BEYOND THE COMFORT ZONE
James M Turner
Copyright © 2010 James M Turner
Published by Cliffs Edge Books at Smashwords
Discover more about the author at JamesMTurner.com
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Smashwords Edition 2010
All press enquiries to info@oceanfall.com
******
PREFACE
This is not, as some might have expected, an expose in any way on the music industry or the artists and people I have come into contact with. I have documented certain events during my musical career and early life merely to provide a point of reference and contrast to subsequent adventures.
There is a Buddhist saying the essence of which distils thus. ‘If you were standing at the last day of your life looking back on this moment in time - how important would it be?’ Now, clearly this is meant to teach the observer that one must think of the journey as a whole, to put things in a truer perspective. In the vernacular...Don’t sweat the small stuff. It is a teaching that I myself have found useful to help get me through the trials and tribulations that we all must face as we travel on our own journeys through life. But, every once and a while, there appears on the horizon a moment which is life changing, one that is important to the outcome of the rest of your life. In large part this book deals with one such moment as it happened for me. One thing can change everything.
******
PROLOGUE
September 2004, no-man’s land on the Thai – Burmese border. Temperature 105 degrees, Humidity 95%.
I stood on the bridge, looking over the rail to the chocolate brown water below, trying to gauge the drop to the river. Beads of sweat ran down my cheeks, gathered at my chin and fell the 40 or so feet through the turgid air to become one with the swollen torrent running beneath me.
Behind me, to the tourists at least, everything looked as it should. Life on the bridge was in full swing, a steady two way procession, the ebb and flow of border life. Fruit sellers peddled their wares, hawkers sold postcards, grinning at bemused Americans dressed in appropriately garish shorts and T-shirts. Chatter from half a dozen languages mixed with the stop-start whine of ten thousand freshly hatched crickets from the jungle nearby. Meanwhile, trucks belching black smoke, laden with chickens, people, cases of Johnny Walker or piled high with Pineapples and Watermelons made their way to and fro across the no-man’s land of some hundred and fifty yards between the two border checkpoints. The closeness of the surrounding hills made sure that not a breath of wind disturbed a claustrophobic blanket of heat and dust.
To me however things were looking far from hunky dory! Without raising my head, I looked to my right. Through the railings on the Thai side at 2 o’clock, I saw a young Thai couple. She posed for a holiday snap, her back to the railings. Meanwhile, her partner pretended to take some holiday shots for the folks back home in Bangkok, his telephoto lens pointing over his girlfriends shoulder and aimed squarely at my head. Finger never moving from the shutter button he cranked out a dozen or more photo’s of yours truly. “Well, that’s fuckin’ marvellous” I said to myself as I looked back to the River below. I licked the salt from my lips.
Turning slowly, putting my back to the camera, I looked around me, acting as nonchalant as my pounding heart would allow. 50 yards ahead and to the left, our contact was melting into the crowd on the bridge. Looking back, he briefly paused to test the ripeness of some mangoes before he spun away, quickened his stride, and disappeared into the sea of brown faces. Moments earlier myself and my partner Franco had just tried to negotiate with him the price for eight pre-teen girls, to be sold to a Mamasan from a Bangkok brothel.
Franco now stood rooted to the spot some ten paces in front of me. Circling the two of us, having just dismounted from two shiny blacked out SUV’s, were five Burmese secret police. They wore checked shirts left outside their pants, clean white vests, chinos and wrap-around sunglasses. They were easy to spot, and my mouth had gone dry the moment they stepped from the vehicles. They casually made their way through the crowd, smiling ever so slightly, cutting off all avenues of escape. Franco leaned on the flaky concrete rail at the side of the bridge. We were in deep shit. He knew it. I knew it. The words of the briefing the night before played over and over in my head. “If something goes wrong, anything. If something doesn’t feel right. Get out and get out quick – we won’t be able to come in after you”. Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! What the fuck was I thinking? I should be on a stage somewhere earning pot loads of cash and grinning at screaming girls! I should not be out here sweating my balls off, contemplating jumping into a fucking god knows how deep river, probably getting shot in the process. Or worse, disappearing into the Burmese prison system and left to rot.
I tightened my grip on the rail, flakes of white paint falling to the river below. Although I was a better than average swimmer I didn’t fancy my chances. Even if I survived the fall, I still had over 50 yards to swim before I would find cover when the river eventually bent around to the right. If they decided to shoot, even the worst marksman in the world would surely hit me before the bend. Then there was the river itself. Deep into rainy season, what was a thin ribbon of water was now a raging spinning maelstrom, hurtling beneath the bridge at several miles an hour. Not far downstream things got a lot worse, as it joined the mighty Mekong. At this time of year it would be two miles across and travelling even faster. I’d seen the Mekong in flood, and remembered its awe inspiring effect on me at the time, tumbling fallen trees in its current like matchsticks. I imagined my bloated, bullet ridden body turning its death roll in the branches of a floating tree. Fuck that! I decided against the jump.
*****
CHAPTER 1
Beginnings – Heroes and Villains.
In 1961, as the bricklayers of Berlin busied themselves building their wall, across France vineyard owners congratulated themselves on creating one of the best vintages of the 20th Century, and a contrite Adolf Eichmann awaited his death sentence in a Jerusalem cell. High above them all Russian cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin spun around a tiny blue world and became the first man to experience the vacuum of space. Far below him in a small Cheshire town in North Western England another, much smaller vacuum, was being filled.
I was born in Northwich on Thursday the 18th May that year, to Joyce and Barry Turner. My mother was a Secretary at the chemical giant I.C.I. and my Father was a Shipwright at Pimlotts shipyard. I was followed in timely succession by two sisters, Ann and the youngest Joanne.
Now, everyone has a childhood, populated by aunties and uncles, nephews and nieces, and mine was no more remarkable than yours probably, suffice to say that when I look back, my early memories are largely ones of happiness. The summers were always sunny, the summer holidays seemingly stretching on forever, Christmases were always white and the presents plentiful. That all came to an abrupt halt, one summer’s day in 1972.
It was by all other indications a normal Sunday afternoon. I thought nothing of it at first, my parents were having an animated argument in the upstairs bedroom of our simple council house, nothing unusual in that, and I was doing my best to ignore them. The argument abruptly stopped and my father came thundering down the stairs. I remember he had his coat in his hand and he barely gave me a second glance as he breezed past me, slumped in a chair, in the living room.
“You’ll have to make your own tea son, I’m off!”
I’d like to think that given more time to prepare, he might have come up with a more eloquent and enlightened last phrase, a moment of wisdom perhaps, for his son to carry with him on his journey to adulthood – but probably not. The door slammed shut and I never saw him again.
The immediate result of this seismic shift in my reality was twofold. For my mother it marked the beginning of years of struggle bringing up three growing children with little help, working long hours in unrewarding jobs just to provide us with clothes on our back and food on the table. Despite all this, I rarely saw her complain and she was forever jolly in our company, although I am sure behind closed doors there was many a sleepless night and tear shed.
For me it was as if someone had opened my eyes, set me down in a small paper boat and pushed it mercilessly into the torrent of a mighty river. The world suddenly became more vivid. My father had never shown any lenience in the way punishment was metered out, and indeed my mother later confessed there were days when she kept me from school, ashamed of the bruises his beatings had left upon me. Now unfettered, I could let the stream and my curiosity, take me where it would. I became, to put it mildly, unruly. Becoming more and more difficult for my mother to control one by one, over a period of time, my friends dropped away informing me that their own mothers would no longer allow them to keep company with me. No doubt had this continued then I would be writing this book from the confines of a prison cell. Fortunately, redemption was at hand.
One of the consequences of being ostracised by my peers was that by my early teens I had become a bit of a loner, a far cry from the highly sociable person I would later become. My friends became books, American comics and most importantly I developed a love of Music which, in time, would become the key that unlocked many doors. All though, gave me places to escape into and between Jules Verne, the X-Men, Superman and Sgt Peppers I was lost in imaginary worlds. Why I wondered were there so many holes in Blackburn Lancashire and why were a pair of glasses such an effective disguise? I became something of a sportsman, swimming competitively as well as playing Hockey and Football for the school. Bruce Lee mania was in full swing, and the walls and ceiling of my bedroom, like so many others, were papered with pictures from Enter The Dragon and other Martial arts movies.
These pictures were gradually replaced with posters from ‘Soul Train’ and Top of the Pops. I was a teenager, it was the seventies. Star Trek was still going boldly, to the same place they went last week, but with different coloured aliens. Marc Bolan was busy banging his gong, getting it on about his Metal Guru - whatever that was – Starsky and Hutch squealed across the screen every week in their Tomato coloured Ford Torino, and in the middle of all these bell bottoms, high heeled moon boots, Disco music and feather cuts I discovered girls. Luckily, around about the same time, they discovered me.
My long suffering mother could only watch on in anguish as my teenage hormones raged and maiden after dusky maiden made the trek to and from my bedroom, from where the sounds of black America, Stevie Wonder, Al Green, The Ohio Players and James Brown wafted back down the stairs. Even at 13 years of age I was now also sneaking out to the local disco, arriving home long after midnight, I’m sure she thought I was completely beyond salvation.
Like most teenagers, by the time it came to leaving school I had little idea of what profession I wanted to do, but had an inkling that I fancied heading into the performing arts. I proffered the possibility of me becoming an Actor on my careers advisor, only to be pressed with the application forms for a dozen or so factories and the apprenticeships on offer there. Which was exactly where I ended up. Leaving school at the age of sixteen with some decent, though not stellar, exam results and a sports bag crammed full of stolen National Geographic magazines – a harbinger of things to come.
The unlucky recipients of my teenage self were the ERF motor company. I was enrolled as an apprentice mechanic, which was a bit like handing a small child a large sharp knife. Never were two things so diametrically opposed. As our mentor took the new apprentices around the factory that first day and led us down the assembly lines of defeated looking workers screwing various bits onto skeletal chassis, I made up my mind almost immediately that life within those walls was not for me.
The one bright spot in the whole affair was the camaraderie of the other apprentices, further strengthened by block release to college in Crew where we were let loose on the vehicles of the long suffering lecturers. Despite the friendship however, each day merely reinforced my resolve to get the hell out of there. Things finally came to a head one afternoon when, after trying to loosen a particularly stubborn wheel nut, the wheel-brace split in two. Faced with the braces constituent parts, two straight pieces of metal, there seemed only one logical solution. Off to the welding shop we would go.
I enlisted the help of my friend Tony and we snuck into the welding shop, which was deserted, heading for the electric arc welding booths. The booth was a brick square, open at one end, inside of which was the welding gear and a metal table on which to place the object that needed welding. The open end was covered by a leather curtain to shield the people outside the booth from sparks and flashes, there was just room for two people inside. We selected a booth and went about trying to repair the broken brace. Try as we might we couldn’t get the brace to stay still. Balanced on two firebricks every tap of the welding torch proceeded to knock the brace from the supporting bricks. I ventured a solution.
“Ok mate I have an idea. You hold one end of the wheel-brace, and I’ll weld it.”
My companion wasn’t convinced. “Won’t I get electrocuted?”
“Hmmm, No, I don’t think so. Just don’t touch the metal bench, you’ll be fine.”
I re-positioned the broken pieces and prepared to weld the two together, lining up the thin rod of the welding torch inches away from the space soon to be filled with molten metal. Tony held one end gingerly. Raising the eye-guard with one hand and taking aim with the other, I gave the brace a quick tap, which was followed by a small breeze. I lowered the eye-guard and discovered I was now alone in the booth, the leather curtain flapping behind me. I pushed back the curtain to see the now smouldering figure of Tony lying prostrate, groaning on a nearby work bench. Several thousand volts had catapulted him through the curtain into the air and deposited him where he now lay.
“You nearly killed me you bastard!” He wheezed between thankful gasps of smokey air. It was time to move on.
Handing in my notice with the astute observation that a Rhesus Monkey could probably do my job, with no lack of productivity, I headed into a future that was to be filled temporarily with a series of dead end uninteresting jobs. I needed a focus, even I realized that, it was a big world out there and I wanted my part of it. How was I going to accomplish that? I had no idea. Carpet fitter, Labourer, Encyclopaedia salesman, these were just some of the occupations I tried my hand at before I reached my 18th birthday. Through my contacts in the swimming club, I finally settled as a lifeguard in Winsford, a small town five miles from Northwich. It was good money, though crushingly boring until the evening when I got to try my hand at coaching, which was something I enjoyed.
Throughout these years of indecision though, one thing remained a constant, my fascination with music. I was travelling to Manchester, often alone, to see any band I could, whilst at the weekends I would roadie for DJ’s as they plied their trade up and down the country at all-night club gigs. It was at one of these concerts in Manchester that the mist finally cleared.
The Crusaders were an American jazz fusion band who had had one chart hit ‘Street Life’. It was a huge club hit, and on my trips around the country would fill the dance floor every time it was played. I scored a cheap ticket and took myself off to the Manchester Apollo. I was mesmerized. I was particularly enthralled by Wilton Felder the Sax player. He coaxed such a range of emotion from the instrument. It made a deep impression on me. By the end of the concert as the last strains of ‘Street Life’ faded, I’d made up my mind. I was going to be a professional musician. I felt as if a burden had been lifted from me, I knew what I was going to do with my life. The very next day, I went to my job, gave my notice, found myself a second hand Tenor Sax, went home and began to practice. My family however, were not as enthusiastic as I may have hoped at my new found clarity of purpose. It was understandable, if I had known the statistics I may have paused for a moment.
There are millions of people who have the same revelation that I had just had. Of these, less than 1% of the people who approach record labels ever get a contract, less than 1% of those ever pay back the advance and less than 1% of those ever have a notable hit or any measure of success. But, dreams are not made of percentages and probabilities, they are achieved by facing the seemingly impossible and refusing to accept that something cannot be done. But dreams, I would soon find out, are not for the faint hearted.
I needed a bigger canvas to fulfil my dream, Northwich just wouldn’t do. I moved to Manchester and set about learning my craft with a steely determination. From now on everything must serve the music, I practiced six hours or more every single day until my lips bled, living in a variety of bottom of the rung accommodations, flea ridden bed-sits and broken down houses with hot and cold running mice. Every job I did, every pay cheque, was used to buy more music supplies; reeds, new mouthpieces, records etc; I learnt by ear and taught myself every sax solo I could find, working my way through my record collection and when I ran out of sax solos, I’d start at the beginning with the other instruments and transpose those. When I ran out of records or couldn’t afford any more I would switch the radio on and play along to the free music on offer. I was relentless in my focus, rarely stopping, even to eat. The reality was, that even if I had stopped it would have made little difference, the cupboard was bare. I was flat broke. One bitterly cold winter I awoke to find my sheets frozen over with frost, and that same winter due to lack of funds I went ten complete days without food. I was finally rescued by my then girlfriend Yvonne and her sister Maureen, who brought some much needed supplies. Boiled rice never tasted so good.
As someone once said ‘He who has a why to live can endure almost any how’. And so, extreme and austere as this regime seems, I hardly noticed. I was as happy as I have ever been, I knew where I was going and the thought of failure never entered my head. What’s more, it was working. One thing my endless laps of the training pool had taught me was the simple truth that if you practice you will get better, all the hard work and privation was finally paying off. I managed to keep the regime up for two years without a single day off, refusing to allow myself to even consider an audition until I was confident I wouldn’t let anyone down, especially myself.
The Manchester music scene of the early eighties was an unfocussed hodgepodge of bands. Post the feel-good era of disco and the angry rebellious vitriol of punk, people were still trying to find their voice and I found myself playing every kind of musical style, Pop, Blues, Rock bands, a Gospel choir, with Jazz Fusion and Syth-Pop groups, it was a good training ground. The capers and escapades through this madcap world of crazy club promoters, psychopathic doormen and desperate women could fill several books.
One summer touring with a band around the working men’s clubs of the north east, we arrived at lunchtime in the Middlesbrough docks. You might be wondering why anyone would want to perform in the docks at lunchtime (or any time for that matter!) well so was I. The club was called ‘The Barbary Coast’ which should have been warning enough, and was run by a broken nosed surly sort who greeted us with indifference, but did mention the fact that he gets a good crowd in at lunchtime – because it’s game day. The prospect of playing for several hundred drunken football fans was not my idea of a fun afternoon. Nevertheless we wanted paying, so as the rest of the guys unloaded the van I checked out the dressing room. The dressing room, or as I like to call it ‘Toilet’ was situated at the back of the stage allowing access directly though its single black door. I hopped up on the foot high stage and was just about to turn the handle when the door opened. Stood in front of me was a young blond headed girl, naked save for the odd splash of glitter and strategically placed sequin. Around her neck was an eight foot python. I did some quick math;
Naked Girl plus Python plus Drunken men = Happy Punters
Drunken Men minus Naked Girl minus Python plus Band = Drunken Riot
Living to fight another day has always been a favourite of mine and so I set my mic up next to a convenient brick pillar which would offer some cover during the inevitable punch up. Sure enough, as the naked girl left the stage complete with smiling snake, she was followed by a cacophony of booing and hissing from the crowd as we took the stage. I think it was midway through the first number before I noticed the first bottle full of a suspicious looking amber liquid as it sailed through the air and shattered on the bricks beside me. I had to think quickly. I dashed into the dressing room where the girl was cleaning up.
“Ok, get your snake back on love, you can have half of our money if you dance in front of the band. Yes or No?” She shrugged her shoulders “Alright darling”
I led her back onto the stage to an enthusiastic cheer. What followed probably the most bizarre double act in the history of showbiz, but we did get out of there in one piece, and no doubt the Snake got an extra mouse that night.
Gradually the Manchester musicians found their feet and one or two bands started to rise above the scrum. One night I was invited to a gig at the seminal Manchester club, The Hacienda. The band I was going to see were creating a lot of buzz around town and everybody was touting them for success. Waiting in the cavernous interior of the Hacienda I wasn’t holding out much hope, the current generation of bands in Manchester didn’t have that spark in my opinion and lacked the good songs and originality so desperately needed for that all illusive record deal. Couple that with the venues legendary terrible sound, inevitable in a space which was basically just a big empty box, and as the band took the stage my expectations were low.
Within the first few bars though they had my full attention. The guitarist had a style so original, I’d never heard anything like it. The singer’s voice was unconventional to the ear at first, but his lyrics and delivery were just brilliant. I was both elated and dismayed. I had to find a band like this, they were so obviously head and shoulders above the competition. Between them, Johnny Marr and Morrissey had created The Smiths and put Manchester back on the musical map.
As the bands of Manchester experimented with their drum machines and guitars, so too did I. Along with the musical experimentation came various changes of outlandish clothing from lime green leotards to rockabilly outfits, each accompanied by an equally ridiculous variation of hair colour and haircut. It was on one of these numerous visits to the hairdresser that I met a young trainee barber by the name of Jennie. Of mixed heritage –African/Italian - she had a mesmerising smile and infectious laugh and was reluctantly dying my hair a curious shade of blond, all except the long wispy rat’s tails at the front which were a delicate shade of pink. When she was finished, my head looked like a cross between a pineapple and an exploding firework. Somehow, either through pity or lust, I managed to persuade her to accompany me on a date that same evening. I guess I must have overcome the reluctance quite successfully because about two years later we found ourselves stood in a registry office in Manchester saying I do. We got married in secret and then headed off to the Greek islands from where we sent everyone a postcard. ‘Wish you were here…P.S. we got Married!’ As Jen was an only child, I was somewhat unpopular with her family for a while!
Roads should lead to somewhere, and mine finally lead me to a young group of Musicians by the name of ‘Live for the Weekend’ (Live as in living, and not wire!) . The group quickly attained notoriety and before long record company execs were regular attendees to the live shows. Due to the attention we were receiving we managed to secure a tour of the UK supporting then relatively unknown Soul Pop group ‘Simply Red’. The five of us crammed into a Transit Van with all the equipment and travelled the length and breadth of the country. We slept in the Van, dingy bed and breakfasts or, if we were lucky, the floor of a grateful fan. There can be no greater pleasure than travelling around the country, or the world for that matter, in the company of your friends and spending each night on stage doing what you love in front of an eager audience. Try as we might though, despite the endless meetings with record companies and good press coverage we couldn’t close the deal. The realization that a deal was not around the corner created inevitable frustrations and friction which lead the band to a natural demise. A brief reincarnation under another name spawned a couple of singles on an independent label, one of which we did manage to get played on radio one, a feat we accomplished by myself and the singer lying on the bonnet of DJ Gary Davis’s Porsche outside broadcasting house in London until he took a copy.
It was then that fate took an unlikely turn. Years of playing in various bands had left quite
a legacy of (largely) not very inspiring demos and C.D’s lying around in studios and record shops around the country. At one such studio in the depths of London a diligent soundman was testing out the new wiring for the studio speakers. By a stroke of chance the tape he threaded on the reels that day to run his tests, was a session on which I had played. The planets further lent a hand by ensuring that one of the top agents in London was walking the corridors of the studio at the time. As my solo came over the speakers, she introduced herself to the engineer and suggested that she would be interested in representing the person at the other end of that saxophone. I am forever in debt to the kindness and selflessness of the engineer who took the time to go through the session notes, find the contact details and put things in motion that found me sitting in the offices of my first London agent the following week.
A year passed.
People often ask which is the most difficult aspect of finding success in the music business. In my opinion it is not the hours of practice, constant disappointment or the penury one has to endure in order to pursue your profession of choice, be it Musician, Actor or anyone working in the creative disciplines. No, possibly the most difficult part of the process is the constant onslaught of discouragement and disbelief from people who believe that because they cannot do it you are also doomed to mediocrity. Those voices grew a little quieter when later that year I turned up in London to work with Ridley Scott and Whitney Houston to film a commercial for Coca-Cola. It was a fantastic learning opportunity to see Scott working, at the height of his powers, directing actors and extras, fine tuning the rhythm of each scene and to watch Whitney work with the camera, to see a real professional at work. There was not a single wasted look or gesture.
During the course of the year I had come to realize that, for the large part, my agent mostly dealt with T.V and Video performance. Although I liked her immensely and felt strong loyalty for taking me on the agencies books, I really wanted to be a touring and recording musician. At the end of the days filming I approached her and gently suggested that I would like to find someone who specialized in this area.
“There’s only one person worth talking to in London about tours Jim. His name is Hugh Stanley Clark, and he handles most of the Tours for the big bands.”
With that she produced his number and suggested giving him a call the following week.
The trip back to Manchester passed in a blur, my mind racing with the new possibilities. I was looking forward to seeing Jen again and telling her all about the gig with Ridley and Whitney.
Jen was nowhere to be found as I burst through the door of our tiny flat, the message light was blinking on my answer machine. I hit rewind and then play to listen to the messages.
‘You have one message….beeeeep! Hi Jim, you don’t know me….my name is Hugh Stanley Clark…”
*****
CHAPTER 2
Love, Loss & Rollercoaster’s
May 1987 Manchester.
My digestion was contemplating a rather splendid Curry, consumed some twenty minutes earlier in Manchester’s famous ‘Curry Mile’, and as the three of us walked through the door, we were replete.
The phone was already ringing, I considered not answering it, the approaching food coma already lulling me towards an early evening snooze.
“Get the phone darling” My wife Jen was already spread out along the sofa, ready for an evening’s T.V, whilst our good friend Max seated himself in a chair next to her and tried to coax some life from the remote.
“Ring…..Ring…..Ring….RING!” The answer machine was showing no signs of relieving me of my duty.
“Ring…Riiiiing!” I relented.
“Hello….Yes….oh… hi Hugh. (sigh!)..Yes…good thanks - what’s happening?”
It was my agent. There was no mistaking his voice. A mid Atlantic Bostonian drawl, which was a mixture between Lloyd Grossman, and some stoned ‘Dude’ character. Every conversation began in a slow motion monotone, and in fact never got much faster than that.
His opening line to me, months before, on trying to convince me to let him represent me was – “Hi..Yah Jim. Huuugh Staarnley Claarrk Heeer. Listen Yah. Heard you play Saxarphoon….Mmm.. yah. Not sure how good you are…errm…sure you’re fantaaastic yah. But heard you’re vehry good looking, and we’d like to represent you……yah.” It was an easy decision to make at the time, he was the hottest agent in London and represented all the top players – and with an invitation like that how could I refuse.
This evening’s conversation however was different, although still conducted at a snails pace.
“Jim…yah….Bros gig….hmmm yaahh….seems the Sax player just iiiisssn’t working out. Can you be at rehearsals in Wembley tomorrow at ten sharp. Tour starts on Monday.”
I was shell shocked, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.
“The Bros tour right.”
“Yah”
“THIS Monday.”
“Yahh”
“Hugh…. you know it’s Thursday evening right.”
“Yah…can you do it?”
The conversation in the room had stopped, Jen and Max now glued to my conversation. I looked across at Jen and gave her a big smile.
“No problem Hugh. I’ll be there, I won’t let you down.”
My hand was shaking as I wrote down the rehearsal address and hung up the phone. I looked at Jen.
“I got the gig.”
She looked at me wide eyed. “Which one, which one!”
“Bros gig”
She took off like a banshee, running around the furniture in our little apartment. She jumped on me, she jumped on Max, she jumped on the sofa, and then did it all over again, whooping at the top of her voice. Max put his arms around the two of us in a group hug.
“I’m so pleased I was here when you got the phone call. Congratulations.”
The two of them hugged and jumped up and down while I tried to get my head around the logistics and reality.
“Wait, wait you two! I’ve got a couple of problems to solve.”
“Like what.” Jen couldn’t wait to get the party started.
“Like…I don’t know the set. Like rehearsals are in London…Tomorrow 10am…and I don’t know whether you’ve noticed…but we are in Manchester and it’s 9 o’clock in the evening already! And…the tour starts Monday!”
I tumbled the problems over and over in my mind. Whatever the issues, I obviously had to solve them.
“Right, this is what we’ll do. Jen – you’re driving the Beetle, you’ll have to come down with me. We’ll share the driving. I’ll learn the songs with my Walkman on my headphones in the car. I’ll use my Soprano, and transpose them in my head later…. on the way down….. SHIT!”
Max and Jen stared “What!”
“We are skint sweetheart, haven’t got a bean. Juice for the car, food…well we can do without food….but the Beetle needs feeding. Errm…Max…you couldn’t…”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Consider it done…how much do you need?”
“Hundred….maybe?” I hesitated.
“Will two be better.”
“Cheers mate….I’ll pay you back…I swear!”
So that is the way it was, the biggest gig in the country at the time – and there we were, me with my headphones on, Soprano Sax wailing in the car. Jen with her nose pushed to the windshield ploughing though the driving rain, heading towards London and the future.
I made notes in my head and on paper about possible keys, and tried to learn the vocal parts for the backing vocals. Of course, at this point I didn’t know which parts I would be singing, which harmonies and so on. Or, even which songs I would be playing on. So I had to learn them all. Every harmony, every song, every line and arrangement – and all on a car ride in the dark at eighty miles an hour in a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle hurtling down the M1…it was insane!
We arrived in London exhausted, found a side street, close to the rehearsal space, and tried to get a couple of hours sleep. Me and my little family, Jen and my ‘Children’ – My Alto, Tenor and Soprano Saxes - all cosied up in the VW Bug. Sleep of course was not really on the agenda, my mind racing at the prospect of the day ahead. The allotted time eventually came around and, with words of encouragement, Jen packed herself off to spend the day with friends. Laden down with my Saxes I made my way toward the warehouse, which had been converted into a rehearsal space for the band. I should probably say at this point that I was nervous, but in reality, I was just ecstatic and excited to be a part of it. Stepping inside the door, which was already open, revealed the various band members preparing for the days rehearsal in the cavernous interior. I stood there for a second, before I recognized writer and producer Nicky Graham and walked over to introduce myself.
Friendly and enthusiastic as usual Nicky bounded over to meet me. A former keyboard player from David Bowies ‘Spiders From Mars’ in the seventies, he was – I hope he will forgive me for saying so - slightly older than the rest of us and, it turned out, the calming adult presence we all needed. I’m sure he had no idea at this point, that his songs were about to sell tens of millions of copies, and be played on radios and in bedrooms around the world. If he had, I expect he would have had an even larger grin than the one he now sported.
“Jimbo, good to see you, thanks for coming at such short notice.”
Like I had a choice I thought.
“We’ll start of by doing some Backing Vocals while the rest of the guys are getting ready.”
Gulp!
“Oh, yeah sure no problem.” I replied. I had no idea which harmonies I should be doing – I’d have to busk it.
A quick introduction to the other backing singers, after which Nicky gave us a couple of choruses to run through, adjusted my harmonies and eventually gave us his seal of approval.
“Nice, yes, nice blend I think.”
Despite Nicky’s vote of confidence I would have a vocal rehearsal every day for the next three weeks of the tour. Although they didn’t say anything at the time, I’m sure the girls didn’t thank me for it.
Ok, one down, one to go. I made my way to the podium at the back of the stage, nodding hello to the other guys in the band – as yet no Matt and Luke Goss or Craig Logan.
We blasted through a set, me wrestling with the harmonies, Nicky shouting “Sax Solo” at the appropriate point at which time I’d try to negotiate the unfamiliar arrangements and changes of the live versions of the songs. At one point during a particularly vicious chord change, I glanced across at guitarist Paul Gendler who was sharing a knowing and appreciative nod with Nicky, just as my solo was reaching its height. Thank god for that, I must at least not be embarrassing myself!
We finished the set and Paul and Nicky went into a hushed conference. After a couple of minutes Nicky turned to the band from his position centre stage.
“Not bad. Everybody break for lunch. But, before we do…. Jim…. I’ve got a bit of bad news for you.”
Oh shit, not as good as I thought then, and I mentally prepared myself for the disappointment sure to follow.
But, he couldn’t keep the straight face for very long.
“You’re going to have to put up with this lot for the next few weeks…..you’re in the band”
Everybody cracked up, at my expense, I gave a modest and relieved bow.
“Nicky…. you’re a funny man.”
At this juncture I was really the cuckoo in the nest. The band had already been together several weeks and, until yesterday, had been working with another Sax player. This wasn’t entirely lost on me, and as we filed into the catering for Lunch, it is to everyone’s credit that they made me feel welcome. One by one they introduced themselves.
First, Paul Gendler fresh from playing with Jazz fusion outfit ‘Level 42’ a consummate Guitarist, Paul would end up being my room-mate on that first tour and we became lifelong friends. An uber-sarcastic and incredibly funny guy. I liked him instantly, and the two of us became an unofficial tour double act. Post Bros he would become firmly entrenched as the UK’s premier session guitarist playing for most of the top Pop acts. In fact as I write this, more than 20 years later, he is just finishing yet another tour with the ‘Spice Girls’.
Fellow Northerner and Percussionist Steve Sidelnyk was one of the first players to use electronic samplers in the studio and transfer that studio sound to the live environment. Steve became arguably the most successful of all of us. Subsequently playing with ‘Massive Attack’ and spending more than ten years as Madonna’s Programmer and Live Drummer. He currently plays with Seal and also lives here in Los Angeles, my present home.
Scott Davidson the second Keyboard player was also responsible, along with Nicky and Steve for reproducing the Studio sound on the road. One day in the not too distant future, he would have an idea for a free newspaper, which he would go on to sell for millions and buy Bristol City football club. As a Manchester United fan, I’d have to question his judgment on that one. But, I’m getting ahead of myself - all that is far, far in the distance. There are many triumphs and tragedies to tell before that happens.
I pulled off my usual, and quite genuine I might add, ‘Jim is a nice and very funny guy’ routine, and before long a bond was developing. After lunch, we prepared for rehearsal number two. Without much fanfare, Matt, Luke and Craig appeared for the final rehearsal.
When George Martin, was once asked why he signed the Beatles. He simply replied - ‘Because of the way they stood in the room’. That ‘Star’ quality – whatever it is – he was describing, was evident the moment Matt and Luke stood in that rehearsal space. Undeniable. Electric. These boys were Stars, and you didn’t have to be a fifteen year old Schoolgirl to know it.
Nicky explained who I was, and Matt, Luke and Craig gave me a hug, and a warm and genuine welcome to the band. Without too much ceremony we launched into the second rehearsal. I was immediately struck with the quality of Matt’s Vocals. Incredibly rich and with perfect pitch, they had a maturity well beyond his years. Luke had also adapted well from the demands of free drumming to the rigors of playing with an unrelenting sequenced backing – there was no room for mistakes or lapses of concentration. It was his job to underpin everything we did, and be a Pop Star at the same time. He fulfilled both tasks consummately, which was quite a feat for a nineteen year old surrounded with the best Pop musicians the UK had to offer.
The day really passed in a flash, at the end of the rehearsal Ivan Kushlik - the tour manager explained we would be doing a ‘Secret Gig’ in (of all places) Manchester, the following Monday to - as he put it - ‘Work the kinks out’. I would meet everyone at the gig whilst they would travel on the tour bus from London.
What I didn’t realize was, I was now one of a very small ‘Elite’ group of musicians. The ones who always ‘Got the call’. The same ones you would see on T.V on Top Of the Pops, Wogan and endless T.V shows. No better a player than I was yesterday, but now part of an exclusive club – and paid accordingly.
But, more important than that, something which none of us realized at that moment, was that the Global Rock and Roll rollercoaster we had all just climbed aboard, was nearing the top of a very steep climb. It would go over the edge on Monday. The adventure was about to begin, and my life would never be the same again.
Opening gig Manchester.
With the rest of the Band already at the Manchester Apollo, I arrived by Taxi mid-afternoon for the sound check. A crowd was already gathering outside the venue as I quietly made my way to the back entrance of the old theatre. I’d watched Bands play here since being a teenager, and it was such a thrill to make my way through the people assembled by the stage door, flash my pass, and enter the backstage area.
After meeting the Band again, we ran through a couple of numbers to adjust the front of house sound and our on stage monitoring for the forthcoming ‘Secret’ gig. In truth the word had already been leaked, through local radio stations, that we were playing and we were assured of a capacity crowd. The show that night would start behind a mock, graffiti covered brick wall, which the three boys would smash through before launching into the full set. Rehearsal went well and we settled ourselves down in the greenroom passing the time watching T.V. whilst the venue filled up. Twenty minutes from the start, I stole a glance from the wings of the stage. The Apollo was packed to capacity. Teenage girls wearing all manner of Bros paraphernalia, some official, some homemade, chanted and sang excerpts from various songs on the album. It was my first look at the now famous Army of Fans known as Brosette’s.
The clock counted down and Show time eventually rolled around. The Graffiti wall had been erected, behind it stood the members of the Band and Matt, Luke and Craig.
“We Want Bros….WE WANT BROS…..WE WANT BROS.” the chant grew, louder, louder, LOUDER. We stood there grinning at each other, masters of the universe, all the practice and hard work for moments like this. The lights dimmed. A scream went up, the likes of which I’ve never heard before or since. The boys punched through the wall and unbelievably it went even LOUDER. I’ve tried many times to explain the volume of several thousand screaming girls trapped in a confined space. The closest I can come to it is if you imagined standing next to a 747 engine on takeoff. All you hear is a rush of white noise, a hiss so loud and crushing that your hearing begins to flutter as your eardrums reach the limits of their ability to process it. Our grins had been replaced by looks of disbelief, I’m pretty sure none of us had ever experienced anything like it. This was not just some Pop Band. This was a Phenomenon in the making.
We launched into the first song. I couldn’t hear a single instrument, how any of us managed to play through the songs I’ll never know. The Volume needle remained pinned to the red for the entire gig. From time to time, Matt would call me down to the front of the stage, where I would perform my solos as he pushed the crowd on to ever-new heights of hysteria. The flashes popped, the girls screamed, I couldn’t hear a thing – I loved every minute of it!
All too soon it was over, we gave our bows and one by one the band members left the stage. At this point I had no roadie, so I was last to leave the stage after collecting up my Saxes. Matt introduced me as I was leaving, which was greeted by more screams from the crowd. I nodded, waved and, as I left, glanced down at the stage-floor. It was covered in cuddly toys - and dozens of pairs of girl’s knickers. Back in the changing room everybody was already packed up, I was on my own, packing away my Saxes when a very agitated security man brought a very breathless Jen through the door.
“Oh My GOD” she wheezed “That was AMAZING….they were carrying girls out one after another…it looks like a warzone out there!” I didn’t have chance to reply before the flustered security Guard broke in.
“Look you two, we really have to go are you ready?” I was a bit surprised at his lack of patience.
“I’m going as fast as I can mate, I’ll be with you in a sec.” I said as I packed away my horns.
“No, we can’t wait. Are you ready?” What was his problem?
“Ok…I’m ready.” I slung my two cases over my shoulder, giving Jen the Soprano, and the two of us followed him out of the upstairs changing room and headed down to the backstage door. When we reached the door he hesitated, turning to us once again asking.
“Are you sure you are ready?” I looked at him as if he was insane.
“Yeah, we’re ready…. Let’s go.”
He turned to the closed fire-doors that led to the outside.
“Ok…..Ok…..” He said, almost to himself, as he took a deep breath before finally, with a flourish, kicking the door open.
Jen and I stood there for a moment, transfixed, like rabbits in the headlights. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Before us, Police, linked arm in arm, formed a corridor to the open door of the tour bus. On either side screaming fans dived and clawed, attempting to find a way over or under the police line. The officers sweated and slid, their helmets lying in the dust, as the tide of girls buffeted them time and time again.
“GO!”
We were pulled out of our stupor. The doorman put his arm around the two of us as we attempted to head towards the sanctuary of the open bus door. I got barely a few feet before I felt my Jacket being pulled and I immediately sagged to my knees against the line of Police. As I struggled to free myself, I watched as a fan leaped over the Police cordon catching a handful of Jens hair in the process, pulling her in the opposite direction. Somehow I managed to get free and grabbed Jen with my free hand, the two of us fought our way forward, eventually stumbling up the stairs of the Bus.
We collapsed at the top of the stairs, the door hissing shut behind us. I looked around. There were the rest of the Band, mute, shell-shocked. We watched through the windows at the near apocalyptic scene, as the hysterical fans, tears streaming down their faces, battered themselves against the side of the Bus. We were trapped. We weren’t going anywhere, sitting speechless as the Vehicle rocked from one side to the other.
I turned to Gendler.
“You ever seen anything like this before?”
He didn’t even look at me, the astonishment clear as he watched yet another girl scream at the top of her lungs.
“Nope.” He replied.
Eventually a group of officers on horseback forced their way through the fans and created enough space for the Bus to crawl its way onto the road, finally picking up enough speed to leave the madness behind.
On the way to the Hotel, Steve spoke up.
“errr….this is big….really big….I mean……” he stopped while he searched for the word. “Yeah……fucking…BIG!” – Really…..No shit!
That first gig set the precedent for the rest on this first three week tour. That week the single ‘I Owe You Nothing’ hit the number one spot (a feat it would repeat in 19 countries) there wasn’t a newspaper or magazine in the country that didn’t contain pictures of the gigs…and the rollercoaster ploughed relentlessly on…gradually leaving reality trailing behind. I was determined to soak up every last drop of the experience. I was doing what every musician dreams of doing. Playing with the number one band in the world, at the top of my profession, crowds of adoring girls following us wherever we went. Mission impossible seemingly accomplished.
There were moments in the eye of the storm for relaxation. Though even these sometimes took on surreal proportions. We developed a taste for Golf. We were, to a man, probably the worst group of Golfers in the world. But, in the middle of all the hysteria it offered us a chance to find a moments calm, while we hacked our way around the countryside….usually! This particular day we were in Wales, and had found a beautiful course, the owners of which, had kindly given us permission to torture their greens and fairways for a few hours.
The local members watched with a mixture of bemusement and frustration as we crawled around spraying balls in every direction. We were about to tee-off at the next hole when a curious sound started, from somewhere over the next hill. Quiet at first, it gradually grew louder.
“What IS that sound….?” I asked.
We all stopped for a moment, concentrating on the growing rumble. Scott spoke up.
“Dunno mate…..sounds like…..horses…. or somethin’?”
Our attention was now focused on the hill where all the noise was coming from. As we watched a head appeared. First one, then another…and another…..and another. Like a tide of ants they came…. running full speed…. schoolgirls ……hundreds of them! They poured down the hill like the Mongol hoards, growing ever closer before we came to our senses.
“Fuck me Boys ...?” Matt was looking a little concerned.
“I don’t know about you….but I am RUNNING FOR IT!” and with that, Matt, Craig and the rest of us ran for our lives towards the clubhouse in the distance, pursued by the now screaming mob of girls.
Unknown to us, the course was next to an all girl’s school. Word had gotten out, which left us where we now were; Barricaded inside the clubhouse, while a besmitten group of girls circled us. Eventually a teacher appeared, flustered and red faced, and gave us a lecture on what bad role models we all were, blah, blah etc; etc;- Matt placated them all with some charm and autographs and we were finally allowed to leave.
The first tour was a huge success, sell-out gigs across the country culminating in a gig, which was to be filmed for a tour video, at Hammersmith Odeon. By this stage in the proceedings it was usual for Matt, Luke and Craig to disappear immediately the last note had sounded. Whisked directly from the stage to a waiting car or helicopter. Someone forgot to tell the fans that though! After the Hammersmith gig the roads outside were choked with fans, many more than were actually inside the venue. The band assembled in a blacked out SUV. The gates at the back of the Odeon opened and all hell broke loose. Being a blacked out vehicle, the fans could not tell that it was only the boys in the band inside. They went berserk. We watched from inside as they tore the trim, mirrors and anything else removable from the Van. The vehicle would momentarily shift onto two wheels as the sheer weight of fans threatened to turn it over completely. Finally the mounted police once more came to our rescue, forcing their way through the crowd and shepherding us to safety.
During a party that same evening at the Hilton Olympia Hotel, Nicky explained to me there was now going to be a World tour. This would be a much bigger production 10 – 15 thousand seater auditoriums and it would culminate back in the UK, where we would play Wembley Arena. I was thrilled, not just at the prospect of playing Wembley – what musician worth his salt would not want to play there – but also at the prospect of travelling to exotic locations like Japan and Australia. This was it, I thought, everything I had ever wished for and more was coming true. Somehow I had finally done it! As the evening wore down and the wine flowed, Nicky came over to Jen and Me.
“Jim, I’m going to my house on Formentera (Next to Ibiza) tomorrow. Why don’t you and Jen join me there? It would be good to see you both.”
Now, no doubt Nicky was a little drunk and he didn’t know me (or Jen for that matter) very well. If he had, he would have known that the thought of another adventure for the two of us was like a red flag to a pair of Bulls!
We disembarked from the ferry in Formentera at roughly 11AM the following day. I had no address, just the name of a village – Cala Embaster! Jen and I hopped into a taxi at the ferry port and headed over to see if we could find Nicky’s house. The cab dropped the two of us off and we walked the streets trying to see if we could find some sign of Nicky at any of the houses in the small village. Nothing, every house looked the same. No tell tale signs at all, there was only one thing for it.
“NICKY……NICKY!” Jen and I walked the streets screaming his name at the top of our lungs. Finally the shutters opened on the balcony of a large house on a corner plot of land. There stood Nicky wearing a big smile…and nothing else. Completely bollock naked, legs akimbo. It was a theme that would be repeated, not just for our short holiday -Nicky just likes to be naked.
“Hey you two.” He shouted down “Glad you could make it…I’ll be right there.”
Besides Jen and myself, we were also joined by Scott and his wife Kerry, Steve Sidelnyk and Nicky’s long-time girlfriend Sarah. We had a blast, Jen also got the naked bug and would stroll around on the nudist beaches sans clothes at every opportunity. It was one of the happiest times of my life. Sitting in the sun, I had a beautiful wife, was doing what I loved and was soaking up every adrenalin soaked minute of it.