Verse 1
I come from a small town
I loved a northern girl
Now she’s movin’ uptown
Leavin’ me to my world
Verse 2
So I’m looking for someone
Who looks a lot like her
Someone strictly small town
To take her place in my world
Chorus 1
(Till then i'm) sittin' in the blue room
Tryn to write a sad so-ong
Givin’ it some madness
Been so messed up now that she's go-on
Chorus 2
Sittin' in the blue room
Lookin' for a happy end
Pickin' up the pace, and
Waiting for this stuff to end
Then into bridge
If she thinks that someone else needs her like me, better forget it
All I know is if she don’t come back, she’ll live to regret it. Yeah
Now I’m sitting in the blue room etc
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Saturday, April 7, 2007
My sleeve notes for the latest Lonesome Dogs CD
Hi there pop pickers!
You have selected for purchase the brand new platter from Walsall’s most blues wailin’ Lonesome Dogs. Please remember to pay the cashier as you exit the store, otherwise the alarm goes off and well, it all gets a touch embarrassing, doesn’t it? All major credit cards are welcome, but we like luncheon vouchers the best, they’re the toppermost of the poppermost!
Lovely, thanks very much, you’re a grand lad!
If, like me, you’re a long standing fan of the bonnie lads known and loved throughout the Yorkshire Dales as Lonesome Dog Blues Band, you may have noticed that they have lost that bit of their name which identifies them as being solely a card carrying, torch bearing, down home ‘blues’ band.
But fear not, this is nothing to be scared of. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. We will fight them on the beaches. Never have so many etc.
Indeed, I like to think of it as being much the same as when funny-man Freddie Davies dropped his ‘Parrot Face’ comedy nickname in order to enter the legitimate theatre. Didn’t do him any harm, did it?
Which rather begs the question, why have the chaps dropped the ‘blues band’ bit of the name? Do they wish to scale the heights of the hit parade whilst rubbing shoulders with the likes of top ‘rock’ bands Bon Jovi and Lieutenant Pigeon or that nice lad, Bobby Crush?
Why oh why can’t the ungrateful little bleeders be satisfied with the critical acclaim that has come their way since the release of their last effort in 2004, We’re Barking Mad, We Are? which even the legendarily tough Walsall Examiner’s critic, Ayesha Brough, was moved to dub as ‘right up there with Liquid Gold’.
High praise indeed. Not ‘arf!
But hey, as Del Amitri and his mates are always carrying on about 'let's kiss this thing goodbye'. My question to YOU, dear reader is, ‘why are you asking me this stuff?’ I am, after all, only mates with Dickie, the ace Dogs drummist, the man on the traps, if you will.
The fact is, even as I write, quill to hand, here in my Devonshire summer home, my mind is cast fondly back to our salad days together as private school young bucks, where, sap a-rising, public hair a-sprouting, we enrolled in the Boys Brigade and over one memorable summer skinned our hearts and skinned our knees, learned of love and ABC.
We discovered Top Trumps, how to skim stones in the correct manner and, as our firm, young bodies ripened, enjoyed tentative, slightly guilt inducing, yet strangely enjoyable mutual mas…that’s quite enough of your ‘one memorable summer’ recollections - Sleevenote Ed).
Anyway, don’t be expecting me to know the ins and outs of the Walsall blues scene, flipping heck, I’m not that blummin' Steve Gibbons bloke!
Don’t worry, pop pickers, I’m just having a funny joke with you.
I happen to know all the lads right well and they are grand chaps. Indeed, many is the time I have uttered the immortal phrase ‘Can I be a roadie?’ and, gents that they are, they have permitted me and my old dutch to lug their gear round for them in me British racing green’71 Bedford. I may not be bright but by heck, I can lift heavy things!
Seriously, the reason behind the contraction of the group's name by a factor of 50% is, as the album title so subtly hints, that the band are ‘not strictly blues’ these days. Indeed, the recording of this fab disc has seen them fall under the influence of such diverse talents as Kenny Lynch, Jess Conrad and Reg Varney!
So, no doubt you are guaranteed to hear all kinds of great stuff on this disc. I haven’t heard it myself so I can’t really say, but I’m sure it’s very good, because they told me it was. And, when you’ve finished playing it, why not play it again, just to check if it’s as good as you thought it was the first time.
Duncan Massey - sleevenotes a speciality
You have selected for purchase the brand new platter from Walsall’s most blues wailin’ Lonesome Dogs. Please remember to pay the cashier as you exit the store, otherwise the alarm goes off and well, it all gets a touch embarrassing, doesn’t it? All major credit cards are welcome, but we like luncheon vouchers the best, they’re the toppermost of the poppermost!
Lovely, thanks very much, you’re a grand lad!
If, like me, you’re a long standing fan of the bonnie lads known and loved throughout the Yorkshire Dales as Lonesome Dog Blues Band, you may have noticed that they have lost that bit of their name which identifies them as being solely a card carrying, torch bearing, down home ‘blues’ band.
But fear not, this is nothing to be scared of. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. We will fight them on the beaches. Never have so many etc.
Indeed, I like to think of it as being much the same as when funny-man Freddie Davies dropped his ‘Parrot Face’ comedy nickname in order to enter the legitimate theatre. Didn’t do him any harm, did it?
Which rather begs the question, why have the chaps dropped the ‘blues band’ bit of the name? Do they wish to scale the heights of the hit parade whilst rubbing shoulders with the likes of top ‘rock’ bands Bon Jovi and Lieutenant Pigeon or that nice lad, Bobby Crush?
Why oh why can’t the ungrateful little bleeders be satisfied with the critical acclaim that has come their way since the release of their last effort in 2004, We’re Barking Mad, We Are? which even the legendarily tough Walsall Examiner’s critic, Ayesha Brough, was moved to dub as ‘right up there with Liquid Gold’.
High praise indeed. Not ‘arf!
But hey, as Del Amitri and his mates are always carrying on about 'let's kiss this thing goodbye'. My question to YOU, dear reader is, ‘why are you asking me this stuff?’ I am, after all, only mates with Dickie, the ace Dogs drummist, the man on the traps, if you will.
The fact is, even as I write, quill to hand, here in my Devonshire summer home, my mind is cast fondly back to our salad days together as private school young bucks, where, sap a-rising, public hair a-sprouting, we enrolled in the Boys Brigade and over one memorable summer skinned our hearts and skinned our knees, learned of love and ABC.
We discovered Top Trumps, how to skim stones in the correct manner and, as our firm, young bodies ripened, enjoyed tentative, slightly guilt inducing, yet strangely enjoyable mutual mas…that’s quite enough of your ‘one memorable summer’ recollections - Sleevenote Ed).
Anyway, don’t be expecting me to know the ins and outs of the Walsall blues scene, flipping heck, I’m not that blummin' Steve Gibbons bloke!
Don’t worry, pop pickers, I’m just having a funny joke with you.
I happen to know all the lads right well and they are grand chaps. Indeed, many is the time I have uttered the immortal phrase ‘Can I be a roadie?’ and, gents that they are, they have permitted me and my old dutch to lug their gear round for them in me British racing green’71 Bedford. I may not be bright but by heck, I can lift heavy things!
Seriously, the reason behind the contraction of the group's name by a factor of 50% is, as the album title so subtly hints, that the band are ‘not strictly blues’ these days. Indeed, the recording of this fab disc has seen them fall under the influence of such diverse talents as Kenny Lynch, Jess Conrad and Reg Varney!
So, no doubt you are guaranteed to hear all kinds of great stuff on this disc. I haven’t heard it myself so I can’t really say, but I’m sure it’s very good, because they told me it was. And, when you’ve finished playing it, why not play it again, just to check if it’s as good as you thought it was the first time.
Duncan Massey - sleevenotes a speciality
Election Day: The Final Concert
……With guitarist Dean Dales sensationally quitting Deadly Affairre mid tour to pursue a solo career (indeed, he soon developed a promising career as a gents hairstylist: “Something for the weekend sir?”), keyboardist Mick Wakefield took up the lead guitar reins and auditions were held for a new ivory tinkler. The chosen one was jobless Airedale 12 year old, Adrian ‘The Brain’ Field (because he acted like ‘a brain’).
Yes, Adrian was something of a plonker, but along with Mick, he was ‘instrumental’ (it’s the way I tell ‘em etc.) in transforming the newly dubbed Election Day into a fine rockin’ unit. Many commentators, in fact, went so far as to suggest that with the assistance of stud-u-like soundman Steve Holt, the band were now producing some er, real tasty sounds.
Deadly Affairre had been primarily popular with the teenyboppers of this parish; in contrast, the Leccies,, with the skills of the classically trained ‘Brain’ complementing the tasteful lead work of Wakey and all underpinned by the rock solid Massey-Banfield rhythm section, were a huge leap forward in musical virtuosity.
Election Day swiftly built a massive army of fans who thought nothing of travelling up to fifty yards to catch a live appearance. Many of these supporters were in situ at the now legendary Batley Frontier and Rooftop Gardens residencies, where the group celebrated their newly achieved ‘hot’ status by committing Keith Moon style violence on their equipment.
As was their wont, no Sergeants-derived band was complete without internal aggro. Previously this had been the domain of Firebrand Mick and Ice Cool Paul (with Duncan providing the Tapesque luke warm water in the middle). However, with the addition of ‘Brain’ to the ranks, it was open season. No one was surprised then, when Mick, having become so incensed at one of his brain-dead suggestions, hung the ‘Brain’ by the collar of his own ‘vampire cloak’ (don’t ask) on a hook in his garage. In a similar vein, Paul regularly gave him a good kicking (for disciplinary reasons) in a moving vehicle. Duncan’s amusement was principally derived from aiming a P.A. speaker at the unfortunate lad’s head whilst the group’s tour bus was in motion, then, at the opportune moment, gently squeezing the brakes. Sliiiiide….boff….result!
The Hatred of the Brain as it became known in rock circles, grew so intense (and admittedly, childish), that Adrian started crying, boo fuckin’ hoo, and quit following a ‘comical’ attempt to leave him behind after a show in Doncaster. Barnsley keyboard wiz Dean Turner was brought in to replace him, but despite the brutal, nay inhumane, treatment, Adrian returned to the fold for yet more good old-fashioned, rock n roll abuse.
Election Day continued to storm venues the length and breadth of England (no really, come back!), until Duncan, tired of the constant touring, fled to Australia to record his debut solo album Drummers Aren’t Fick, Cobber. The band carried on briefly, with Mick recruiting his former sideman Roger ‘Nice Facial Hair, Sir’ Boothman from experimental Country ‘n’ Gangsta project Station to Station, but his impact was minimal and he quietly departed when Duncan returned for a final series of concerts.
Whilst the music recorded at Garforth Liberal Club on 3 April 1988 has long been dubbed ‘The Final Concert’, that isn’t strictly true. The absolutely very last, no more, Leccies have left the building, so sod off show took place at some pigeon fancier’s dive in Rotherham a few weeks after this date. Rest assured though, that the exciting live show captured here for the first time on CD, represents the ‘real’ last hurrah of a great band……..
Adapted from Fuck Off Adrian: The Election Day Years written by Duncan Massey and published by Sergeants Inc © 2001
Yes, Adrian was something of a plonker, but along with Mick, he was ‘instrumental’ (it’s the way I tell ‘em etc.) in transforming the newly dubbed Election Day into a fine rockin’ unit. Many commentators, in fact, went so far as to suggest that with the assistance of stud-u-like soundman Steve Holt, the band were now producing some er, real tasty sounds.
Deadly Affairre had been primarily popular with the teenyboppers of this parish; in contrast, the Leccies,, with the skills of the classically trained ‘Brain’ complementing the tasteful lead work of Wakey and all underpinned by the rock solid Massey-Banfield rhythm section, were a huge leap forward in musical virtuosity.
Election Day swiftly built a massive army of fans who thought nothing of travelling up to fifty yards to catch a live appearance. Many of these supporters were in situ at the now legendary Batley Frontier and Rooftop Gardens residencies, where the group celebrated their newly achieved ‘hot’ status by committing Keith Moon style violence on their equipment.
As was their wont, no Sergeants-derived band was complete without internal aggro. Previously this had been the domain of Firebrand Mick and Ice Cool Paul (with Duncan providing the Tapesque luke warm water in the middle). However, with the addition of ‘Brain’ to the ranks, it was open season. No one was surprised then, when Mick, having become so incensed at one of his brain-dead suggestions, hung the ‘Brain’ by the collar of his own ‘vampire cloak’ (don’t ask) on a hook in his garage. In a similar vein, Paul regularly gave him a good kicking (for disciplinary reasons) in a moving vehicle. Duncan’s amusement was principally derived from aiming a P.A. speaker at the unfortunate lad’s head whilst the group’s tour bus was in motion, then, at the opportune moment, gently squeezing the brakes. Sliiiiide….boff….result!
The Hatred of the Brain as it became known in rock circles, grew so intense (and admittedly, childish), that Adrian started crying, boo fuckin’ hoo, and quit following a ‘comical’ attempt to leave him behind after a show in Doncaster. Barnsley keyboard wiz Dean Turner was brought in to replace him, but despite the brutal, nay inhumane, treatment, Adrian returned to the fold for yet more good old-fashioned, rock n roll abuse.
Election Day continued to storm venues the length and breadth of England (no really, come back!), until Duncan, tired of the constant touring, fled to Australia to record his debut solo album Drummers Aren’t Fick, Cobber. The band carried on briefly, with Mick recruiting his former sideman Roger ‘Nice Facial Hair, Sir’ Boothman from experimental Country ‘n’ Gangsta project Station to Station, but his impact was minimal and he quietly departed when Duncan returned for a final series of concerts.
Whilst the music recorded at Garforth Liberal Club on 3 April 1988 has long been dubbed ‘The Final Concert’, that isn’t strictly true. The absolutely very last, no more, Leccies have left the building, so sod off show took place at some pigeon fancier’s dive in Rotherham a few weeks after this date. Rest assured though, that the exciting live show captured here for the first time on CD, represents the ‘real’ last hurrah of a great band……..
Adapted from Fuck Off Adrian: The Election Day Years written by Duncan Massey and published by Sergeants Inc © 2001
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
My address to union members December 2005
Greetings everyone.
Thankyou so much for taking the time to come along today.
At the risk of repeating some of what David has already spoken of, I would like to spend a couple of minutes to give you some background to this years EBA negotiations from the union delegate’s point of view.
Because of the Liberals bastardly industrial relations changes, we’ve always been racing against the clock somewhat to deliver an acceptable outcome to you, the members.
The bottom line is that we’ve only had a few short weeks to negotiate a new agreement, before these IR changes kick in, probably early next month.
Now, in that context, I believe we’ve got a pretty good outcome.
As ever, we didn’t get everything we asked for, but we’ve done okay.
There are some who may say we could have pushed a little harder and squeezed a bit more out of the company (and, just as an aside, I would mention that the company are fully aware that none of us here are afraid of a blue, after last year’s strike).
However, while we may have got a little more out of them if we’d pushed a little harder, these people aren’t stupid, and they knew that if we played hardball all they had to do was put off signing a new EBA and just hold out till these shitty new laws were enacted. That way they could screw us good and proper, because under the new laws they won’t be obligated to negotiate an EBA with us. They can do what they like.
It’s my belief that the most important thing we’ve gained from this year’s negotiations is that we still have an EBA that maintains our rights and conditions in the face of the
Liberals all new, all singin’, all dancin’ brave new world of industrial relations.
Once the new laws kick in, there will be many businesses in Tasmania, that won’t even be bound by a basic award (never mind an EBA) to protect the interest of workers and to keep the employer honest.
At this property, not only have we maintained award conditions, but with the EBA we are almost 20% better off than most other hospitality and entertainment venues within Tasmania. This is the EBA that many of us here have fought for over the years, by virtue of our union membership, and our commitment to looking after our rights.
I truly believe that the best thing about the new EBA being put forward for your consideration, is that it gives us some breathing space in which to elect a federal government who are committed to rolling back these shonky new laws.
And I am quite certain that if we fail to do so, next time we won’t be so lucky in getting a collective agreement. When the company believes they can succeed in breaking us down by offering individual contracts, how long do you think it will take them?
When I make a statement like that, it’s not just so I can have a cheap shot at John Howard, as tempting as that may be. No, it’s a genuine heartfelt warning to you that what the Liberals are doing to workers this time is only the beginning of their horrific agenda. Remember, if you tolerate this your children will be next.
In closing then, I would reiterate that in the context of the political times we live in, this EBA is the best outcome we could have hoped for, in that it maintains and in some ways improves upon, what we’ve achieved in previous years. It gives us a solid platform to build on next time around, when, with a bit of luck, we will have voted in a government who are more interested in, and sympathetic to, your rights at work.
God bless and breed you all.
Thankyou so much for taking the time to come along today.
At the risk of repeating some of what David has already spoken of, I would like to spend a couple of minutes to give you some background to this years EBA negotiations from the union delegate’s point of view.
Because of the Liberals bastardly industrial relations changes, we’ve always been racing against the clock somewhat to deliver an acceptable outcome to you, the members.
The bottom line is that we’ve only had a few short weeks to negotiate a new agreement, before these IR changes kick in, probably early next month.
Now, in that context, I believe we’ve got a pretty good outcome.
As ever, we didn’t get everything we asked for, but we’ve done okay.
There are some who may say we could have pushed a little harder and squeezed a bit more out of the company (and, just as an aside, I would mention that the company are fully aware that none of us here are afraid of a blue, after last year’s strike).
However, while we may have got a little more out of them if we’d pushed a little harder, these people aren’t stupid, and they knew that if we played hardball all they had to do was put off signing a new EBA and just hold out till these shitty new laws were enacted. That way they could screw us good and proper, because under the new laws they won’t be obligated to negotiate an EBA with us. They can do what they like.
It’s my belief that the most important thing we’ve gained from this year’s negotiations is that we still have an EBA that maintains our rights and conditions in the face of the
Liberals all new, all singin’, all dancin’ brave new world of industrial relations.
Once the new laws kick in, there will be many businesses in Tasmania, that won’t even be bound by a basic award (never mind an EBA) to protect the interest of workers and to keep the employer honest.
At this property, not only have we maintained award conditions, but with the EBA we are almost 20% better off than most other hospitality and entertainment venues within Tasmania. This is the EBA that many of us here have fought for over the years, by virtue of our union membership, and our commitment to looking after our rights.
I truly believe that the best thing about the new EBA being put forward for your consideration, is that it gives us some breathing space in which to elect a federal government who are committed to rolling back these shonky new laws.
And I am quite certain that if we fail to do so, next time we won’t be so lucky in getting a collective agreement. When the company believes they can succeed in breaking us down by offering individual contracts, how long do you think it will take them?
When I make a statement like that, it’s not just so I can have a cheap shot at John Howard, as tempting as that may be. No, it’s a genuine heartfelt warning to you that what the Liberals are doing to workers this time is only the beginning of their horrific agenda. Remember, if you tolerate this your children will be next.
In closing then, I would reiterate that in the context of the political times we live in, this EBA is the best outcome we could have hoped for, in that it maintains and in some ways improves upon, what we’ve achieved in previous years. It gives us a solid platform to build on next time around, when, with a bit of luck, we will have voted in a government who are more interested in, and sympathetic to, your rights at work.
God bless and breed you all.
Deadly Affairre: The toast of 80's teen Yorkshire
……Dateline 1986: Deadly Affairre appear at Goole Dockers Club having transcended their early Sergeants incarnation to become the North’s favourite teenbeat popsters (apart from the Gents, like).
No better than average musically, the group’s good looks and ahem, sharp dress sense are the key to winning the hearts and minds of the Northern sisterhood.
This notwithstanding, conquering the New Jerseyesque heartland of Yorkshire (and Humberside) is a straightforward matter of digging in and playing the hovels that John West rejects, often for negligible reward, in an effort to become well known. The hard day’s nights pay off and by the time of Goole Dockers, there isn’t a stage capable of taming their exciting stage charisma (it says here).
‘84/’85 are the years that the Deadly Affairre legend is created. They play the biggest rooms, win the hands of the fairest maidens and lay down tracks in the most prestigious studio in Oldham.
Sadly, 1986 will be the Deds last hurrah. Sex symbol keyboard player Vaughan Darbishire quits mid-year, tired of the petty squabbles over the group mascara. He then forges a successful career in pub management, a field in which he excels. These days, he heads up his own leisure consultancy firm VD Inc and does a bit of part time roofing with his dad, Fred.
Guitarist Dean Dales is dramatically fired (or quits, depending on who you believe) shortly after Vaughan hands in his notice. Dean’s misappropriation of group funds having become obvious even to the ever-gullible Duncan and Paul. Perhaps the most damning indictment of his fraudulent ways is the appearance of a smashing new video recorder (with remote control!)in his parent’s lounge, which certainly isn’t paid for out of his dole money. Others recall Paul storming into top Featherstone nite spot, Club Central, to rip out the band’s lighting system, which Dean accidentally sold without telling the band. Once the gravy train leaves town, Dean carves out a living as a gentleman’s hair stylist until a long slide into the deprivations of cocaine hell and incarceration at Her Madge’s pleasure. His current whereabouts remain a mystery. At least to Vaughan who hasn’t seen the robbin’ cunt since foolishly lending him twenty quid in 1991.
Handsome Deds front man Paul Banfield beomes bass player and co-lead singist in popular club turn Election Day, before retiring to skipper a pike fishing boat at Ponty Park lake. At the time of writing, he is rumoured to be reforming his first band, popular mods the Sergeants, with Duncan Massey, Andy Ham and original Sergeants ace face, Ric ‘Slowhand’ Nye…..
Adapted from the book Where’s The Money, Dean? A Deadly Affairre Memoir.
Soon to be a major motion picture starring Nicholas ‘You Plonker,Rodney’ Lyndhurst as Dean
© 2002 Duncan Massey/Sergeants Inc.
RIP Dean Dales 2005. Not so funny now , is it Dunc?
No better than average musically, the group’s good looks and ahem, sharp dress sense are the key to winning the hearts and minds of the Northern sisterhood.
This notwithstanding, conquering the New Jerseyesque heartland of Yorkshire (and Humberside) is a straightforward matter of digging in and playing the hovels that John West rejects, often for negligible reward, in an effort to become well known. The hard day’s nights pay off and by the time of Goole Dockers, there isn’t a stage capable of taming their exciting stage charisma (it says here).
‘84/’85 are the years that the Deadly Affairre legend is created. They play the biggest rooms, win the hands of the fairest maidens and lay down tracks in the most prestigious studio in Oldham.
Sadly, 1986 will be the Deds last hurrah. Sex symbol keyboard player Vaughan Darbishire quits mid-year, tired of the petty squabbles over the group mascara. He then forges a successful career in pub management, a field in which he excels. These days, he heads up his own leisure consultancy firm VD Inc and does a bit of part time roofing with his dad, Fred.
Guitarist Dean Dales is dramatically fired (or quits, depending on who you believe) shortly after Vaughan hands in his notice. Dean’s misappropriation of group funds having become obvious even to the ever-gullible Duncan and Paul. Perhaps the most damning indictment of his fraudulent ways is the appearance of a smashing new video recorder (with remote control!)in his parent’s lounge, which certainly isn’t paid for out of his dole money. Others recall Paul storming into top Featherstone nite spot, Club Central, to rip out the band’s lighting system, which Dean accidentally sold without telling the band. Once the gravy train leaves town, Dean carves out a living as a gentleman’s hair stylist until a long slide into the deprivations of cocaine hell and incarceration at Her Madge’s pleasure. His current whereabouts remain a mystery. At least to Vaughan who hasn’t seen the robbin’ cunt since foolishly lending him twenty quid in 1991.
Handsome Deds front man Paul Banfield beomes bass player and co-lead singist in popular club turn Election Day, before retiring to skipper a pike fishing boat at Ponty Park lake. At the time of writing, he is rumoured to be reforming his first band, popular mods the Sergeants, with Duncan Massey, Andy Ham and original Sergeants ace face, Ric ‘Slowhand’ Nye…..
Adapted from the book Where’s The Money, Dean? A Deadly Affairre Memoir.
Soon to be a major motion picture starring Nicholas ‘You Plonker,Rodney’ Lyndhurst as Dean
© 2002 Duncan Massey/Sergeants Inc.
RIP Dean Dales 2005. Not so funny now , is it Dunc?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Short story: The Master's Apprentice
The Master’s Apprentice
Paul Daley’s a middlin’ salmon living in a quiet little Yorkshire pond called Cragmount.
A bit of a star round town, those who don’t know him give him the nod down the supermarket or in the post office, cos they think they recognise him. They’re not sure how, but they know the face, they think.
Sunday nights, Paul sings and plays guitar at the Crown Inn in Tasman Street. This is where folk’ve seen him. It’s Entertainment Central in Cragmount is the Crown; the only game in town.
He’s no great shakes muso, but he’s keen, enthusiastic: possessor of a fair whack of natural charisma, too. Enough, so that when some wanker heckles as the bum notes fly like beer bottles, he can shut ‘em up without causing a fracas with B.A. Barracus.
Not that he’s too fussed: the gig only pays 30 quid and beer, but then, he wants to keep his good looks a while longer and they’re a tough mob in the Crown.
During the week he works as a driver’s mate on a Barrington Ales lorry.
It pays the rent.
Doesn’t satisfy his musical urges though, so when Steve, the driver, does the Dales run every Thursday, he pulls over for five minutes while Paul blasts his mouth organ over the open fields. Scares the crap out of the sheep but Steve enjoys it.
Paul does four spots in the Crown, Sundays. Starts early doors, 6.30, to kick the place into gear; spaces the other sets through the night when things need a lift.
Sunday’s his big night of the week, then. Usually it’s just him, an amped-up acoustic and backing tapes on the half moon stage in the corner of the tap room. Which is about as thrillin’ as it sounds, but he goes down okay.
The big time hits on those Sundays, every six weeks or so, when Micky Castle and Rick Lane, bassist and drummer in Broken Hands join him on stage and really set the place kickin’.
Broken Hands are the local dudes that made it: Hit the bigs, they have. They’re not rich yet, but they might have a shot if they keep up the initial oomph.
See, they signed this half-arsed two single deal last year with Fabtone, a backyard op in Leeds.
Then their manager, Bob Calvert, is at a La’s reunion gig and sees Radio One‘s Yorkshire hipster Dave Ecstatic. Shoves a copy of Broken Hands first Fabtone single at him and next thing ‘Commissionaire’s Sunglasses’ is a Number 37 smasheroonie. Big time!
Poached from Fabtone by JMCC, a much bigger label, they follow up with the top five ‘Time is Never Wasted (When You’re Wasted All the Time)’ and now they’re a week away from recording their first album.
Paul Daley was in awe of Mick and Rick at high school.
Even then, they were celebs in waiting; playing the school disco every three months, always a posse of chicks hanging off ‘em it seemed. They were two or three years older than Paul then; still are come to that, so it’s no surprise they didn’t hook up with him till more recently.
Rick and Mick, (or Mick and Rick, take your pick, as the hilarious joke in the NME goes), are the two out of Broken Hands who still spend any amount of time in Cragmount. The others moved straight to London as soon as the record company advance came through.
The occasional trio arrangement comes about when M and R get home to Craggy one Sunday following a Turin Brakes support slot at Leeds Uni.
Still jazzed from the gig and not yet ready for kip, they take a walk down the Crown where they used to do the Sunday night slot before fame beckoned.
They get a couple of pints in this particular night and sit down in time to see Paul give ‘Twist and Shout’ some serious humpty.
Diggin’ what they hear, with Paul’s assent, they get up to add some backing vocal and heavy tambourine on Paul’s traditional encore (He wasn’t gonna tell ‘em ‘no’, was he? These are serious rock stars, man!).
Presto! A partnership of sorts. It won’t replace Broken Hands for Mick and Rick, but it’s a change just to have a laugh these days. All the bleedin’ seriousness that’s crept into the day job drives ‘em mad.
Back live. Tonight’s a Mick and Rick night, the first for a while.
In their honour, landlord Rob Woodhouse has put up his regular comedy banner over the front entrance: ‘Tonight, live on stage’ (it reads), ‘Mick and Rick from top local pop group Broken Hands with guest vocalist Paul Daley’.
Brain dead, thinks Paul, eyeing the sign as he walks in at twenty past six.
He sketches a salute towards Tracey, Rob’s missus, behind the bar as he makes his way to the stage.
There’s a few punters standing round but it’s not sardines like it will be later.
Paul takes his coat off to reveal his regular stage clobber. Tartan I’m a lumberjack and a member of the Socialist Workers Party if you don’t mind work shirt, jeans, heavy work boots. Got a serious Springsteen thing goin’ on.
He perches on a stool at the edge of the stage, nudges up the mic volume on the house P.A. with the headstock of his guitar, leans into the mic and says quietly:
“Evenin’ Cragmount, I’m Paul Daley. Lovely darts”.
Launches into a gentle ‘Midnight Hour’. He’ll play it again later with Mick and Rick and it’ll be faster! Louder! More happenin’! Now he does it as a slow blues, paces himself, enjoys the moment.
The night’s young, like.
The crowd builds up. Paul plays a crackin’ six minute ‘Gloria’. Does his pretend John Lee Hooker growl in the middle cos the crowd gets off on it.
One of his own next, ‘Black Sheets of Rain’; bit depressing maybe, but fuck it. Introduces it: “I’ve suffered for my music, now it’s your turn”.
Does a couple of Merseybeat toons, then finishes with the next Broken Hands single, ‘Same Shit, Different Day’. Mick showed him the chords last week, only four of them. No one here’s heard it yet, so Paul gives the song a plug, getting it in the crowd subconscious. By the time it’s on the radio, so his theory goes, all the locals will think “Hmm, sounds familiar, top tune, must buy it!”
There’s a bass amp and two piece drum kit on stage, all ready for Mick and Rick. Half eight they come bouncin’ in. Bit cocky these days, bit of attitude about ‘em. Just back from a happenin’ session at Radio Aire.
Mick plugs in his Fender Strat bass, Rick gets behind the kiddie-sized kit and Paul straps on his black Hondo brand, Les Paul copy that he bought off his mate Andy Ham for thirty quid.
“Evenin’, once again” says Paul. “Like to introduce a coupla friends of us all. Big welcome, thankyou please, for Mick Castle and Rick Lane, lovely chaps they are. No, really”.
There’s a cheer, an ironic wolf whistle and some twat shouts, ‘wanker’.
On the four, BANG! And they rip the cord on the big version of ‘Midnight Hour’. Follow on with a rockin’ catalogue of play in a day 60’s fave raves.
They storm the room. Fuckin’ storm it! Always do. No one’s dancin anymore, there’s no room. Lotta foot stompin’ and big applause though, ‘specially when they have a go at the first two Broken Hands singles.
Paul notices his girlfriend Kathy come in the pub with her sister and make for the bar.
He’s been seeing her for a year and lately she’s been making engagement ring noises. Fuck that for a lark. Loves her though, he’s a romantic.
As the lads finish giving ‘Substitute’ a damn good kicking, he steps up to the mic: “Ladies, gents and them what’s undecided, this next ‘un were recorded by Buddy Holly before he died. Wun’t ‘ave been after, would it? This is for Kathy”.
Starts into Words of Love. Glances over at the bar, Kathy’s gone bright red. Smiling though, cos she’s a romantic. Just like him.
Paul Daley’s a middlin’ salmon living in a quiet little Yorkshire pond called Cragmount.
A bit of a star round town, those who don’t know him give him the nod down the supermarket or in the post office, cos they think they recognise him. They’re not sure how, but they know the face, they think.
Sunday nights, Paul sings and plays guitar at the Crown Inn in Tasman Street. This is where folk’ve seen him. It’s Entertainment Central in Cragmount is the Crown; the only game in town.
He’s no great shakes muso, but he’s keen, enthusiastic: possessor of a fair whack of natural charisma, too. Enough, so that when some wanker heckles as the bum notes fly like beer bottles, he can shut ‘em up without causing a fracas with B.A. Barracus.
Not that he’s too fussed: the gig only pays 30 quid and beer, but then, he wants to keep his good looks a while longer and they’re a tough mob in the Crown.
During the week he works as a driver’s mate on a Barrington Ales lorry.
It pays the rent.
Doesn’t satisfy his musical urges though, so when Steve, the driver, does the Dales run every Thursday, he pulls over for five minutes while Paul blasts his mouth organ over the open fields. Scares the crap out of the sheep but Steve enjoys it.
Paul does four spots in the Crown, Sundays. Starts early doors, 6.30, to kick the place into gear; spaces the other sets through the night when things need a lift.
Sunday’s his big night of the week, then. Usually it’s just him, an amped-up acoustic and backing tapes on the half moon stage in the corner of the tap room. Which is about as thrillin’ as it sounds, but he goes down okay.
The big time hits on those Sundays, every six weeks or so, when Micky Castle and Rick Lane, bassist and drummer in Broken Hands join him on stage and really set the place kickin’.
Broken Hands are the local dudes that made it: Hit the bigs, they have. They’re not rich yet, but they might have a shot if they keep up the initial oomph.
See, they signed this half-arsed two single deal last year with Fabtone, a backyard op in Leeds.
Then their manager, Bob Calvert, is at a La’s reunion gig and sees Radio One‘s Yorkshire hipster Dave Ecstatic. Shoves a copy of Broken Hands first Fabtone single at him and next thing ‘Commissionaire’s Sunglasses’ is a Number 37 smasheroonie. Big time!
Poached from Fabtone by JMCC, a much bigger label, they follow up with the top five ‘Time is Never Wasted (When You’re Wasted All the Time)’ and now they’re a week away from recording their first album.
Paul Daley was in awe of Mick and Rick at high school.
Even then, they were celebs in waiting; playing the school disco every three months, always a posse of chicks hanging off ‘em it seemed. They were two or three years older than Paul then; still are come to that, so it’s no surprise they didn’t hook up with him till more recently.
Rick and Mick, (or Mick and Rick, take your pick, as the hilarious joke in the NME goes), are the two out of Broken Hands who still spend any amount of time in Cragmount. The others moved straight to London as soon as the record company advance came through.
The occasional trio arrangement comes about when M and R get home to Craggy one Sunday following a Turin Brakes support slot at Leeds Uni.
Still jazzed from the gig and not yet ready for kip, they take a walk down the Crown where they used to do the Sunday night slot before fame beckoned.
They get a couple of pints in this particular night and sit down in time to see Paul give ‘Twist and Shout’ some serious humpty.
Diggin’ what they hear, with Paul’s assent, they get up to add some backing vocal and heavy tambourine on Paul’s traditional encore (He wasn’t gonna tell ‘em ‘no’, was he? These are serious rock stars, man!).
Presto! A partnership of sorts. It won’t replace Broken Hands for Mick and Rick, but it’s a change just to have a laugh these days. All the bleedin’ seriousness that’s crept into the day job drives ‘em mad.
Back live. Tonight’s a Mick and Rick night, the first for a while.
In their honour, landlord Rob Woodhouse has put up his regular comedy banner over the front entrance: ‘Tonight, live on stage’ (it reads), ‘Mick and Rick from top local pop group Broken Hands with guest vocalist Paul Daley’.
Brain dead, thinks Paul, eyeing the sign as he walks in at twenty past six.
He sketches a salute towards Tracey, Rob’s missus, behind the bar as he makes his way to the stage.
There’s a few punters standing round but it’s not sardines like it will be later.
Paul takes his coat off to reveal his regular stage clobber. Tartan I’m a lumberjack and a member of the Socialist Workers Party if you don’t mind work shirt, jeans, heavy work boots. Got a serious Springsteen thing goin’ on.
He perches on a stool at the edge of the stage, nudges up the mic volume on the house P.A. with the headstock of his guitar, leans into the mic and says quietly:
“Evenin’ Cragmount, I’m Paul Daley. Lovely darts”.
Launches into a gentle ‘Midnight Hour’. He’ll play it again later with Mick and Rick and it’ll be faster! Louder! More happenin’! Now he does it as a slow blues, paces himself, enjoys the moment.
The night’s young, like.
The crowd builds up. Paul plays a crackin’ six minute ‘Gloria’. Does his pretend John Lee Hooker growl in the middle cos the crowd gets off on it.
One of his own next, ‘Black Sheets of Rain’; bit depressing maybe, but fuck it. Introduces it: “I’ve suffered for my music, now it’s your turn”.
Does a couple of Merseybeat toons, then finishes with the next Broken Hands single, ‘Same Shit, Different Day’. Mick showed him the chords last week, only four of them. No one here’s heard it yet, so Paul gives the song a plug, getting it in the crowd subconscious. By the time it’s on the radio, so his theory goes, all the locals will think “Hmm, sounds familiar, top tune, must buy it!”
There’s a bass amp and two piece drum kit on stage, all ready for Mick and Rick. Half eight they come bouncin’ in. Bit cocky these days, bit of attitude about ‘em. Just back from a happenin’ session at Radio Aire.
Mick plugs in his Fender Strat bass, Rick gets behind the kiddie-sized kit and Paul straps on his black Hondo brand, Les Paul copy that he bought off his mate Andy Ham for thirty quid.
“Evenin’, once again” says Paul. “Like to introduce a coupla friends of us all. Big welcome, thankyou please, for Mick Castle and Rick Lane, lovely chaps they are. No, really”.
There’s a cheer, an ironic wolf whistle and some twat shouts, ‘wanker’.
On the four, BANG! And they rip the cord on the big version of ‘Midnight Hour’. Follow on with a rockin’ catalogue of play in a day 60’s fave raves.
They storm the room. Fuckin’ storm it! Always do. No one’s dancin anymore, there’s no room. Lotta foot stompin’ and big applause though, ‘specially when they have a go at the first two Broken Hands singles.
Paul notices his girlfriend Kathy come in the pub with her sister and make for the bar.
He’s been seeing her for a year and lately she’s been making engagement ring noises. Fuck that for a lark. Loves her though, he’s a romantic.
As the lads finish giving ‘Substitute’ a damn good kicking, he steps up to the mic: “Ladies, gents and them what’s undecided, this next ‘un were recorded by Buddy Holly before he died. Wun’t ‘ave been after, would it? This is for Kathy”.
Starts into Words of Love. Glances over at the bar, Kathy’s gone bright red. Smiling though, cos she’s a romantic. Just like him.
a fabulous song from the spike pedestal songbook, co-written with my smashing Kiwi chum, Lord Ric of Nye
Here’s another grey and empty day
Another day to swear at fate
Looking back's an easy thing to do
But I can't look forward without you
So I sit alone in this blue room
Where shadows fall in winter shades of gloom
Why did I think you'd always stay
When all we had together were small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
I hang on to a broken dream
Mining hope in empty seams
Small town days
Funny seeing you today
Innocence all washed away
You tell me that it’s grim up north
No surprises there for what it’s worth
Can’t you take me to some other place
Take me where the air is rare
I would follow anywhere
You and me together in these small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
Remember how we walked for miles
Smoking cigarettes, what style
Small town days
Long time since you’ve been around
A pit stack landscape still but no heavy heavy sound
Of dead end days and factory roar
Gates are welded shut, last shift walked out the door
Still I think back to one halcyon day
When all our working hours were bathed in summer haze
I recall those words I heard you say
That you would rather die than live in small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
I know that you remember them
They’re not so easy to forget
Small town days
Another day to swear at fate
Looking back's an easy thing to do
But I can't look forward without you
So I sit alone in this blue room
Where shadows fall in winter shades of gloom
Why did I think you'd always stay
When all we had together were small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
I hang on to a broken dream
Mining hope in empty seams
Small town days
Funny seeing you today
Innocence all washed away
You tell me that it’s grim up north
No surprises there for what it’s worth
Can’t you take me to some other place
Take me where the air is rare
I would follow anywhere
You and me together in these small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
Remember how we walked for miles
Smoking cigarettes, what style
Small town days
Long time since you’ve been around
A pit stack landscape still but no heavy heavy sound
Of dead end days and factory roar
Gates are welded shut, last shift walked out the door
Still I think back to one halcyon day
When all our working hours were bathed in summer haze
I recall those words I heard you say
That you would rather die than live in small town days
Small town days
Small town ways
I know that you remember them
They’re not so easy to forget
Small town days
I recommend this fabulous new CD. It's really great!
The Sergeants
Rockin’ at the B+S!
1. Danger Games (Price) 2. Get Back (Lennon/McCartney)
3. You Really Got Me/All Day and All of the Night (Davies)
4. Albatross (Green) 5. 2-4-6-8 Motorway (Robinson)
6. Things We Said Today (Lennon/McCartney)
7. In The Midnight Hour (Pickett/Cropper)
8. Glad All Over (Clark/Smith)
9. Get Off My Cloud (Jagger/Richards)
10. Swords of a Thousand Men (Tudor-Pole)
11. I Saw Her Standing There (Lennon/McCartney)
12. My Generation (Townshend) 13. Marie Marie (Stevens)
14. Twist and Shout (Medley/Russell)
15. In The Midnight Hour (Pickett/Cropper)
17. Bye Bye Johnny (Berry) 18. Hi Ho Silver Lining (Control)
Paul Banfield: Bass/Lead Vocal
Dean Dales: Guitar/Backing Vocal
Duncan Massey: Drums/Backing Vocal
Produced by Duncan Massey
2003 Remix Engineer: Rick Marton
Photograph: Sergeants Inc
Recorded electrically live at the B and S Club, Featherstone.
Duncan Massey uses and recommends Pearl Drums.
© 1982/2003/2007 Sergeants Inc
Rockin’ at the B+S!
1. Danger Games (Price) 2. Get Back (Lennon/McCartney)
3. You Really Got Me/All Day and All of the Night (Davies)
4. Albatross (Green) 5. 2-4-6-8 Motorway (Robinson)
6. Things We Said Today (Lennon/McCartney)
7. In The Midnight Hour (Pickett/Cropper)
8. Glad All Over (Clark/Smith)
9. Get Off My Cloud (Jagger/Richards)
10. Swords of a Thousand Men (Tudor-Pole)
11. I Saw Her Standing There (Lennon/McCartney)
12. My Generation (Townshend) 13. Marie Marie (Stevens)
14. Twist and Shout (Medley/Russell)
15. In The Midnight Hour (Pickett/Cropper)
17. Bye Bye Johnny (Berry) 18. Hi Ho Silver Lining (Control)
Paul Banfield: Bass/Lead Vocal
Dean Dales: Guitar/Backing Vocal
Duncan Massey: Drums/Backing Vocal
Produced by Duncan Massey
2003 Remix Engineer: Rick Marton
Photograph: Sergeants Inc
Recorded electrically live at the B and S Club, Featherstone.
Duncan Massey uses and recommends Pearl Drums.
© 1982/2003/2007 Sergeants Inc
Cabbages and Kings. And Garage Conversions
Al-reet me owd loves. King Spikey Bloke here with a self consciously wacky first posting. I have been converting me garage, tha nos. I have made it into a cabbage! Wot a waste of money. I could have saved thousands just by visiting me local green grocer. Eeh, I am a one!
Spikey's message for today: Join a Union
Spikey's message for today: Join a Union
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