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.