to see their heroes? Lloyd smiles quietly to himself, and leaves it to Kitson to respond: “We treat every gig as the most important we’ve ever played.” As she says this, her eyes moisten and thin threads of mascara begin to trickle down her cheeks. “We live for those moments on stage. It’s not important how many people are in the room. The music’s the thing. Adulation, worship, fame – yes, we have all this. But if we didn’t get that shiver of excitement as we hit the first note of the set, we just wouldn’t bother.” From his seat just behind Kitson, Lloyd places a hand on Kitson’s shoulder, comforting her as she weeps extravagantly while wringing her hands. The rest of the band nod in agreement, their moist eyes glistening in the pale light of the van.

Gig #3: Thunderbolt, Bristol 11 April 2014

It’s nearly 4 pm and we’re navigating the twisted cobbled streets of Old Bristol Town, minutes away from the venue. Bristol was an important centre for Britain’s slave trade in times past, something for which the city dignitaries have recently publicly apologised. But this is modern Bristol and foreigners are allowed to roam freely, exercising their considerable portfolio of civil and political rights within the secure walls of the St Paul’s enclave. We skirt this area, with its baroque razorwire-topped walls, the armed guards waving us on in a gesture of welcome as we begin the steep ascent up from the Avon valley to the heights of Greater Hobbling where the Thunderbolt nestles amongst a sea of quaint tumbledown social housing.

The owner of the venue – Dave (No Relation) – greets the band like the old friends they are and ushers us all into the building where pints of Tarquil’s Titillator (3.9% ABV) and Old Fruity Pale Ale (3.8% ABV) have already been poured in anticipation of the band’s arrival. The familiar silhouette of a bottle of High Commissioner – especially imported from the West Midlands – sits on a table near the bar, a ribbon tied around its distinctive slender neck on which hangs a card: “Greetings Robert Lloyd; The Thunderbolt Welcomes You Back – Dave.” Few bands could command such deep loyalty as the Nightingales appear to.

The evening is less a gig than a reunion of old friends, and I begin to see for the first time that the Nightingales is so much more than just another rock ‘n’ roll group. The people assembled here tonight, some of whom have travelled for days to be part of this event, are hushed and respectful in the presence of the band. The charismatic Lloyd sits at a table in the beer-garden, surrounded by a small section of the audience. They listen intently as Lloyd patiently explains to them exactly why it is that they, each and every one of them, ought to buy him a pint.

Excitement ripples through the crowd as Chippington takes the stage. He stands silently, eyes scouring the faces of the audience for signs of weakness as the full glare of the spotlights reflect off the top of his carefully buffed and polished ‘Baldy Bloke’ head. For a brief, uncanny moment the dancing lights reflecting from his glossy scalp seem to form a halo about his head. The audience see this effect, and with a gasp of fear they cower back a little from the stage. "It's Sunshine Ted," whispers an awed voice from somewhere at the back of the room. Raising his tin of Stella Artois to his lips, Chippington tilts his head back slightly, and the effect dissipates. Slowly, the audience’s confidence returns, and the familiar chant of “One mile! One mile!” begins to gain in volume.

And then the Nightingales are on stage. Immediately, the audience is on its feet. Wild, ecstatic dancing breaks out near the stage as viral hit “Bullet For Gove” launches the now-familiar unbroken set. As lyrics pour from his twisted, sneering mouth, Lloyd’s eyes seem to taunt the audience, daring them to leave the room for a toilet break before the set has run its course.

As Lloyd toys with his audience like a giant Honeybadger with a bewildered flock of seagulls, the trio of musicians behind him go deep inside themselves to rip out the juddering cacophony that drives Lloyd’s lyrics home. Andi ‘Funky’ Schmid, bent forward over his bass the better to feel the vibrations in his own solar plexus, stares manically into the middle distance, lost in his own private search for the true spirit of funk. His bass lines coil and curve, shimmy and shake, wibble and wobble – sometimes all of these in the space of one song, one line, one note – fighting to lock down ‘Sticks’ Kitson’s clattering, unruly drumming.

Across this industrial grindhouse of rythmn and booze, Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley chops and slices his guitar like a demented chef in the Devil’s own kitchen. I see now the point of his earlier kitchen-based pre-gig rituals. For Apperley, the guitar is a cheese-grater, a shredder, a blender, a bain marie; he stirs notes, chords, phrases and riffs into the Schmid-Kitson cauldron as though preparing a casserole for the band’s evening meal, seasoning the mix with just the right amount of rock ‘n’ roll mediterranean herbs. Onstage, the Marigold gloves are very definitely off.

The band leave the stage to tremendous applause, but there is no encore tonight. They have given everything, and they must leave early to gain some ground in the direction of tomorrow’s gig. One final pint of Gunny’s Earwax (4.1% ABV) poured lovingly and appreciatively by genial host Dave, and the band and I are on our way to the Reading Travelodge where we will spend the night.

Day 3: Go West, Nightingales!

It is morning at the Oaklands Road headquarters of the Nightingales, and the band is preparing to depart for their third gig of the tour – in Bristol, at the Thunderbolt. The mood is sober, though I suspect this won’t last long. Lyricist and frontman Robert Lloyd sits at the kitchen table, cigarette in hand, a glass of cold tea in front of him. Empty bottles of High Commissioner are strewn about the table, tokens of the band’s celebratory toast to the success of last night’s gig at the Slade Roomz. Lloyd is pensive, staring into the middle distance as he weaves words and images together on the loom of his mind, in preparation for the next album which the band hope to record in the Autumn.

Today, Lloyd’s inspiration is that noble sport of kings – horse racing. A newspaper lies open at his elbow at the sports pages, and Lloyd occasionally breaks off from his musings to peruse the dense text, searching for inspiration. Now and then, the creative muse descends and Lloyd will quietly mutter a phrase to himself, feeling the shape of the words on his tongue, for they must not only work on paper – they must also live and breathe as the lyric to a song. “Chandler’s Knackers,” he murmurs. “4.14 at Chepstowe. A cert.” Satisfied that the phrase works, it is jotted down in his notebook, and the creative mill grinds on.

Also in the kitchen is Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley, whose own ritualistic preparations for this evening’s gig involve losing himself in the minutae of domestic life. He moves about the kitchen unobtrusively in his domestic apron, his hands clad in Marigold rubber gloves, no doubt to protect the delicate, vulnerable guitar-playing fingers which are so vital to the Nightingales’ soundscape. Cupboards quietly open and shut as Apperley brings order to last night’s post-gig chaos.

Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson enters the kitchen. “Toast,” she snaps. “Now!” Within seconds, Apperley has two slices under the grill. I’m fascinated by the closeness of the band, the instinctive intimacy they share. The way in which Kitson selflessly supports Apperley in his pre-gig preparation ritual is heart-warming to witness. Lloyd joins in. “Light,” he says as Kitson hands him a cigarette, and before it has touched his lips Apperley is holding a flame to the tip. “And the tea?” Kitson continues without looking up from her celebrity gossip magazine. Immediately, the kettle rumbles into life.

Slowly, purposefully, the Nightingales juggernaut lurches into focus. As the time to depart for the long drive to Bristol approaches, so the atmosphere in the house becomes suffused with excitement. Chippington has appeared, a little bleary from last night’s celebrations, but invigorated nonetheless. On a magic carpet of energy, he is wafted from the living room to the kitchen in search of tea. Squires emerges from his cupboard under the stairs. His hair glistens with the gel he has spent the past hour applying, layer upon layer, to achieve the characteristic ‘Squires Slick’. He has yet to start work on his beard but he has an hour before the band must leave for Bristol. The doorbell rings – Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell has arrived with the band’s equipment, and he enters in a whirlwind of words. I catch a phrase - “the thing about sausages...” – and he disappears into the kitchen to entertain whoever happens to be in there.

In Every Dream Home a Headache

Oaklands Road - Residential headquarters of
the Nightingales (Prop.: Dr Mark Jones)

I thought readers might like to see a photo of the Nightingales' Oaklands Road headquarters. This building is not only home to Mark 'Ace' Jones and Fliss 'Sticks' Kitson, but also provides a pied a terre for those members of the band who can't afford the inflated metropolitan rents characteristic of the rapidly gentrifying Waitrose Fields area in which the house is located. The building is also home to the Nightingales/Big Print merchandise warehouse, the Kitson Graphic Design Studio (Motto: "Design? Allow It!") and the Blockbuster club (formerly The Living Room,) an intimate, velvet-draped dance space and cocktail bar frequented exclusively by the band and a select group of acolytes variously drawn from Wolverhampton's avant garde artistic elite, the radical, burlesque fringes of the local entertainment scene, several absinthe-sipping poets and writers, and musicians such as Blind Gerry Carlin and Lightning Kevin Magill, members of Wolverhampton's radical musical collective The Cruel Brethren.

The building also contains the recently inaugurated Robert Lloyd Archive, which will ultimately contain an exhaustive collection of documents, photographs, artworks and vinyl records spanning Lloyd's forty year career at the sharpest edges of the Midland's avant garde scene, just as soon as any such documents can be located. The archive will also eventually contain the John Robb collection of Robert Lloyd interview transcripts, and an orientation centre for those future generations of social and cultural historians, keen to explore the phenomenon that was 'Punk Rock'.

Gig #2: The Slade Roomz, Wolverhampton 10 April 2014

Thursday night’s gig was something of an occasion for the Nightingales, Wolverhampton being the band’s adopted home. The venue – the Slade Roomz – is a curious place; cavernous, forbidding and austere. Apart from the posters which advertise forthcoming gigs, the walls are completely covered by photographs of local heroes Slade (a raucous, working class glam band from the early 1970s, best known for their ever popular Christmas single – reissued locally every year since it was first put out in 1973 – (We Wish You A Wombling) Merree Chrissmas Evrybody. I’m told by locals who are in the know that Slade’s influence extends beyond the body of music they produced, and into the educational sphere. Their penchant for deliberately mis-spelling the titles of their singles (hits included Coz I’m Luvvly; Take Me Bak Wum; Gudbuy 2 Fame) has, it seems, been a huge influence on the literary capabilities of the youth of Wolverhampton.

The band arrived at the venue with good spirits, which they proceeded to drink rapidly so as to move on to the rider, kindly provided by the venue. A swift soundcheck ensued, conducted by the bands crack sound engineer, Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires. I watched astonished as the normally reticent Squires transformed before my eyes into a bellowing, cajoling harridan, haranguing each member of the band (and, it must be said, the venue staff, too...) in turn to adjust this pedal up, that amplifier down.

An even more suprising transformation occurs in the band itself, who timidly submit themselves to Squires’ tirade of abuse. I watched amazed as the normally towering, statuesque figure of Robert Lloyd seemed to crumble and shrivel in the face off Squires’ insistence that he ‘sing one more fucking line, you lazy-arsed excuse for a frontman.’ There is something quite shocking in the sight of two 50-odd year old men - Lloyd and Apperley - with their arms around each other, tears streaming down their faces as they try to comfort each other in the face of such abuse, like traumatised infantrymen in the trenches of The Somme.

 

Yet thirty minutes later, I walk into the dressing room to find Apperley, Squires and Lloyd, along with the rest of the entourage, sipping beers together and engaging in that easy, comradely badinage which is the privilege of old friends and battle-scarred warriors.

As the support act Jump The Shark take the stage, the audience filters in from the bar and watches appreciatively as the twelve-year-old musicians put their various instruments through their paces. The twin guitars remind me of Lloyd and Verlaine at their crystaline best, while the bass player provides both sinew and muscle to the skeletal guitar phrases. Drums colour the sound and provide the motivation for the intricately-structured songs.

The drummer is also the singer, and the contrast between the yearning, ethereal voice and the earthy pulse of the drums – both emanating from the diminutive figure barely visible behind the kit – is both the skin and soul of the sound. The band’s parents watch proudly from the audience whilst, equally proudly, their nannies watch from the wings, clutching glasses of warm milk and plates of chocolate chip cookies for that triumphant moment when the band leave the stage to the enthusiastic applause of their proud parents.

Next up is Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington reprising his curious acapella hip-hop act, but this time to an audience who are clearly familiar with this da-daism-meets-situtionism-for-tea-at-the surrealism-cafe collision of flint-eyed social commentary, wry cultural criticism, and intricate, anarchic wordplay. The audience anticipate the choruses before Chippington has even begun the piece. “One mile!” they shout as Chippington glares at the crowd from behind the rim of his can of Stella Artois, challenging them to reflect upon the journeys which they must all embark upon, journeys which will take them deep into the darkest, most threatening alleyways and boulevards of their own individual Torquays.

 

One particular devotee, a woman, is transported into a kind of delerium by Chippington’s provocations. Trembling with emotion, she is barely able to stand and must prop herself against a column in the centre of the room. Cackling deleriously, she chants fragments from Chippington’s ouevre, urging him to go further than the one mile he requires of her. The mesmeric power that Chippington wields over his audience is as terrifying as it is fascinating.

And then the Nightingales take the stage to a ripple of polite applause. Lloyd senses that, after the hypnotic, numbing effect of Chippington’s set, he must work hard now, if he is to win over the audience to the perverse contrariness of the band’s new material. As the group take up their positions Lloyd moves stage centre, fixes a steely eye on a point somewhere in the middle distance, takes a long drink from his trademark plastic bottle of cold tea and, with four beats from Kitson’s famous ‘Stix’ drumsticks, opens the attack with the band’s surprise viral hit “Bullet For Gove.”

For the next hour, in an unbroken tsunami of jagged chords, fractured bass lines, and a cannonade of drums, Lloyd assaults the audience in a series of voices, from the warbling menace of “Mutton To Lamb” to the dribbling salaciousness of “The Grueseome Threesome”; from the hoarse intimacy of “Say It With Flowers” to the bellowing pomposity of “Dumb and Drummer”.

The set shape-shifts across a myriad different tempos, styles, and genres, backing vocals jabbing through at strategic points to support or challenge Lloyd’s lyrical dominance. And no-one challenges Lloyd’s supremacy more than Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson, who lobs vocal hand grenades at the relentless platoons of lyrics spewed forth by her ally and nemesis. Vocally, Apperley and Schmid contribute light and shade, with Schmid in particular refusing to conform to the bourgeois hegemony of ‘the tune’.

The set is once again seemless, from beginning to end – no breaks, no pauses, no prisoners – and it ends abruptly to shell-shocked silence, the audience momentarily stunned by the sonic assault they have just endured. Lloyd seizes the opportunity, and without waiting for permission, foists an encore on the exhausted and battered audience. A challenging re-imagining of the TLC classic “Unpretty” is first up, with Lloyd proving surprisingly convincing in his guise as a bruised teenage hip-hop honey, wrestling in her naive way with the complex ethical dilemmas thrown up by the futile desire for physical perfection. In Lloyd’s hands, the song becomes even more poignant as we realise that no amount of plastic surgery or cosmetic makeovers can ever reverse the ravages of age after a life of decadent self-abuse.

“Unpretty” is swiftly followed by what I believe to be a reworking of an obscure ‘B’ side from the now long-forgotten glam-rock group Wizziwig’s one and only 7” single. (Decca, 1971. Cat. No. 13507/2b. Produced by Shel Talmy. Engineered by Willy ‘Wally’ Williams. Billboard Chart Position 99 for one week.) In the hands of the Nightingales, the song – Don’tcha Rock – has mutated from the jaunty singalong original into a brawling, belligerent attack on the futility of rock ‘n’ roll as a means of changing the world for the better. The band leave the stage to tumultuous applause from Mark ‘Ace’ Jones at the merchandise stall, the audience having rushed next door to the bar and the adjacent toilets the instant that the music stopped.

Gig #1: The Arts Centre, Norwich 9th April 2014

I owe you readers out there an apology. Unable to access my own memories of the gig, I had hoped to use the notes I made at the time to reconstruct for your reading pleasure an account of the evening. As a professional journalist my instinct for a story ensures that, whatever my state of mind at the time, my sub-conscious directs my hands towards my iPad allowing me subsequently to piece together from the fragments a coherent narrative of the events I have witnessed, but can no longer recall. However, on checking over my notes this afternoon I find that I have underestimated the combined impact of a red-eye flight into the UK, the maelstrom of activity that greeted me at Oaklands Road (for which I now realise I was inadequately prepared) and the anaesthetising effect of several pints of Jodrill’s Chode, Norfolk’s finest ale.

In themselves, these three factors combined would be enough to explain the incoherent gibberish which I seem to have written during the evening. But on the journey from Wolverhampton to Norwich I’d been 'allowed' to sit in the front seat alongside the Nightingales’ driver and personal masseuse Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell, a gesture I’d interpreted as a mark of respect towards the stranger in their midst but which I now realise was nothing of the sort. I’ll describe Wassell more fully in due course, as I will all of the band and it’s entourage. But I will tell you now that Wassell’s most distinctive feature is his ability to talk rapidly and incessantly for hour after hour, mile after mile, on a frankly bewildering array of topics, the content of which make Ripley’s Believe It or Not seem like a parish newsletter produced by the cake-baking, flower-arranging members of the local Women’s Institute.

 

I arrived in the UK exhausted from my travels. I arrived in Norwich a broken man. If I try to sleep, I hear Wassell’s voice once more recounting the malicious habits of the Honeybadger and its ancient feud with seagulls, or arguing that the conspiracy theories around the mysterious assassination of JFK are themselves part of a larger conspiracy by the Church of Scientology to cover up the fact that Kennedy was about to mutate into an Operating Thetan who would, in time, become the diminutive actor Tom Cruise, heir apparent to the throne of the soon-to-be-established earth-based outpost of the Galactic Thetan Empire (CEO: L ‘Ron’ Hubbard. Motto: “All Power To The Hubb!”) Can you blame me for taking refuge in the amniotic bliss that is Jodrill’s Chode?

Day 2: The Hangover Ritual

I’m not quite sure what happened last night, but when we got back from the Norwich gig, I must have wandered all over Mark Jones’s mansion undressing myself as I went - I found my clothes this morning, scattered throughout the many rooms of the rambling pile. Very embarrassing. I can’t remember much about the evening overall, for which I humbly apologise. I can only imagine that the keen Norfolk air blowing in from the dark, tempestuous North Sea, combined with the two or three pints of Jodrill’s Chode (a deceptively powerful local ale, ABV 11.3%) which I consumed during the course of the evening, took me unawares. Luckily, I kept detailed notes of the evening and will assemble these into a coherent account of the gig sometime today.

Unhappily, I’m feeling quite delicate this morning, and so had to decline the band’s invitation to join in with their curious al fresco morning ritual. As I write, I can see from the vantage point of my room Mark Jones, Robert Lloyd, Paul Squires, Ted Chippington, and Andi Schmid, all of whom appear to be sitting on chairs in the garden below, stripped to the waist. They are all holding large glasses of what might be cold tea (is this an English custom? I must investigate further...) and they are all sitting facing Fliss Kitson who, dressed in a leopard-skin body suit, appears to be demonstrating a series of ritualistic movements to the others. Presumably, at some point the others will emulate these strange, esoteric motions which, it must be said, look curiously like tap-dancing. I will talk to the group later about this strange ritual, but for now I must rest and recuperate, for we have the second gig of the tour this evening – in the great metropolis of Wolverhampton itself.

For Those Who Are About To Rock... 'n' Roll

After the vibrant, multicultural nightlife of Wolverhampton, the Nightingales’ Oaklands Road headquarters is something of a revelation. I arrive at just after 5am at the multi-level art space which is owned and operated by Professor Mark Jones who is, at first glance at least (time will reveal whether or not this is actually the case...) the organising mind behind the Nightingales’ machine. In the reception room, I am greeted by a human cauldron, bubbling with activity. In one corner, a dark-haired goth-witch converses animatedly with a young Eminem wannabe. This, I soon learn, is Felicity Kitson, drummer with the group, and Paul Squires, sound engineer and male model.

I recognise the imposing figure of Robert Lloyd, formerly of the Prefects, the iconic Birmingham-based punk band from whom the Sex Pistols learned so much. The Prefects, of course, were Disc Jockey John Peel’s very favourite band of all time, and their single Teenage Kicks remains a classic of the punk movement to this very day. They famously supported Joe Strummer’s Clash on the ill-fated White Riot tour, which indeed ended with a white riot which, legend has it, the Prefects initiated after Strummer stole the opening chord sequence of their Birmingham’s A Shit-hole for his own band’s much-lauded hit Fat Man in Hammersmith Palace.

Lloyd has put on weight since the last time I saw him (two months ago.) He looks tired, bleary after a long night of mental preparation for the tour, involving what seem to be three whole bottles of High Commissioner – a popular local beverage. He chain-smokes Marlboro cigarettes, packets of which bass-player Andreas ‘Andi’ Schmid produces from the depths of his bass-guitar case. Lloyd whispers conspiratorially to Schmid, whilst Professor Jones stands in the middle of the room, rythmically directing the complex pre-tour preparations to the seductive beat of The Sweet’s Love Is Like Oxygen, the 7-inch vinyl record of which spins on the turntable.

Slumped in another corner is the baleful figure of art-provateur Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington. He is glassy-eyed with exhaustion, after a night spent writing what he describes to me, in barely audible tones, as his ‘new material.’ I am led into the kitchen by Nightingales guitarist Alan Apperley, the only one of the group who appears to have had a decent night’s sleep. His eyes are wide, his enthusiasm palpable as he proceeds to tell me all about his new guitar technique, debuted on the new album For Fuck’s Sake and about to be unleashed on the public during this tour. He makes me tea, and I listen, spellbound, for the next three hours.

Day 1: Good Morning, Wolverhampton!

Wolverhampton railway station at 5 am is a lively meeting-place for the city's late drinkers and early risers. I pick my way carefully across the platform, taking care not to step on the exhausted alcoholics who clutch their empty two-litre bottles of Osborne's Revenge (a locally-brewed cider, I believe) and who quietly mutter to themselves of the previous day's excitements. I too, am excited. I am on my way to hook up with post-punk anti-heroes the Nightingales, with whom I shall spend the next three weeks as they tour the UK to promote their latest LP For Fuck's Sake. I have flown into the UK from Frankfurt where I am a journalist for Der Mojo. My editor believes that the story of a small, insignificant and ultimately unpopular band of misfits and ne'er-do-wells, struggling heroically - and irrationally - against the repeated rejections of both record labels and the public, will entertain our readers, and who am I to disagree? And so it is that I find myself sitting in a vomit-flecked taxi, hurtling through the mean streets of Wolverhampton, en route to Oaklands Road, where the band are assembling for the long journey to Norwich, and the first gig of the tour.