Ain't Bad for a Pink (11 page)

And
he’d broken into the cases of wine I’d had delivered to the shop, the bastard.

Something else – something worse: his behaviour would have lead to involvement with the authorities: medics, police, people wanting to interview anyone involved in any way and family members having views to express. A terrible thought to us all in those days. That was why, when Shep kicked the door in and saw what he saw, he phoned me, not an ambulance and that is why we took the risk of not taking Pete to the hospital. We all knew that the police would find traces of party substances on the premises and the whole thing would all have been such a mither. When the crisis had passed we made jokes about Whitty needing to drink lots of Guinness. A bit ironic in the circumstances.

The bloodletting was not mentioned after that. Whitty and I never fell out. We loved one another but the rawhide he tied round his wrists didn’t hide the scars.

There was a gig scheduled in Leeds – quite an important one at a big venue – and I had gone searching for Whitty. I found him at a friend’s house; he’d already consumed a bottle of gin. I eventually got the van and the band and Whitty together in the same place, confiscated his drink and set off for Leeds. The van broke down between Knutsford and Manchester; we summoned the AA (the Automobile Association that is, not Alcoholics Anonymous!) and we got a relay to Leeds. The venue was in the red light district: strip clubs and prostitutes everywhere you looked. Under normal circumstances we wouldn’t have got out of the van in bandit territory but we had a job to do and we were just about in time.

There it was: the size of two football pitches – the biggest pub you could imagine. I’ve never seen anything like it: a massive, massive hall. A great void. Yes – there might have been a hundred people there but it was still empty; the scale dwarfed everything.

There was a problem with the sound system: Shep was standing there at the desk shaking his head and throwing up his hands. We had cross talk: someone else can alter your sound and you have no control of it. All the wires in the multi-core go through from the mixing desk to the stage and if you get interference – spikes to the mains or strong radio interference – this can cause it. There was nothing we could do. It was one of the worst scenarios for a performer: the venue swallowing up the audience, no control over the equipment and no means of escape. And into the black hole of our impotence came Cider Sid filling the space with his scrawny alcoholic face, his teeth all over the place, plying Whitty with drink – something I was trying to ration. As if Whitty needed any more drink! If this was hell then Sid was a devil tempting someone who had enough demons to fight.

We were used to the banality of things going wrong. Sometimes it was part of the fun: dodgy vans, crap sound systems, lurid edginess, all belonged to the territory – as did the increasing cideriness. And we might have smiled through all that if it hadn’t been for Cider Sid’s tip of a flat where we had to crash out for the night until the cavalry could be summoned the next day. We drank ourselves to sleep.

The next day I arranged for Phil Doody to drive up my camper van so the ailing van could be towed. The lads in this van had no heating so they lit a camping stove to keep warm! It was symptomatic.

Although Whitty could stay dry for three months at a time he could also spend the whole of his wage packet on drink on a Friday night. His alcoholism and depression made him unreliable and unstable though his musical power was undiminished. Something had to give.

But happily not all out of town gigs were so awful; many resembled the hilarious times Slim had with his band, Barracuda.

Being in my band Barracuda has been a combination of indignity and hilarity. Many of our venues were like
The Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club
and at one of these places the concert secretary gave us very, very precise instructions about what he expected of us. There was a heavy sense of occasion: he insisted on us playing as the curtains slowly opened. Well, the curtains began to open. Slowly. We were in full flow. It was all very dramatic…but the concert secretary was dithering. “And here we have… and we’ve had them before… they’re good lads …it’s…it’s… let’s have a good hand for…Barry and the… the… Cudas!”

By this time the lads were rolling about on the floor.

Once we got going we played very, very loud and our hundred watt Marshall soon emptied the concert room. Remember: these were families in for the bingo who brought their own sandwiches in tin boxes. There were just two people left at the bar. The concert secretary stormed up – absolutely furious and with more instructions. We had to tone it down for the second set. The usual story.

We noticed after a while that the concert secretary was becoming less agitated. Then we realised that the concert hall was gradually filling up. But not with the sandwich-eating bingo fiends. What had happened was that the two remaining punters were students and they’d run across the road to fetch their mates. So it was all OK; rock ‘n’ roll had triumphed and we got paid.

We even got a bonus.

You get used to playing venues that might be unsuitable for your type of music and where the punters are there for reasons other than listening to your music. Arguments about volume are almost as common as arguments about money but sometimes it gets to you. One night Barracuda was in a typical bingo-dominated club. We had three spots and the evening was to finish on bingo. After the first spot we were told off for being too loud; we didn’t alter it for the next spot and we were told off again. Dave Evans was getting pissed off with the attitude so I was surprised at the end of our third set when he didn’t want to get straight off home. He told us all to hang about. So we went to the distant bar at the end of this vast room.

Everything went quiet. The bingo was about to start: eyes down for one hundred pounds! The machine was switched on but something was going wrong: balls were spewing all over the place and the bingo caller was sweating and totally confused trying to work out what was happening. More and more and more balls. A nightmare of balls! He had lost control and a hundred pounds was at stake. More and more balls! Everyone in the room became involved. People were on their hands and knees picking balls up and shouting things like, “I’ve got number twenty-seven; here’s number three!” as if they could somehow sort it all out. It was chaos. Chaos.

On behalf of rock ‘n’ roll Dave had taken a terrible revenge.

Dave had taken the wire top off the bingo machine – the bit where the balls come out one by one. There was nothing to control them – the room was full of uncontrollable balls! In the meantime we were all standing at the bar trying to control our laughter but it was so ludicrous that in the end we could no more contain ourselves than the bingo machine could control its balls. The dreaded concert secretary realised we were responsible and told us we’d never be hired there again. Ever.

The band outlived the club. The club was demolished. Perhaps it couldn’t survive the horror of a demented bingo machine.

Wayne Davies (Slim).
(10)

The Skunk Band did tour widely in my teens and twenties but I didn’t give myself completely to the tour van lifestyle. I had reasonable staff but I kept an eye on things at base camp because I had to do the trade-ins. Transactions could be quite subtle: often involving hundreds of pounds, part exchange and a thorough knowledge of the value of the instruments involved. It was my responsibility and only I could make those decisions. I’ve always had something and I didn’t want to squander it. By the age of thirty-two I had done enough touring; I didn’t want the sort of hassle we had at Leeds.

My grandfather used to say that the most important thing in life was a good pair of boots but I say, especially when on tour, that a good sleeping bag is the most important.

During my years on the road with Tower Struck Down: six in a van and staying in Travelodges throughout the country, we often had to live off the fat of the land. The maximum for a room was three people. One of the band preferred to sleep in the van anyway so that left five of us: two too many. So two were concealed in sleeping bags which were dragged in. Thus, only one room had to be paid for.

Whilst touring in the West Country sleeping bags were called into use again – to collect potatoes or corn. Tower Struck Down toured for three months in middle Europe. During the first leg of the tour, in Hungary, there was a hiccup – gigs not confirmed – and the band were at a loose end in Budapest. I went for a pee in a car park and noticed a large patch, about fifty yards square, of cannabis plants. The band picked the lot and concealed it in…a sleeping bag.

John Darlington.
(11)

The Leeds gig marked the end of the third phase of the Skunk Band. The something that had to give, gave: in the early Eighties Whitty made the important decision to go to Australia to see his family and to go walkabout. I received two affectionate, open-hearted letters from him. He was able to see his kids, see something of that vast country and play some music to support himself. The letters vibrate with interest and wit and life. They are full of detailed affection for his family there and his mates back home: Gwen and Edna who ran The Pig on Nantwich Road; Denzil – an old black guy who told tales of mustard on horses’ backsides to make them run faster; Mick and Snowy the bikers who owned the bike shop in Hope Street. The second letter reveals his continuing success with the ladies and the fact that he has his drinking under some control. Australia was good for him and he has obviously absorbed some of the speech patterns and language. These are the letters of a man who believes in a future, who is happy to be who he is, where he is, having the friends he has. It’s easy to understand why everyone loved Pete.

Hello Rockin Brothers,

How the hell are ya! I thought I’d better send you a report about my doings in the tropics.

Well it’s not a bad old place really, if you can put up with the sand and flies. I tell ya there’s insects here you’d have nightmares about! But I’ve got myself a place to live and I’m working with “Cov” putting up advertising signs which is pretty good because it means we get around a bit.

I think I did the right thing to stay over here even though it means I’m illegal (my visa ran out over 3 months ago!). It was good being with the kids at Christmas in Sydney but I’ve heard a lot about Western Australia from “Cov” and so I flew over here in February. I like it a lot more here than Sydney. It’s more like I expected Australia to be: gold mines, sheep stations, kangaroos, etc. The kids came over here on the bus (3,000 mls) with Pat and they stayed for a week or so. We went down the Swan river to Fremantle and I did a bit of fishing with Raph. We had a great time; they’re fine kids.

Perth is a brand new city all stainless steel and glass I like it but I prefer to go into Fremantle (10 miles away). You’d like Fremantle Pete. It’s a lot like Plymouth, some great old pubs and big harbour.

I’ve got meself a guitar ($100 – £75). It’s an Ibanez acoustic, nothing special but it plays well. I met up with a guy called John. He’s from Yorkshire and he plays guitar so we’re hoping to get an act together and play the bars. The pubs (hotels or taverns the Aussies call ‘em) shut at 10.30 pm unless they have live music, which most of them do, then they stay open till 12 pm. So it’s a healthy (is that the right word?) music scene. There are some good players over here, anything from jazz to C & W. Amplification is quite cheap here too, especially if it’s made in Japan as Australia has some sort of trading deal with the “Nips”.

Anyway, enough of this waffling. How are things with you Pete? Is the shop doing O.K? Is Lyn pregnant? Has Ralph eaten anyone lately? Tommy Kerley told me that Mick Wicklow married Alison. I s’pose that was inevitable, good luck to ‘em I say.

Have you sold “Pequa” yet or you still there (now & then)? I’d like to hear from you as we’ve known each other a
long
time and it would be a motherfuckin shame if we didn’t keep in touch so
write
you barstad!

Anyway regards to the following people

Give Shep: – some chewy

“ Bip: – the rent

“ Lyn: – *!!* (twice)

“ Denzil: – a joint

give Mike Slaughter: – a visit

“ Des: – an album

“ Linda: – a smile

“ Tom: – a drink

“ Gary and Zoe: – my address

“ Cathy: – my address and a kiss

“ Gwen and Edna: – my undying love

“ Snowy and Trev: – a yarn

“ Dee: – anything

“ Epiphone: – a strum

Good Luck to yous all,

Pete Whit.

P.S When you write, address the letter to, “Peter Kelly” as I’ve had to change my monica to avoid getting pulled by the law!
(12)

Hello Pete,

How are ya.

I’m lyin’ in me bed, bollixed after a hard workin day. I’ve been painting and decorating a house for a Portuguese/South African lady who insists on makin me eat all kinds of strange foods every ½ hour or so. I’ve been on this job for three days and I feel like I’ve eaten my way through a delicatessen! Anyroadup it was good to hear from you and I hope that “The Beano” was had in Cornwall (didn’t see a little old man called Gascoigne did ya?). Been rattlin out a few tunes here and there – it seems 2,000 watts and a ’57 Les Paul sounds fuckin dinkum; ‘nough to send the Sheilas tropo! (sorry).

I’m still ruining the odd song or two about the place. There’s one good thing about playing here. They don’t hold you to a particular style; so long as it sounds half-right you’re O.K. The worst thing that can happen is some “old swag’” askin you to sing something like, “Sweet Nell from Wogga Wogga”!! I did do a couple of gigs with this guy called John (from Yorkshire) but his wife really had the hots for me (fucknosewhy) and it got embarrassing me playing guitar with him one night, and her playing naughties the next; I had to bottle out!