Post by mampam on Feb 21, 2010 1:50:55 GMT
It was the cover of Tomorrow Belongs To Me that made me listen to Alex Harvey; a dinosaur battling a JCB in a landscape of destruction. In retrospect that cover is a highly romanticised version of how I imagine my work, with me on the side of the dinosaur. But back to 1977. The Sex Pistols were on Top of the Pops and Alex was singing about trees dying of shame and a man in a jar. Music had never been so exciting (and it wouldn’t be again until Yo! Bum Rush The Show). I became an avid collector of Alex’s music, tracking down vinyl wherever I went. In 1980 we got Nigel’s dad to drive us to some village outside Chesterfield, and hang about for hours while we watched Alex perform in the Shoulder of Mutton. Later that year we hitch-hiked to Matlock to see him perform in Darley Dale Working Men’s Club. We got there mid afternoon, and hanging about the streets I chanced to see a white minibus pass with Alex inside. Nigel insisted it was a van full of old biddys, but I knew better. We ran up to the club and there he was. After signing autographs I asked him about his billing at Reading Festival that summer, where he had spectacularly not appeared. He knew nothing about it, and then, wonder of wonders, took the single sleeve back that he had autographed and scribbled a pass, “Admit +1”. Wherever we play, he said, that will get you in. Best of all, in the middle of the gig, Alex beckoned me to the stage told me to sit on a monitor and hold his Telecaster while he performed Framed. The chords were simple and I started to strum along, with an approving nod from the bass player. My musical career had started on its highest note. Nigel’s dad had to come for us that evening. We had lied about how we got to Matlock and I think we got found out.
In October of that year Alex toured the UK and there were dates from Newark to Middlesboro. Attempts to fit one or two concerts around school were half hearted, so I ran away for a week. First to Leeds, then to Doncaster, and then down to Newark. First night I met two brothers outside who let me stay the night, Doncaster and Newark were bus shelter adventures, and I took delight in waking up snuggled in my sleeping bag and producing a toothbrush while I watched the waiting passengers trying to pretend I wasn’t there.
The next night was at The Balcony in Birkenhead, and fortunately for me the nodding bass player, Jack, noticed that I kept turning up and demanded to know where I spent the nights. When I told him he said I should sleep in the van to keep the equipment safe. The next morning they woke me up for breakfast, Alex said the van was no place for a boy to sleep and so after that I spent the nights with the rhythm section. In the current climate any musician caught smuggling a 14 year old boy into their hotel room would be in deep water, in 1980 I don’t think anybody saw it as anything but an act of kindness. That morning Alex took me to the Beatles Museum, bought me pie and chips and off we went to Grimsby. Somebody had stolen the introductory soundtrack in Birkenhead (surprise) and nobody knew what to do. I remembered seeing a copy of Rock Drill that contained a studio version of the same track during a school trip to Whitby, and so we stopped off there, Alex bought a copy of his own album from a bemused record shop and I had saved the day. I made myself useful in other ways, sewing stars on hats and finding electrical miscellania for the road crew.
The rhythm section were not party animals. One night we were woken up by the sounds of Alex wrestling a huge Alsatian downstairs. The dog belonged to the owner of the hotel, who by coincidence had previously been a policeman in Glasgow and had arrested Alex for something to do with whisky. Another morning we were awoken by Alex stark naked and very angry because the hotel had charged extra for me. Alex slept through the day and didn’t come alive until he reached the stage. He had a way of focussing attention on one person the same way he could focus on an entire audience at night. He told me I should work hard at school (oops) and that what I did was up to me, not teachers, parents or the police.
Last journey was from Middlesboro to a motorway junction where I would hitchhike home. Alex had a casio organ and he sang a song, The Tombstone Trail, in the back of the van. Whether it was from an old cowboy film or his own composition, I don’t know. He said the tombstone trail was something we all followed. By the time I got out of the van he was asleep and I never got the chance to say goodbye or thanks. As I watched the van drive away I knew I would never see him again. I hate it when that happens.
Alex interrupted my education once more in February the next year. This time the gig was Golders Green Crematorium. Afterwards I drank vodka and lime with the Electric Cowboys and Sally showed us pictures of Alex in disguise. I got the bus back to Manchester and that was the end of that. At twice that age, in Aberdeen, I saw the reformed Sensational Alex Harvey Band with a different singer. It didn't do it for me, I cried on the way home. In 2009 I tried to track the bass player down in the pubs and clubs of Mountain Ash, but it was the wrong town :-(
One of the best things about Alex’s music was its breadth. Through him I discovered Jacque Brel, Irving Berlin, Leadbelly, Tennessee Ernie Ford, the Andrews Sisters, Chet Atkins, the Inkspots, even the Osmonds. What I saw in Alex was a complete lack of compromise. Bless Him.
In October of that year Alex toured the UK and there were dates from Newark to Middlesboro. Attempts to fit one or two concerts around school were half hearted, so I ran away for a week. First to Leeds, then to Doncaster, and then down to Newark. First night I met two brothers outside who let me stay the night, Doncaster and Newark were bus shelter adventures, and I took delight in waking up snuggled in my sleeping bag and producing a toothbrush while I watched the waiting passengers trying to pretend I wasn’t there.
The next night was at The Balcony in Birkenhead, and fortunately for me the nodding bass player, Jack, noticed that I kept turning up and demanded to know where I spent the nights. When I told him he said I should sleep in the van to keep the equipment safe. The next morning they woke me up for breakfast, Alex said the van was no place for a boy to sleep and so after that I spent the nights with the rhythm section. In the current climate any musician caught smuggling a 14 year old boy into their hotel room would be in deep water, in 1980 I don’t think anybody saw it as anything but an act of kindness. That morning Alex took me to the Beatles Museum, bought me pie and chips and off we went to Grimsby. Somebody had stolen the introductory soundtrack in Birkenhead (surprise) and nobody knew what to do. I remembered seeing a copy of Rock Drill that contained a studio version of the same track during a school trip to Whitby, and so we stopped off there, Alex bought a copy of his own album from a bemused record shop and I had saved the day. I made myself useful in other ways, sewing stars on hats and finding electrical miscellania for the road crew.
The rhythm section were not party animals. One night we were woken up by the sounds of Alex wrestling a huge Alsatian downstairs. The dog belonged to the owner of the hotel, who by coincidence had previously been a policeman in Glasgow and had arrested Alex for something to do with whisky. Another morning we were awoken by Alex stark naked and very angry because the hotel had charged extra for me. Alex slept through the day and didn’t come alive until he reached the stage. He had a way of focussing attention on one person the same way he could focus on an entire audience at night. He told me I should work hard at school (oops) and that what I did was up to me, not teachers, parents or the police.
Last journey was from Middlesboro to a motorway junction where I would hitchhike home. Alex had a casio organ and he sang a song, The Tombstone Trail, in the back of the van. Whether it was from an old cowboy film or his own composition, I don’t know. He said the tombstone trail was something we all followed. By the time I got out of the van he was asleep and I never got the chance to say goodbye or thanks. As I watched the van drive away I knew I would never see him again. I hate it when that happens.
Alex interrupted my education once more in February the next year. This time the gig was Golders Green Crematorium. Afterwards I drank vodka and lime with the Electric Cowboys and Sally showed us pictures of Alex in disguise. I got the bus back to Manchester and that was the end of that. At twice that age, in Aberdeen, I saw the reformed Sensational Alex Harvey Band with a different singer. It didn't do it for me, I cried on the way home. In 2009 I tried to track the bass player down in the pubs and clubs of Mountain Ash, but it was the wrong town :-(
One of the best things about Alex’s music was its breadth. Through him I discovered Jacque Brel, Irving Berlin, Leadbelly, Tennessee Ernie Ford, the Andrews Sisters, Chet Atkins, the Inkspots, even the Osmonds. What I saw in Alex was a complete lack of compromise. Bless Him.
"You're 200 years old this year ... right? You've got every race, creed, colour, nationality and culture that's ever been. You're the biggest, strongest and most powerful nation that's ever been ... 
