Episode Twenty Three

The Devil finds work for idle bands to do
In Derby, Hitchin, Birmingham and Taunton too

Well, well. It has been a long time since we last met hasn’t it? How the Devil, then, are we supposed to extract from the tangled skeins of memory the precise sequence of events that took place over the weekend of April 4th –5th 2003? The answer, of course, is that we cannot, will not, and – to be honest – need not, as there are more important matters in hand, such as the endless cataloguing of train numbers, the dark secrets of Hollyoaks, and the building of model aeroplanes.
It’s our own fault for leaving it so long, but unfortunately the dark memories of Long-Haired-Steve’s dreadful heckling at the last Derby gig on April 4th have weighed so heavily upon us since that night that we have been unable to focus on this journal. Suffice it to say that the usual Victoria format unfolded, with Eastfield, Mr Chris Butler, and Blyth Power doing what comes naturally. If you’ve not been there, seen it, done it and bought the T-shirt then come along next time we’re all in town as it’s always a pleasure.
Bizarrely enough, Hitchin on the following night stands out in the collective band consciousness, as there were young people there. We don’t know why, we don’t know how, and we don’t know what they wanted, but it is a regular occurrence now at Club 85. Young people – many of them under twenty! – come along and do a passable impersonation of having a fine time at a fashionable event. Don’t they read NME? Don’t they know who we are? Don’t they realise we were last (fleetingly) in vogue in 1986?
We presume the venue is selling something unobtainable elsewhere that induces them to come in the first place, and then renders them powerless to depart when gentlemen as old as Mr Joseph Porter and Mr Mark Astronaut saunter onto the stage…
It actually took the band a week or so to recover from the shock of their fresh rosy faces, and consequently the next performance took place on April 18th, by which time Mr Bambi Breedon had dyed his hair to a youthful auburn, Ms Annie Hatcher had regenerated herself with a week and a half of Smith’s recordings, Mr Joseph Porter had railed against the unkind God who has turned him at an early age into an old codger and made some crucial adjustments to the evil portrait in his attic, while Mr Steven Cooper had simply had the words ‘I hate young people’ added to the many tattoos festooning his forearms. So it was with grace and élan that the band set forth to perform once more in Leighton Buzzard. Yes, it was the Wheatsheaf. Yes, the band did play two sets, and yes, Junior did present us with a pile of railway incident reports. A righteous and pleasant night of rock was followed by a gentle cruise down to Wiltshire to stay at Mr Porter’s family seat.
Next day being scheduled for a performance in Taunton, we were able to relax in the delightful environs of Warminster until departure time, at which point Mr Jeremy Hatcher elected to come along and act as guitar tech. Mr Hatcher – brother of out own Dear Leader you will recall – is now a qualified train driver, and spends his days at the sharp end of a 153 unit, amassing miles and chains for his dreadful log.
So unto the Westgate in Taunton. Last time Blyth played in Taunton, it was at a dreadful nightclub, which actually paid the band not to play their second set. Thus it was with some trepidation that we returned to Somerset’s county town. Mr Porter fondly reminisced on his previous experiences: the only other time he’d played in Taunton was in 1982 with The Mob, when two skinheads beat up the entire audience.
Fortunately nothing of the sort happened at The Westgate. Two sets in a pleasant environment, no skinheads, no disco kids. It was jolly fine and we shall return. Afterwards we went to stay down on the farm with former Blyth recording guest star Yvette, now a practicing member of the misnamed Roots Quartet.
High spot of the weekend was the following morning when Mr Porter got to help hide the Easter eggs for the battery of daughters and cousins. Never has the Easter Bunny taken on a more sinister aspect.

The weekend wound up with a Sunday night at the Old Railway in Birmingham. Chris Butler played a particularly poignant set by way of support, and there was a fine turn out, which pleased us all no end as it is a nice venue, and not the confounded double-crossing blackleg Market Tavern.

According to the dirty diary, the next major event in the band’s history was the first leg of the Castle Cary recording in Reading. The Northern contingent set off Southwards, via Ketters, to meet up with Mr Cooper in Banbury, in which salubrious town he was performing on the Tuesday night (April 22nd) with the Blomtastic Goth-rockers Dance on Glass, with whom he is currently moonlighting. Meeting up at the Mill Arts centre, we then headed Readingwards leaving headline band All About Eve to do their thing for the beautiful people of Banbers. Hurrah.

Recording took place over the next three days at the University, during the course of which we managed to consume a great many subsidised fried egg rolls in the cafeteria, drink a lot of undrinkable tea from the drinks dispensing machine, and record some very passable bass, drum and acoustic guitar tracks, along with a perfectly execrable guide vocal. It’s not the real one, honest...

On the Saturday we adjourned to the domicile of Head of Music Dept Mr Mathew Foster to lay down some hot licks on some of his bizarre and cunning recording devices. The hot licks were duly laid, as were some nifty guitar tracks by Mr Cooper. Hurrah again.

That night we all repaired to the Rising Sun Institute, in which intimate surroundings a considerable musical happening was hosted. Everyone rocked. Then everyone went home. Annie had to drive all the way home to Yorkshire as her worthless spouse was exhibiting his model aeroplanes the following day at a show in Hinckley. He won a certificate for third in its category for a Sea Hurricane IIc in 1/72 scale. If there is anyone out there who gives a fig, then the old fool would be grateful for their letters of support and encouragement.
Here endeth Blythwatch 23. Dare you read on…?

Episode Twenty Four

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and sky
And all I ask is a tall ship, and quadruple sets from Blyth

Was it the sweet sound of May’s merry madness heralding the onset of summer? No. In actual fact it was Eastfield at full bore. Picture the scene. A public house in Thurlwell, and Blyth and the ‘field are celebrating the nuptials of our good friend Mr John Taylor, much to the bemusement of The Horseshoe’s regulars, who are lining the bar and casting looks of wonder at the sight of crypto-ape Jessi Adams in mid air, upside down, making the most unlikely of noises. ‘It’s my life,’ the funboy-one informs them. ‘Teabagging!!!’
That was May 2nd. May 3rd found Blyth staggering out of their smelly cots far too early in order to arrive in good time for the first of the day’s performances at the Rochester Sweeps festival. Whoever thought live rock music at lunchtime was a good idea has obviously never tried to do it themselves. Arriving in Rochester by 11am, the band was confronted with an army of Morrismen lining the streets. The Sweeps festival is, of course, notorious for its Morris troops, and only Steven’s unpleasant sense of humour is able to make sense of it all. ‘I hear the Bee Gees are coming today,” he quipped sourly. “Because they heard that they’ll see Morris dancing.” Mr Porter subsequently tries this sally on the audience during the first set at the first venue. An overwhelming air of melancholy is his only reward.
Two sets in two different venues, with three hours off in between to watch the Morris dancers – or to walk to Strood looking for model aeroplanes, whatever turns you on. The evening was a riot, mind you. During Mr Porter’s xenophobic introduction to Viking Station, he managed to wind the audience up into such a state of merriment that the bouncers came in to check the band wasn’t being lynched. “Who wants to bomb Chatham?” the fool was asking them. It seemed everybody did.

Next week the band was back in the sunny South – where allegedly summer comes soonest. This time, once more with guitar tech Jeremy on board, it was a return trip to the West Country. Thursday night in Dorchester was a pleasant start to the trip, although the wicked landlady’s absinthe bottle could have kept its distance. There was a degree of carousel, exacerbated by the fact that the band was staying in rooms above the bar. Sour faced poltroon Mr Joseph Porter claims it would be better all round if everyone had to drive after every show, so that no one could drink. Pish and tush to him.
Regular watchers will recall the song and dance that accompanied the last trip to St Agnes. This time the only problem encountered was the length of the queue in the chip shop. Arriving in plenty of time, the band set up and didn’t bother to soundcheck. It was another splendid night, followed by some very pleasant rooms in the hotel complex. Once again no one had to drive, but needless to say restraint and decorum were observed.
As indeed it was all the way to Hampshire the following day. Pausing en route for a fine bacon sandwich at the most expensive burger van ever, and a quick look into Weymouth to buy something small and electrical, the van made its way to the New Forest, in the dense fastness of which bosky tract some strange people have established a music venue. It’s really there. Believe us. Mr Steven Cooper met a Cropduster in the gent’s toilets, so everyone was happy…

You may not have heard of Underhill. This is a shame as it is a wild and happening place. Well – almost. Thursday 29th found Blyth congregating in the unlikely venue of Underhill’s Sandhills Tavern, wherein long-suffering Otway road management team Janet and John had arranged for the band to play with Mr Murray Torkildsen – legendary frontman of The Sweeney, Harlow’s joint finest – an event of sufficient magnitude to cause even the music-hating Mr Porter to look up from his Airfix catalogue and mutter ‘oh good.’

Despite its remote location, the evening was a pleasant affair, and when Murray invited the old man to get up and play drums on one of his songs, the ageing Porter staggered up and joined in with the epic ‘Can’t Slow Down’. If you’re not familiar with the works of either Murray or The Sweeny then rectify this forthwith. Regaled after the show with curry at the residence of Janet and John (do they know Peter and Jane?) it was a spoilt and bloated band that rose early next day for the boiling and blistering ride to the south coast for this year’s Southwick beer festival.
Since the committee at the Southwick Barn Theatre dissolved into a festering pool of bats’ fowlings, this venue is no longer an option, so the organisers had hit upon the happy idea of moving the beer festival to Shoreham airport. Here, in the pleasant sunny airport bar, with its friendly staff, lack of smoking restrictions and fine view of the passing aeroplanes, the band unloaded themselves by teatime to await the arrival of the stage and the other bands.
Your correspondent spent so much time running around organising things on the evening in question, that he can tell you nothing about the actual event. He managed to meet and chat to none of his friends, soundchecked several bands, sold a few CDs, and by dint of overwhelming efforts, managed to get Blyth on in time to cram half a set into the last half an hour or so of the evening. Sorry to those who wanted more, but things ran inexplicably late.
Your correspondent can tell you that the airport boasts an excellent visitor centre, filled with all kinds of interesting aviation junk, including a full size Percival Provost trainer in the adjacent hangar.

There is also a De Haviland Chipmunk in the vicinity, and some cracking models in glass cabinets, not to mention the fine selection of second-hand magazines and books for sale. As for the beer and the bands? Ask someone else…
Thanks to Mike and Norma for putting Blyth up for the night. Then there was the endless drive to Hartlepool, for a show at The Studio, which was more than enough of a weekend’s work for anyone, and we see no reason to reminisce further on the matter here. By the time Bradford was reached on the Sunday, everyone was so shagged out that they neither knew nor cared where they were.
June, then, having commenced in Bradford on the first, continued with a couple of weeks’ respite, during which the band recovered their poise. Next up was the CAMRA festival in Doncaster, at the racecourse, which proved to be a well-organised and well-run event at which Blyth were treated with courtesy and hospitality normally absent from gigs in the UK. Needless to say everyone was confused. Two sets were delivered at half volume in the huge hall. Those listening from the back advised us that it sounded horrid unless one came further forward, to which we replied that we knew, but that the organisers had asked us to be quiet. Those who listened at the front had a much better experience, and apparently the beer was fine too.
With no further ado it was on the next day to Llangollen, for the first of three shows at The Sun. Once again we were met with food, drink and good cheer. This is confusing…
Finally then – not that your correspondent is at all fed up with the tedious process of transcribing all this from his illegible notes – we come to the weekend of 20th-21st June. This is, apparently, a significant date for some reason (only if you're a Druid or a hippy - Ed), but it eludes us entirely. Friday 20th saw Blyth in Harlow again, at The Square, an event that was so overshadowed by the wild bacchanalia of Norwich the following day that we are at a loss to find anything to say about it. Saturday 21st, by comparison, was notable for a number of reasons. First there were the fine roast pork sandwiches in the Norwich market. Then there was the discovery of replacement handles for the bass cab in the local Maplins, and finally a cheap deal on an Airfix HP 0/400, which brought a kind of serenity to the brow of TDL.

As if all this wasn’t enough, there was then a pleasant night in the company of The New York Scumhaters at the Ferryboat, for which show the Scumhaters had reformed and rehearsed up a set of Ramones covers.

The earth moved. Lots of people came and got drunk. Nick recited some poems and everyone rocked. See you there again in December with a bit of luck.
That’s enough Blythwatching. Lets go watch Big Brother instead.