Day 16: Is this the end, beautiful friends?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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