The Ned Wood Archive

Look out you rock ‘n rollers

So, like I said, while I was away that winter, the beginning of 1980, Pete moved out and Pall moved in. At the time I just accepted it as natural. Pete was never around that much anyway, just floating off somewhere. There were loads of rumours that he wasn’t even a student, that he was just passing through, although he must have been, really, to have put up with the Doric at the start of the year. Pall knew about the place from Maggie, cos they were on the same course. Looking back, should I maybe have made a big deal about it not having been consulted or anything? On the other hand, I was out of the country, out of contact. Maggie probably recommended the flat to Pall because he was the ideal person. He had a great record collection: some overlap with mine, some stuff that I was interested in but didn’t have much of, like the Fall and the Mekons. He had this way of saying “the Fall” the same as he said his own name. Elongated “A”. Not “Forl” like that bloke “Porl” that was in and out of the Cure, but “Faaaall” and “Paaaall” like he was falling downstairs. What’s more, Pall was at the Leigh Rock & Music Festival, THE event of the summer of ‘79. This is one of those gigs that has passed into musical mythology like the Pistols at Manchester Free Trade Hall or Dylan at Manchester Free Trade Hall or Sandy and the Quartzites at Manchester Free Trade Hall.

So, let me tell you the story of the Leigh Rock & Music festival of 1979 in all its glory as witnessed by Edward E Wood (and his mates).

Sometime in July 1979, Alex comes round to our place at home. He does this at the end of each term once we’re back from university. He usually does it the day I’m back – him having this radar for when I’m home; however, this year he’s late. He is now “living in Liverpool” which means he only spends 50% of his time at home. He’s finished his course and is waiting for inspiration before deciding what to do as a career. He comes round to our place so we can catch up on our music. In other words we compete to see who has discovered the best new bands and who has scored the best vinyl while we’ve been away; him at Liverpool, me at Southampton to begin with and then in London. He won in 76 when he came back with Patti Smith and the Ramones. In 1977, I had Television to his Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours, so that was clearly my round. This time he doesn’t have any music with him – it’s all in Liverpool. Sounds like a lame excuse to me. I play him the bands I’ve discovered from London. Sore Throat, Zombie Rock. The Cure, Killing an Arab. The Members, Sound of the Suburbs. He scribbles some names down on a piece of paper for me and asks me to tot up the score later.

A few days later, I’m in Selectadisc on Bridlesmith Gate and I’ve still got Alex’s piece of paper in my hand. I’m upstairs getting the guy at the singles counter to go through Alex’s list playing each band. Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark: Electricity. Amazing. I’ll take it. The Teardrop Explodes: Sleeping Gas. Wow. Totally amazing. I’ll take it. Echo and the Bunnymen: Pictures on my wall. Absolutely fabulously stunningly amazing. I’ll take it. Big in Japan: Suicide A Go-Go… sorry, I’ve run out of cash. I’ll be back.

For the rest of the summer I do nothing except play the Bunnymen. Mostly Pictures on My Wall. Such an amazing track. Simple but effective chord changes, rolling rhythm, haunting, somewhat dark atmosphere created & sustained by the singer’s slightly elongated vowels and deep voice, all of it offset by an electric ping keeping the beat every second or two sounding like maybe a glockenspiel/wood block but also reminiscent of the submarine sonar from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. The sort of thing Brian Eno might tag onto a number juist to prove he was there. Completely fantastic. I couldn’t get that song out of my head.

Turns out they are playing Nottingham a week or so later, so we all go. Me & Alex obviously. Our kid, probably. Dusty, who is now living somewhere up the Mansfield Road area, definitely. Birrell Road to be exact. D’ya know it? Elsa, possibly. The gig is in some basement somewhere in Nottingham. The Bunnymen and the Teardrops together. I have no memory of where the place is or what it was called. I only went there this one time. There is no mention of this gig anywhere on the world wide web or in any memoir by Will Sergeant or Bill Drummond or Tammo Musichead, so you’ll have to take my word for it. Who are you gonna believe? My dodgy memory or the internet?

The Bunnymen are on first. They play about 5 or 6 songs. They play Pictures and Read it in Books. I spend all of Pictures watching Will and Mac playing their guitars so I can learn and memorise the chords. Am F Am Em. I annoy everyone for the next month trying to get it right. They play Monkies from the Street to Street album that Alex had me buy. They play Happy Death Man which is my new favourite song of all time and we go home singing “the Velvet Underground never sounded like this” like Ian McCulloch did for about ten minutes at the end of the song. And of course, we ad lib ourselves on the way home afterwards … “Joy Division never sounded like this”, “the Teardrop Explodes never sounded like this” “the Walkie Talkies never sounded like this”… Their set is over too soon and then the Teardrops are on. I really like the Teardrops, but at that gig I was bowled over by the Bunnymen and didn’t really register the Teardrops’ set.

Sometime that evening we talk to some of the band. Probably between the sets. Balfe is also there and he does most of the talking. He was on stage with the Teardrops, but I don’t acknowledge him as being part of the band because his name isn’t on the singles. At least not as band member. I ask the Bunnymen why they go on first when they are clearly so much better. Apparently they are touring together and alternating who goes on first at the gigs. They are playing Cheltenham the following week, so we all commit to going.

And so, the following weekend, we pile into the old car and drive down to Cheltenham. That’s me and Alex and maybe our kid and maybe not Dusty or Elsa. I can’t remember. I do remember that we had this lass from Wolverhampton with us. We’d met her at the Nottingham gig and agreed to take her with us, though I can’t remember any more than that: what her name was, where we picked her up from, where we dropped her off, nothing. I’d arranged for us all to stay the night with a guy called Ralph who I knew from London. That’s Ralph as in “Rayph” not Ralph as in “Ralph”. He doesn’t like us pronouncing the L. Dead posh. He studied art at the Courtauld but was game for anything. I’d already been to his place earlier in the year because he’d arranged a day trip home so that we could all visit Brian Jones’ grave. Another geezer from the same hall was into all that RocknRoll tourist stuff and insisted we go. Mind you I am too. He had us visit the house in Powys Square where they filmed Performance as well.

So we roll up at Ralph’s Mom’s place. The front room is empty apart from a massive grand piano in the centre. Just like the Teardrop’s picture sleeve. Are we going to find a giant bunnyman in the kitchen? There’s another room beyond the piano room and we crowd into that to all sit on the sofa and watch TV and scoff the grub that Ralph’s Mom has so wonderfully prepared for us. My memory says we watch Joy Division play Transmission on Something Else, but the internet tells me I’m wrong. They were on a month later. Who are you gonna believe? Me or the internet?

Then we drive down to the gig which is in this old hut in the middle of nowhere just off the main road. We are a bit early, but we park up and go up to the door. As we do, Will Sergeant walks out. I’ve got the cover of the single in my hand, so I ask him to sign it. Which he does. Why on earth I had the cover with me, I have no idea. Well, obviously I had the cover with me so I could get it signed. But why on earth I had the cover of the single with me in order to get it signed that day, I have no idea. I’ve never taken anything to a gig to get it signed before. Yeah, I’d had folk sign stuff if I bumped into them like with Bruce Foxton on the Stiff’s tour or Peter Gabriel when we saw him at one of his gigs. And, in Southampton, we did see Kiki Dee at the Gaumont and got her to sign loads of album covers, but we only went because someone had spare tickets and we only had the album covers because there was a display of them in the Gaumont which we completely ripped apart to collect the covers. And having got all of these album covers, it only seemed sensible to get them signed. Which she did. And she said “I didn’t know I’d sold so many albums” but as they were all full of the staple holes and rips where they’d been fixed to the display, I think she knew we were all having a laugh.

But I still have no idea why I would risk the Bunnymen single by taking the vinyl out of the cover and leaving it exposed at home for the weekend or why I would risk the cover by taking the vinyl out of it and carrying it all the way to a gig down the A38 for the weekend, but I did. And there on the back is proof. Next to where it says “Will Sergent”, Will has signed it with the correct spelling of his name. And after he’s signed it, he says “they’re down at the pub, why don’t you come?” So we do.

There is only one pub. When we walk in, we can see the Bunnymen round a table, so I ask Mac to sign the cover and he says “Bloody Hell. At the pub before the gig.” And then. “I’m not signing this unless you get the others to.” And then “Oh, Will’s already signed it.” You know people say Mac is lippy, but back then he was real modest. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that we were European Champions and Liverpool weren’t. Anyway, he signs it. And so does Les. The drum machine was a tart, though. Wouldn’t sign a thing. So we leave them and go and sit at a separate table and talk. I look at my cover. Three signatures. All with a different pen! You pick a random handful of blokes in a pub, shake them upside down and get three different pens falling out of their pockets. Nope. It wouldn’t happen. Nobody carries pens with them on the off chance they’ll come in handy. So looking back on it now, I’m wondering whether I didn’t take the cover and a collection of red and black pens deliberately on purpose with the premeditated plan to get it signed by the band in the same red and black colour scheme as the cover. How lame is that?

The gig is amazing. I’m starting to really love the Teardrops. They were on first this time. I recognise a few numbers from the previous week in addition to the singles. Then the Bunnymen come on and are just as good as in Nottingham. I’m in love. They’ve clearly struck a chord … literally with start of Pictures (Am, F, Am Em …) as well as metaphorically – what they did was what I liked … the sound, the style, the musichead element: Mac’s ad libbing, occasional hints at bands like 13th Floor Elevators and the Velvets here and there, Will’s guitar … some references obvious, some subconscious. Some deliberate, some probably not deliberate. It shows that we share the same history. They have one more song – Do It Clean – which they say they’ve just written. We feel like we’ve become part of their history. The first people to fitness a new song. (Maybe they say that to all the boys.) In fact, all the songs are good. Even Ralph likes them. The next day we go to see Brian Jones to tell him about these fab new bands we’ve discovered who are now the greatest rocknroll bands on earth. And me and Alex start planning our next road trip.

“Where are they next week?”

“They are playing some festival up near Manchester. Bank Holiday Monday”

“Right, we’re definitely going.”

And so, on the bank holiday Monday, Alex comes round to our place so we can all go up to the Leigh Rock and Music Festival, me, Alex, maybe our kid. Not Dusty or Elsa or Ralph without the L or that lass from Wolverhampton wherever she is. Alex comes round early because we haven’t decided what time to leave. We don’t know when the gig is starting, but we don’t want to get there too early and we don’t want to get there too late. We’re getting excited because, according to the NME, it isn’t just the Bunnymen and the Teardrops. It’s Joy Division and Orchestral Manoeuvres. And Alex is going on about a band called A Certain Ratio who are playing as well.

So we sit around at home that bank holiday Monday talking; me, Alex, and our kid. We talk about mundane stuff. Not football because neither Alex nor our kid care about football. We don’t talk about politics because neither Alex nor our kid care much about politics. We don’t talk about cars or bikes because I don’t care much about cars or bikes. We talk a bit about Liverpool and London, but mainly we talk about music. About all the amazing bands we’ve discovered and all the rubbish bands we’ve had to put up with. We argue about the bands we disagree about and we insult each other’s musical tastes. But mostly we talk about the Leigh Rock and Music Festival and how great it’s going to be. And trying to work out what time it’ll start given that there are five or is it six bands there and how long will each of them play for, so when should we go? It isn’t such a bad day, so we are lazing around outside at our place chatting and wasting time and deciding not to go all the way up to Manchester just yet because we’ll be too early and talking some more and wasting time some more and in the end we decide, well, it’s a bit too late to drive up all the way to Manchester and we’ve probably missed most of the bands anyway. And we stay at home.

So the great Leigh Rock and Music Festival of 1979 had to survive without us.

But it wasn’t such a sliding doors moment because I did eventually meet Pall just six or seven months later, that’s all.

Like I say, Pall is into all of this fabulous new stuff. Not just the Bunnymen and Joy Division and the Teardrops but also the Fall, the Mekons, the Gang of Four. He was at the Buzzcocks/Joy Division gig at the Odeon the previous October, but we passed that evening without bumping into each other like tracks on different sides of the same album. However, we were bound to meet up at some stage.

He’s got this intellectual outlook on music. Looks at it from a different perspective like Charles Shaar Murray or Nick Kent. Tells me stuff I didn’t know or even think about knowing. That stuff about krautrock being German punk I put in Nessie’s chapter. I got that from Pall.

We have great arguments. Better arguments than me and Alex because our tastes are closer and the reasons for our differences are more particular. For instance, Pall agrees with me that great Pop Music matters. See Alex never liked Pop Music. He didn’t get why I had Supremes stuff and Shads albums and even the soundtrack to Summer Holiday. Pall appreciated Pop Music, it’s just that we differed on what great Pop Music was. When the Ants kicked off their glorious run of success with Kings of the Wild Frontier later that year, Pall couldn’t understand why I raved so much about it even though it had those wonderful Burundi Drums that were so hip all over it.

Pall’s definition of Great Pop Music was Buzzcocks. Not much room for disagreement there. And, of course, we both loved the classics like Waterloo Sunset and we agreed on Brian Eno’s Seven Deadly Finns, but he couldn’t see where the Distractions came in. I’d got their EP from Probe in Liverpool one time when we went to see Alex, but that must have been after the Great Leigh Rock and Music Festival of 1979 because, although they were on the bill, I don’t remember them being part of the conversation me and Alex had about it. The Distractions had just produced an almighty slab of classic Pop and it went over Pall’s head. Listen to this: “Anyone with a fraction of an idea what makes Great Pop will melt in front of your eyes whenever this modern masterpiece is played.” That’s from the NME review of the Distractions’ second single. I love it. Pall didn’t like it. Alex didn’t like it. Alex said “It’s just Pop.” Pall said “It’s just Pop.” Yeah. The Distractions are pop. I mean, the EP’s got handclaps on it. It’s a fair cop. With Alex calling something Pop is always an insult. With me and Pall calling something pop can be insult or praise depending on the tone.

Take “Empire State Human”: Upbeat intro, driving rhythm, catchy chorus, voiceover middle eight, repetitious fade out. It’s fantastic.

Me: “It’s pure total Pop.” I love it.

Pall: “It’s nothing but Pop.” He hates it.

OK. Listen to this one. I take the single out of the picture sleeve. The first from Blondie’s second album. A couple of crashing chords from Mr Stein, then Ms Harry’s delicate vocals over beautiful understated guitar. The rhythm section drives the verse as it builds steadily to the climax of the chorus. The band resets slightly for the next verse and repeats, gradually building again, but each time with more energy, more intensity, more power. The drums get wilder and wilder as the sound escalates. Clem’s good tonight, innee? The band build towards an explosive finale, always keeping control and then, subtly, right at the end, the tension is resolved peacefully with five calm “Dears” and a glorious guitar harmonic. All in less than three minutes. It’s really not cheating.

Pall’s turn. He pulls out a single from another white picture sleeve, this time with small yellow records dotted over black and white images of the band. It also starts with a burst of guitar before the less delicate vocals of Kleenex’s lead singer tells us about the problems Hedi is having with her head. The song drives forward and I can’t help bopping along. I’m enjoying this, but I’m not immediately convinced I’d call it pop. Then, about one minute in, the girls shout out what can only be described as an imitation of a couple of mice lost in the Top of the Pops studio and I breakdown in hysterics on the carpet. It may not have the gloss and style and sophistication of the Blondie track, but it’s absolutely amazing, totally enjoyable, and all gone too quickly. It’s pop. I love it.

I think I’m going to enjoy having Pall as a flat mate.