The Ned Wood Archive

Switch off your mind, relax,

and float downstream

The Beatles

“Bernie, me old mate, me old mucker, me old pal. I hope you have no notions of doing anything other than catching a train back to Southampton after the gig.”

We’d just arrived in the glorious metropolis and I wanted to make clear to Mr Bernard Hubbard that I was not sleeping in any park or backstreet in London after the gig. I’m not trying to thumb back to Southampton at half past midnight thank you very much. I’m going to enjoy the bands and then relax on a nice cosy train.

“Relax, Riffy babe,” he said as we walked across Waterloo Station toward the tube, pulling a crisp tenner from his pocket. “We’ll travel home in luxury tonight.”

And now it’s early evening and we’re sitting in Hyde Park and Bernie is meditating. At least he’s sitting on the grass as the still warm evening sun caresses our cheeks. Close your eyes and it gets warmer. Just turn your head so the sun kisses the side of your face. Breath slowly. Let the roar of traffic turn into the roar of the sea. Forget that anything else exists. And maybe for twenty seconds, maybe twenty minutes, nothing. No thought, just silence. Free because sitting doing nothing is all the freedom you need. Bernie tells me he feels the same afterwards. For both of us the world stops. All the hassle of getting up to town is forgotten. All the bad vibes aimed at the sadistic plumber who gave us a lift and dear Tory Carson who didn’t have dissolved. Even the black grime that cakes you whenever you walk through the centre of the big smoky city has gone. At peace with the world, we head on over to catch the gig. Television supported by Blondie.

There is a way of playing pure pop. Few people find the way. But when Debbie Harry hits the stage screaming “Surf’s Up” and launches into ‘In the Sun’, we know she’s the one. She may wear her dress way above the knees and off one shoulder and she may have to put up with the rampant sexist bollix like the ‘Wouldn’t you like to rip her to shreds’ that Chrysalis used to sell them later in the year, but she’s a true guru. A true Dharma Punk. She leads us through that majestic first album and then parties away with stuff like ‘Get Off My Cloud’ and ‘Heatwave’.

There is a way of playing pure guitar. Tonight Tommy Boy Verlaine proves that he knows the way. Like a giant he stands up on stage staring past me, ringing out his own unique notes, duelling and sparring with his mate Richie Lloyd, spreading the word. A true bodhisattva expounding the noble truths. A true Dharma Punk.

At then it ends. Two, maybe three hours of intense pleasure. Perfect pop and perfect harmony. The power, energy, exuberance, and fun of Blondie. The sophistication, intelligence, and beauty of Television. Still high, Bernie and I walk back to the tube. Higher than the trees, higher than the clouds, higher than the moon, me and Bernie drift back home happy.

Bernie says: “We’ve arrived. Don’t you feel like this is what we’re meant to be doing? We’ve been travelling round and round, all of us, for so long looking for the answer. And now we’ve found it.”

He’s still high from the gig and so am I. But he’s talking sense. I don’t know what the answer is, but I know we’d found it. It’s been a wonderful day. A wonderful month. A wonderful year. Life is sweet. And it’s going to get better. I haven’t told you the best bits yet. I’ve never felt so good in my life.