Читать книгу Mad, Bad and Dangerous - The Book of Drummers' Tales - Spike Webb - Страница 24

Roadies. That’s what we used to call them. We didn’t have drum techs, guitar techs, on-stage fold-back mixing engineers, lighting crew or special effects people. Just roadies. And they did everything, for nothing. When I was in Sid Sideboard And The Chairs, we used to joke that our roadies were to be paid £5 a year – but they had to work a year in hand before payment. When we split up we actually gave our last remaining roadie a fiver – a year later.

The point is, when you’re young and famous in your local town, friends who don’t actually play anything are still keen to be involved, especially if it looks as though you might be heading for the big time. Moreover, there was a genuine sense of camaraderie and a kind of passion about the whole thing. The band had taken on the essence of a worthwhile cause. These roadies knew that, in reality, if we became successful they wouldn’t be coming with us. But that wasn’t the point. These were people who really felt we deserved to make it.

So it was that for some four years a collection of faithful, unpaid mates humped gear, drove vans, set up drums (thank you Neil!), repaired drums (thanks again Neil!), mended amplifiers, put up second-hand lighting rigs and set off fireworks (special effects).

These friends of ours were actually very good at achieving what they did, given the limited resources at their disposal (with the exception of a BBC Dalek that kept poking me in the back during a gig at Watford College – where did they get that from?). However, not everything always went according to plan…

The Queens Arms, Harrow, Middlesex, Saturday night sometime in 1978. Sid Sideboard And The Chairs are due to play to a crowd of locals plus some home-grown fans of our own. The pub features a long bar along the back wall of a good-sized main room. Upholstered seats and occasional tables are positioned around the room and a small dance area has been cleared near the front of the stage, which is small and compact, as they always are when an establishment is first and foremost a pub and is transformed into a venue at weekends.

We haven’t played here before, but are here on request of the landlord, who has heard that we put on a bit of a spectacle and attract a good crowd. He reckons he can clean up behind the bar. So he’s laid on extra bar staff to meet the demand. We, or rather our roadies, have set up and the band and entourage are sitting at a couple of tables at the front, near the side entrance.

People are drifting in through the main entrance to the bar and it looks like it’s going to be a busy night. I glance at the various toys and props laid out at the side of the stage and notice a strange round object with a lead attached, which is trailing off to some hidden plug behind the stage. I ask one of our roadies, Charlie, what it is and he tells me it’s a new special effect and I’ll have to wait and see. It’s not unusual to see various mechanical or electrical contraptions lying around for which there seems to be little explanation, and as I’m not the most practical of people, the boys generally think it’s best to keep me away from that side of things. So I think nothing of it.

Around 9pm we take the stage to some applause and begin our set. There’s a small line of fairly primitive disco lights at the front of the stage, facing the band. They are flashing in a sequence of colours and combined with a couple of house spot lights trained on us from above, we’ve got a bit of stage atmosphere.

Towards the middle of our set, I notice that smoke is drifting onto the stage from the front. It begins to swirl around the amps and speakers, then my drums. Soon it begins to rise and the smell becomes more pungent and intense. However, we continue playing in the belief that the people responsible for this special effect will have it all under control.

Not so. As we play on, the smoke continues to rise so that the stage becomes a white haze and I begin to cough almost uncontrollably – not good when you are supposed to be delivering tight, reliable drumming. By now, even though they are only a few feet away, I am unable to see other members of the band. I can just make out their outlines through the smoke.

Eventually we finish the song, and there is complete silence. Not one solitary clap. Then we hear the sound of fire engines approaching. Someone opens the side door near the stage and the smoke begins to clear. As we assemble at the front of the stage, the smoke clears to reveal a deserted function room – except for one person, the landlord, who is standing behind the bar with an expression of anger and disbelief.

Someone from across the road has seen people climbing out of the pub windows as smoke billowed from the building and, naturally assuming the worst, called the fire brigade. After a series of explanations the firemen leave, satisfied that there is no fire. The landlord, on the other hand, is not at all satisfied about the way things have turned out and is definitely not impressed with our special effects team. Needless to say, we are not paid.

It turned out that the circular object I had spied earlier was a homemade smoke machine that generated real smoke. It was in essence an electric hotplate on which had been placed a kind of gunpowder designed for use as a smoke screen during World War 1. (Where on earth did they get this?) It had been switched on for effect, but was far more powerful than anticipated and, as the smoke rapidly filled the room, the person responsible for the device realised he didn’t know how to turn it off. Switching it off at the mains proved impossible because no one could find the plug socket in the thick smoke.

This particular gig was the first of two booked for consecutive weekends at this pub, so we were due to go back and play again the next Saturday night. Whether through naivety or sheer arrogance, we actually had the audacity to turn up. Not surprisingly, our second visit turned out to be a short one. As we sat having a beer waiting for the roadies to unload, the landlord approached us, accompanied by a huge, vicious Rottweiler. He told us to leave immediately and never return. In the van on the way back to our local pub, I politely suggested dry ice might be better next time.

Charlie said we couldn’t afford it. He’d have to modify the hotplate.