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!”

Gig #14: The Citrus Club, Edinburgh 25 April 2014

Paul Vickers and The Leg are an odd bunch. The band (The Leg) are a three-piece consisting of acoustic guitar, cello and drums, though you’d be mistaken if you thought that an evening of gentle, classical music was in store. These may be acoustic instruments, but not a note or beat escapes without first being tortured by a battery of effects pedals, amplifiers and electrical kitchen implements. Over this jagged, jittery backdrop frontman Paul Vickers delivers a blizzard of erudite, witty and surreal lyrics whilst capering about the stage like a man wearing spring-healed loafers. His voice is a cross between Family’s Roger Chapman and Scotland’s favourite musical son Alex Harvey. Vickers’ between-songs banter is genuinely hilarious – the man is a born raconteur – and the crowd are obviously already fans.

After such an opening act, Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington’s task is made considerably easier, and within minutes of beginning his set the crowd are mesmerised, chanting along to the choruses of his curious acapella rap numbers. “They always assume you’re a Blues fan,” snarls Chippington as he performs his most political number of the set; a devastating critique of big city small-mindedness, and a timely one given that urban life across the UK is constantly disrupted by violent mobs of crazed, drunken UKIPS supporters. “Blues fan. Blues fan,” chant the audience, completely swayed by Chippington’s terse, argumentative lyrics.

Chippington leaves the stage to tremendous applause but there is no time for an encore, for the Nightingales are onstage before the audience can get to the bar, or to the toilet. As the opening notes of viral hit “Bullet For Gove” ring out, the audience erupts, and neither the band’s pace nor the audiences’ enthusiasm let up for the next hour. The tumultuous applause that follows the set earns that rare bonus – an encore – and the band launch into “Don’tcha Rock.” As the number ends in a chaos of howling feedback and exploding drums, a clearly-moved Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd returns to the microphone, looks the crowd squarely in their eyes and says “Cheers, Edinburgh. You’ve been fantastic. And Scotland, stay with us, yeah?”

Day 14: Hit the north… one more time.

Although today’s gig is in Edinburgh, in that soon-to-be-independent Kingdom of Scotland, we are returning after the gig to our Newcastle Travelodge and so we travel light. As has been so often the case on this tour, Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell opts for a selection of Northern Soul tracks to accompany the band on the journey, and as we leave the precincts of Newcastle, Larry ‘Twiglet Thighs’ McCallister is warbling through the immortal dance floor favourite “My Baby’ll Sit On My Lap (But She Won’t Sit On Yours.” (Ringletone Records, 1968. Cat. No. 7335/224a35b. Produced by Alvin ‘Al’ Philibuster. Engineered by Walter ‘Faders Up’ Johnson. Billboard Chart Position 97 for two weeks.)

We arrive in good time and, such is the discipline which the band has developed over the previous two weeks, they load and out and are soundchecking within minutes. We are almost at the end of the tour, and Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires is in reflective mood this evening: for the first time on this tour, the band finish soundchecking without shedding a single tear amongst them.

As support act Paul Vickers and The Leg arrive for their soundcheck, the Nightingales depart in good spirits for a nearby restaurant where they will dine this evening on a local delicacy – Deep Fried Haggis Kebab served with battered potato wedges and pan-fried peas, washed down with pints of Edinburgh’s finest ale: Rob Roy’s Revenge (ABV 5.6%). The only sour note occurs when Mark ‘Ace’ Jones takes to flicking his bullet-hard pan-fried peas at me across the dinner table, but I shrug it off and leave to take refuge in the dark recesses of Big Dave’s van.

Gig #13: The Cluny, Newcastle 24 April 2014

Support tonight is by local heroes So What Robot who play a sharp-elbowed set of quirky, rock ‘n’ roll songs which have been poured into a cocktail shaker along with Talking Heads, Kraftwerk, The Modern Lovers and Chas and Dave. It’s a heady mixture, and it’s played with a fierce energy that clearly impresses the audience, and has the Nightingales casting anxious glances at each other across the room.

Joseph ‘Joe’ Crow – ex of both the Prefects and the Nightingales – is in the audience tonight and he watches his old friend Chippington go through exactly the same act he first witnessed as a mere youth, all those years ago in Birmingham. “Are you a Blues fan?” Chippington fixes the audience with his trademark steely glare. “Yes!” shout the crowd in unison. “We’re all Blues fans, Ted!” Crow’s face breaks into a wry smile – the years have not dimmed Chippington’s ability to mould a crowd to his whim.

If the audience has any doubts at all about the Nightingales, they are blown away by the very first notes of viral hit “Bullet for Gove.” The set is delivered with the band’s customary ruthless efficiency, and leave a stunned audience begging for the encore that will never come. Crow’s face breaks into yet another wry smile – the years have not dimmed his old band’s ability to mould a crowd to their whim.

Day 13: Like taking cold ones to Newcastle

We’re on our way to Newcastle for tonight’s gig. I’m told that the city of Newcastle is so-called because of the castle, which being built in 1965 (in a kind of brutal modernist style) is apparently the last castle to have ever been built as a defensive fortress in the UK. The Castellians who, legend has it, were a hardy, farming folk, found themselves under attack in 1963-64 from the Broonites, a moody, beer-swilling bunch of barbarians famous for their Newcastle Broon Ale (ABV 4.6%).

Apparently, even today one must produce a passport if one wishes to enter the Free State of Castellia, of which the castle is the heart, soul, and administrative centre.I for one am looking forward to visiting this monument to Man’s folly to Man, though the band seem either deeply uninterested, or highly amused by this desire.

I’m a little disconcerted today, I must admit. I was standing by Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell’s van as the band assembled this morning, when Mark ‘Ace’ Jones sidled up to me and whispered “I know your game, Kuntz. I’m watching you,” and pressed a piece of paper into my hand on which was drawn a large black spot. I’m not sure at all what this means, but I suspect it isn’t good.

I find myself sitting in the van beside Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley with whom I share my concerns. “What,” I ask him, “does the black spot mean?” Apperley turns pale at this, and his voice drops to a whisper. “Leave the tour. Leave now.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Later, after the soundcheck, I take Apperley off for a pint in a nearby pub. I need to know more about the nature of the threat, and my pre-tour research tells me that, like Jones, Apperley is also a highly-respected, internationally-renowned academic with a substantial and much-admired string of publications to his credit. As Apperley talks, his eyes dart about the pub for any sign that Jones might be in the vicinity. “It’s Ace… I mean Mark’s Jack ‘The’ Ripper obsession,” says Apperley in a whisper. “His theory as to the identity of the Ripper is so controversial, he’s reluctant to publish it until he’s demolished all the rival theories.”

Over the next hour, Apperley explains that Jones has for decades now been pursuing the idea that Jack ‘The’ Ripper was none other than Joseph ‘Elephant Man’ Merrick. It seems that a central plank of Jones’s theory is that, contrary to popular depictions of Mr Ripper, it is likely that he wore, not the traditional top hat with which he is usually portrayed, but instead a bowler hat. For years Jones has been trawling archives of Victorian London for any photograph that might depict Merrick in a bowler hat. “If he can find just one, he thinks this will prove his theory beyond all doubt. It’s been an exhausting and unfruitful journey for Ace… er I mean Mark, and over the years he’s been scoffed at by most of the Ripperology community. I fear it’s pushing him towards a breakdown. He’s a powder keg, and I'm afraid that you've lit the fuse.”

Gig #12: Nice’n’Sleazy, Glasgow 23 April 2014

We arrive at the venue on Sauchiehall Street (which Dave ‘Big Dave‘ Wassell insists is pronounced Saucey Hall Street. And who am I, a mere German, to argue...) and make our way around to the rear entrance, where we commence loading into the venue downstairs. Meanwhile, Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd makes his way into the upstairs bar in search of the mysterious Fielding.

As I carry equipment down the stairs into the gig room, I see Lloyd chatting to someone. This must be Fielding, though he is hidden by the semi-closed door leading into the bar. I will try to interview him later, when the band is soundchecking.

The evening’s support band - Sharptooth - arrive as the band are suffering their way through their soundcheck. They keep to themselves in that beleagured way some bands have when they are motivated by more than mere music. Sharptooth are, I sense, a band with a mission. They look serious, intent, and though polite in their dealings with the Nightingales and their entourage they huddle together as though plotting a takeover. I like them before I’ve even heard a note.

As the Nightingales gravitate upstairs, I follow them in search of Fielding. Nice’n’Sleazy is yet another bar that would not be out of place in the Königsburg area of Berlin and I’m immensely impressed by the range of cocktails which the band immediately begin to sample, by way of calming themselves down after the trauma of the soundcheck. I spy Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd sitting at a table, and join him. There is a breeze at my elbow and a bottle of High Commissioner appears on the table between us, but when I turn around I can see no one who might have placed it there. “Cheers, Fielding mate,” says Lloyd opening the bottle and pouring himself a tumbler full.

I wander about the cool venue, checking out the customers and the ambience. I step onto the pavement outside to join the smokers. Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires is there, as is Mark ‘Ace’ Jones, Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson and Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington. Sauchiehall Street is a busy thoroughfare indeed, and a tourist attraction in its own right. We are almost opposite a magnificent Art Deco former hotel (The Beresford) standing proudly amongst the dozens of kebab-pizza-and-chip parlours which have come to characterise this important street. The pavement is lined with row upon row of pictureseque beggars, each sitting upon his or her coat and each with a story to tell, funded, as they are, by the wise men and women of the Glaswegian Arts Council.

Back inside, we suddenly find menus in our hands and a shadow departing tells us that Fielding has been doing his quiet work of tending to his band’s needs.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The gig is a roaring success. Sharptooth’s set is a sparse, angular challenge to the audience, reminiscent of early Joy Division shot through with Raincoats-style angst. They play in semi-darkness, silhouetted against a faintly glowing background, and the effect is somehow slightly chilling. I buy their cassette, which I will listen to just as soon as I can purchase a cassette player from dieBay.

Chippington is at home here. His set is sharp and commanding, and the crowd follows him down those mean streets of Torquay willingly, recognising in Chippington an authoritative guide to their own individual psyches.

The Nightingales set, too, is now the usual tsunami of beats, bass and baroque’n’roll, across which surfs Lloyd’s lyrical juggernaut. I sense a presence at my elbow. I don’t have to turn around to know that Fielding is here in the room.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

After cocktails in the bar above - I try a McTavish’s Jockstrap (ABV 85.7%) - the band pile into Big Dave’s waiting van and we begin the long journey out to tonight’s Travelodge, situated somewhere on the west coast of Scotland - location chosen carefully, if idiosyncratically, by Mark ‘Ace’ Jones.

Day 12: Great Scot! It’s the McNightingales!

After the gig, an exhausted Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd is helped back to his hotel room by Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington and Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell, leaving the remainder of the Nightingales' entourage – including myself – to our own devices. The equipment and merchandise has been packed away and is to be collected in the morning, so we decide to find a bar in which to wind down for the evening. Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires, who knows the city well, leads us to his favourite Tiki bar for cocktails, and we sip our impossible concoctions – I’m drinking a Flaming Hogshagger (ABV 76.2%) – whilst Apperley, back in his trademark Marigold gloves to protect his delicate guitar-playing fingers, collects the glasses from around the venue and places them on the bar.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Today the Nightingales head north of the border, to Glasgow in the soon-to-be independent Kingdom of Scotland and, I learn, to one of their favourite venues – Nice ‘n’ Sleazy – which is located on what Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell tells me is the city’s most famous thoroughfare: Saucey Hall Street. The gig has also been promoted by one of the band’s favourite promoters, the mysteriously-named Fielding. I look forward to meeting this character later, but there is a long way to go yet as we depart Manchester’s busy commercial streets. “I don’t know about you guys,” says Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson wistfully, “but I’m looking forward to seeing that lovely big cock again.” I have no idea what she is talking about, though the rest of the band nod understandingly.

The journey north takes us through some of England’s most beautiful countryside. We pass through the famous lake district, with its undulating landscape and its rolling heather-covered hills. “Let’s see who can list all the lakes,” shouts Mark ‘Ace’ Jones from the back of the tour bus. There is no response, and so Jones continues: “Windermere, that’s one. It’s huge. Millions of gallons of water. Then there’s Thirlmere. Millions of gallons of water! And Coniston. That’s huge too, Millions of gallons of water...” “First services, Dave,” shout the rest of the band in unison, as though to thwart Jones’s ambitions.

As we approach Glasgow through the lowland hills of Scotland, Kitson suddenly becomes more animated. “We’re close to the cock, I can feel it!” Suddeny the whole band is on the alert, staring attentively out of the window. “There!” It is Kitson’s voice again. “There! I can see the cock.” Suddenly her voice is wistful, dreamy almost. “I do love that cock.” It turns out to be a glade of trees on a distant hillside, trimmed into the shape of a giant penis, no doubt marking some ancient, pre-historic site of worship. The whole van falls momentarily silent – even Big Dave. A mark of respect as we pass this clearly-important landmark.

Gig #11: KRAAK, Manchester 22 April 2014

As a German music journalist, I have spent some considerable time in the clubs and bars of Berlin watching and writing about many different bands and musicians. As Big Dave edges the tour bus down a narrow alley to an unmarked door leading into an old manufactory, I could be at any one of a hundred different venues in Berlin. The impression is only strengthened as we carry the equipment up a narrow concrete staircase to a first-floor industrial space, all red-brick and exposed girders. At one end is a makeshift bar, and at the other is the stage at the side of which is a curtained-off area which serves as a storage space and impromptu dressing room.

The soundcheck is conducted with the band’s customary ruthless efficiency, and as support band Politburo arrive for their own soundcheck, the Nightingales depart the venue for the short walk to the Travelodge. Tonight, the band has the rare luxury of being able to relax for an hour or so at the hotel before the venue’s doors open. I check in, and head to my own room where, to my surprise, I find Alan ‘Roots’ Apperley – trademark Marigold gloves protecting his delicate guitar-playing fingers – polishing the mirror with a chamois leather. He packs away his various polishes, his feather duster and his chamois leather before removing his apron and taking his leave.

The venue is almost full when we return later, and Politburo are already onstage delivering their particular brand of operatic psychedelia, poncho-wearing singer Nick Alexander looking like a cross between a less-crazed Charles Manson and a svelte Demis Roussos. His voice, filtered through layers of reverb, is haunting and ethereal, and the band clearly fit the classic template of austere yet danceable guitar-based, lyrically-driven slices of existentialist angst, shot through with dark humour established all those years ago by Lloyd and Apperley’s Prefects.

Chippington and the Nightingales both play to a capacity crowd tonight, a crowd which includes ex-Membrane and author of several respected books on punk rock and the manchester music scene – Jonathan ‘John’ Robb. Robb is currently lead singer with Goldblade, and also present is former Nightingale and guitarist with Goldblade, Pete ‘Gorgeous’ Byrchemore. I spy Mark ‘E’ Smith lurking at the back of the venue, and Ian 'Brownie' Brown, former lead singer of The Stone Roses, sipping at a cup of tea. Peter ‘Pete’ Shelley of Buzzcocks is there, as is former Buzzcock and founder of Magazine, Howerd 'Howie' Devoto. I glimpse Peter ‘Hooky’ Hook hovering on Andi ‘Smokie’ Schmid’s side of the stage, no doubt picking up a few tips on bass playing from the talented Nightingale.

The audience is like an A to Z of Manchester’s musical great and good, and the Nightingales do not let them down. The applause is so deafening and prolonged that the band return for a rare encore, Lloyd managing to find that extra 10% to bring the evening’s total to the mythical 110% effort. As the Nightingales launch into “Don’tcha Rock”, one can almost feel the spirits of Ian ‘Joy Division’ Curtis and Tony ‘Factory Records’ Wilson nodding with approval.