Saturday 4 August 2007

Standing in court and lying

Been trying to relax a little bit today as quite soon we will be really busy trying to do everything we need to do to be ready for the Blackpool gig. I am looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time.I’m a Neurotic ok, people are puzzled by my nervousness before a gig after all the stage experience I have had over the years but that’s the way I am. To try to put this into some context so you may understand what emotions I feel at a time like this I will describe is as such.

I feel like I am on trial every time I play a gig, the gig it’s self is a court room in which I make my case with the help of my co-defendants (the rest of the band, I am of-course referring to here) to a large group of judges and it is their reaction which determines if I am ‘Guilty’ or ‘Not Guilty’ to bringing rock ‘n’ roll into disrepute.

If I am found ‘Not Guilty’, that only stands until the next gig and then I have to be put on trial again.

Like anyone facing a real trial the lead up to it is a very unsettling time and can start days before. Therefore I find the whole thing very wearing.

Of-course after all the worry and the pressure, if the verdict is ‘Not Guilty’ I am then filled with the sort of exhilaration that can be found no where else and with that, a dependency on the thrill that can only be repeated by doing it all over again.

If the verdict is guilt as charged, then I am thrown into a dark cloud and feel I have been lead away in chains to a dark, dank dungeon.

There is a part of me that wishes to be free of this cycle of craving acceptance and there is a part of me that just will not let go.
I told you a was a Neurotic!




1963

Next to him just inside my door was one of the many things dumped in my room ” just in case we ever need it”, a sort of kitchen wardrobe. It had storage space on the top part for packets and tins of food, a deep area in the middle that held the bread basket and had a single drop down door that revealed an enamel work surface on the other side of it, this coupled as a preparation area. Under that were two drawers that held cutlery and below that storage for pot and pans. It now held anything but the above in it.

He half remembered it in his frenzied anger so turned and pulled out the knife draw.

Why would he go to that drawer?

All he found was a single wooden spoon, we no longer used it because it was replaced by some rather modern plastic ones and the old one was now to be hidden from sight as a punishment for being old fashion.

He grabbed it and lunged at me just at the moment that my lungs had finished filling with air again, which allowed me to let out a long piecing scream as he hit me and hit me and hit me and hit me and hit me and hit me and hit me and hit me over the head with it, until it splinted on my brow sending pieces of it ricocheting around the room.

He kicked the side of the bed threw down what was left of it and spat out “You’re going to pay for this, mark my words” as he stormed out

It was a strange thing to do.

But it was not the implement he intended to find.
I am sure of that.




Now, loath as I am to admit it, as the omission would allow the continuation of a flow of narrative that would be familiar to anyone who enjoys a story of the struggle of the individual attempting to overcome a violent upbringing, none of this happened!

From the point of the cell door opening in the dream of captivity, I made it all up. I did it to make a point, there was hardly any violence that I can remember during my childhood but there appeared to me to be the threat of it, always present in the background which affected me in a slow creeping sort of way.

There were a couple of grains of truth in that mini tale.

My sisters were not happy to have been dragged away from their fiends and an environment they were familiar to the brave new world and vistas of the Newtown experiment.
My dad did come at me with a wooden spoon but it was when I was young enough to be in a cot. I remember it to this day, my earliest memory. I must have been crying as children tend to do, I must have carried on too long.


He struck the side of the cot with the spoon with a force so great that a piece it flew off, probably into the cot, I don’t know.

That spoon was never thrown away, it was useless for the purpose it was designed but it was kept, for what reasons I do not know.

What I do know is it was kept in the knife draw of the kitchen unit I described earlier and that did stand in my room.

That’s why I never forgot the incident, every time I came across the spoon I remembered, and it burned that act of violence into my brain so that I could not forget it.

1 comment:

Brooksey said...

The Brighton gig, by someone who was there…......
So there I was, throwing back the first of several liveners in a non-descript little boozer near Trafalgar Street in Brighton, the mighty Neurotics due on stage within a few hours.
It had been another shit week at work, made bearable by the fact that I was off to see the band at the Prince Albert pub. Living locally, it was not one of my favourite haunts, too many lairy students for my liking, but a lively little venue all the same.
Things didn’t start off too well due to the bloody weather, the rain relentless. But I arrived midway through TV Smith’s as-per-usual impassioned performance. Having seen him several times over the years, he never fails to disappoint.
Retreating to the downstairs bar minutes before the main event (the gig being upstairs), I noticed the unmistakeable figure of Attila sniffing around trying to get served. I took the opportunity to ask him why the chaps were calling it a day. But for the life of me I can’t remember what he said. Shit.
Anyway, the time had finally come for Harlow’s finest to rip it up. And rip it up they certainly did. I’ve only seen the band three times – the first occasion in my home town of Wrexham, North Wales way back in 1984 or thereabouts at Rhosddu (or possibly Rhosnesni) Community Centre.
The 2nd time was recently when the band played the Komedia in Brighton. Wonderful to see them again, but I thought the venue was far from suitable – tables and chairs at a Neurotics gig? What’s that all about?
Anyway, it was a wonderful night at the Albert. Some bloke joined the band for a song (possibly two) – portly, grey-haired geezer. At the time I thought to myself ‘who’s this character?’ And you know what, he was fantastic. Top notch set of pipes. I saw him shortly after at the bar and congratulated him on his performance. I think he was a bit surprised, but he seemed a cool guy, almost sheepish by my hearty congratulations (or scared!).
But I can’t emphasise enough how good the Neurotics were. As they were leaving the stage, I climbed aboard and gave Steve and Simon a firm handshake just to say thanks. And it continues to sadden me that I’ll never see them again. A catalogue of quality tunes that are as relevant now as the day they were penned. Mr Drewett oozes quality, there’s no half measures with this man. A cut above in terms of songwriting and a voice to match. The boy Lomond is some drummer, very versatile and extremely under-rated in my opinion. And how come he still looks about 25?!!
Sad to see that there will be no more. So come on lads, how about two or three select gigs a year, including the wonderful city of Brighton? Think of your legions of fans, think of that night at the Prince Albert, think of that crowd groovin’ to the tunes, and think of poor Attila. You clearly made an old soldier very happy. His life won’t be the same.
But in all seriousness, if enough is definitely enough, I’d just like to say thanks. It was a gig I won’t forget in a hurry. I’d seen the Ruts and the Damned at the Carling Academy the week before and you were far superior to them.
So thanks again, Steve, Simon et al. We salute you.