(A further past adventure)
Once upon a time, I joined a very good band (which I still choose not to name) that worked like crazy, with no weekends off and no lives to speak of. We should have – by rights – been a very happy little crew, as we worked solidly, played very well and on the whole, knew what we were doing, when and where we were doing it, and worked solidly as a team to get most things done.
In groups, there is always a fly in the ointment. As soon as one person joins up with another, there is always scope for disagreement. In this particular group, the discontent mainly stemmed from there being an established pecking order. The drummer and guitarist had been together for untold centuries and everyone else was considered to be also-rans in comparison.
The guitarist was used to playing at the sedate volume of a transistor radio in a sandwich shop and a gutless performance which wouldn’t disturb anyone. Rehearsals with a new bassist toughened the group up somewhat and the audience reactions seemed to be very good indeed.
However, the fly was stirring away discontentedly in the ointment with a very big spoon.
One thing about having been in a group for a long time – for me, anyway - is that I know what I am used to. I know what I like and what I am comfortable with and I obviously prefer things to stay that way as much as possible. In this group with me as the newcomer, I was unintentionally instigating change by just being there and having an actual playing style (even though I had toned it down quite significantly to almost the point of catatonic boredom) and there was resistance to that change.
One night at a club in Sale, I was told again that my bass was too ‘boomy’. I was stood right in front of my amplifiers and it just wasn’t set too loud or too deep. The lead guitarist glowered at me and made ugly face gestures which I was supposed to interpret in some way. I just thought he was either having a stroke, desperately wanted a crap mid-show or something, and so I carried on regardless. The rhythm guitarist, who was stood next to me, had obviously had several years of experience of translating this gurning into The Queen’s English. His next move was to start fiddling with my amplifier volumes while I was singing ‘Summer of ‘69’. As I sang, I noticed that my bass volume was dropping alarmingly and I had alarming visions of new speakers, blown fuses and all sorts,as my sound petered right out. I turned round slightly when I got a second and saw the rhythm guitarists hands moving deftly away from a pair of severely turned down amps.
I hissed at him that if he ever did that again, then he would need new fingers.
I then set my amp volumes so I could at least hear a little and resumed singing. This all went on in front of a paying club audience, mid-song.
I glanced over at the lead guitarist and he had a face like thunder. He was REALLY glowering at me. I was just put out by this stupid behaviour. So I switched my amps off and just strummed the bass in an unplugged style. The rest of the band didn’t notice. The audience did, however. At the break, the Tom Jones tribute act that we were on the bill with asked me what had happened to my bass sound? One minute the group had a lovely balance then the bass disappeared, then it went off altogether.
He asked. So I told him.
He thought it was nuts.
There was an uncomfortable interval, where the group all decamped to the lounge bar. I asked if I was too loud. “Yes, because I can hear you,” was the reply. Brilliant. Bass players should be seen but not heard. There’s a quote for you. Use it if you want to. I didn’t say it though.
The second half carried on under a hostile sort of truce and there was a loud argument in the car park, as we loaded to leave, about exactly what was reasonable in this outfit and what wasn’t. When we landed back at my house after the gig, I told the rest of the band that I was sick of being treated like a leper because I actually plugged my bass in and that I was leaving.
The drummer went into his well used and worn out speech about people in groups always letting him down and wore me down into continuing for the time being.
The next week we played at a large hotel, out in the wilds, near Disley, Cheshire. The lead guitarist had more complaints about the bass volume, which was merely set to ‘timid’. I played at the quietest volume imaginable and actually played a couple of songs deliberately out of time and in the wrong key, to see if the group noticed or cared. They didn’t. I even dropped a few naughty words into the backing vocals. I avoided the rest of the group at the intervals.
Our next gig was at a prison on the way to Blackpool. Lovely….. I went on stage with my newly bought black 1958 Flying V bass and the lead guitarist had an apoplectic fit about it not being a 60’s guitar. Wrong. To be factually correct, The Kinks used one, as did a few others, but never mind. That actually gave the temperamental artiste a migraine.
I was told that the next night’s show in Salford was cancelled. I think they actually got their old bass player to do it.
I would not play with them again. The next rehearsal was cancelled, due to illness. I rang another member of the band about something else and of course he was out. A bell rang in my head and I drove to the rehearsal room to catch them rehearsing with a much-revered former 60’s pop star that they knew. The rhythm guitarist was playing bass through one of my amps! Cheeky fucker! I walked up behind him and switched it off. He nearly shat himself.
The rest of the group - and the much-revered former 60’s pop star - retreated cowering to the far end of the room, while I made it clear to the group leader that I had had enough and would collect my gear the next night.
Which I did….
