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.

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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.

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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.