Gig Memories 1981 (Part 2)

Why do young musicians bother? Why do they give so much of themselves for little or no return? Why do they stare in the face of utter failure and defeat, running the risk of rejection and humiliation, not to mention death by electrocution? Why do we volunteer on a regular basis for a dose of alcoholic poisoning?

Well, speaking for myself, I suppose I did it for the glory of it all. There was, after all, a happy possibility that every now and then one might be on the receiving end of a small measure of adoration. For, although publicans have not the slightest respect for bands and their efforts, punters, on the odd occasion when the mood takes them, can be more than appreciative. On these occasions, such as our up-lifting evenings in The Pound and in The Elms, the glory will build like this: The people in the audience have a good time and they show it. The band sees the audience having a good time and feel appreciated. They too have a good time and play well. Consequently, the audience has an even better time and show it more. The band feel even more appreciated, and play even better. The night takes off, and a glorious time is had by all. This is the straightforward ‘glory scenario’, where the glory is facilitated by what we might call The Principle of Reciprocation.

egotistically twisted

The second source of glory for the more egotistically twisted, such as my-younger-self, sometimes comes in the form of a sort of Inversion of The Principle of Reciprocation. Some performers are gracious, being only too grateful for the indulgence of their public, and happy to receive as a kindness any small scrap of condescending acknowledgement of their efforts. At nineteen years old I wasn’t one of them. In later years, I did get a handle on things, and eventually I did learn how to perform with a degree of humility which held sanity intact, but for the entire lifetime of Sample and Hold, at every performance two things were certain; drunkenness and resentment.
On the sad occasions when The Principle of Reciprocation may become Inverted, such as at our gigs in Spuds, the scenario runs like this: The poor musician in question nearly breaks his back getting the gear up the stairs and setting up, drinking the whole time to dull his pain. The music starts but the audience shows no understanding of, or appreciation for, the band’s efforts. Here, the only glory to be had is a glory akin to that of the battlefield. Joining forces with his fellow musicians on stage, or not (depending on the full extent of his pitiable sense of isolation and alienation), our young musician finds some desperate consolation the only way he can. With the audience in his sights, along with the publican and whoever else he might deem deserving of his wrath, our young anti-hero, abandoning the more subtle sensibilities of his craft, beats the drink down his neck, cranks up the volume, and slices the heads off everyone in his path.
The result may lack subtlety but the energy that is released can be exciting in a way that may even, quite perversely, ‘turn the audience around’. For myself, however, I was invariable too far gone to take any interest in such ironic possibilities of redemption. 

* * *

Perhaps the greatest folly of the band’s concert career occurred on Friday 27th February 1981, when we played the Punters Inn in Castlederg, one hundred miles west of Belfast, in County Tyrone, on the border with Donegal. Some gigs are heaven, some gigs are murder, some gigs are not really anything at all, and then there are those gigs that are simply absurd. We drove into the town-square at seven thirty p.m. after a three-hour trek in a hired van. On our arrival in the Punters we were given a very nice sausage supper each, free of charge, along with the promise of a one hundred pounds fee at the end of the night. These were the only two aspects of the whole fiasco that weren’t absurd.

The bad news was that the proprietor wanted us to go on at ten forty-five p.m. and play till one thirty a.m. God save us all. We Belfast lads weren’t used to this sort of thing. These were the days before late opening was the norm. Eleven thirty p.m. seemed to us really quite late enough to be out drinking. And indeed it certainly was late enough for those of us with a drinking technique that was designed to put one into a near coma by about eleven.

This was a miserable venue. It represented the antithesis of all that was good and satisfying about our Elms gig. There was no stage. The Punter’s Inn, like the vast majority of music venues, so called, operated a band-stands-in-the-corner-taking-up-as-little-space-as-possible policy. There was a single power point from which to supply the whole band’s gear.  However, these technical difficulties paled in comparison to the overriding ‘atmospheric’ difficulties. There were twenty-six people relaxing in the Punters Inn when we got there. That would have been a small but adequate audience to work with; the size of an audience with whom we could have done business, so to speak. But, unfortunately, by the time we had eaten our sausage suppers, got the gear set up, and started to play, all but two of our audience had vacated the premises. It transpired that there was a big new disco joint opening up on another corner of the town-square. 

a long way for a sausage

Castlederg was a strange place. Apparently, as well as its residents being treated to late licenses and big new disco joints, it was not uncommon, the barman told us, for big name bands to perform low-key trial-run debut gigs in this strangely favoured wee town. A few weeks previously, John Lydon’s new band Public Image Limited had played Castlederg, in yet another venue, on yet another corner of that same town-square. And here were we, naively thinking that we were coming to a place where the audience would be nicely starved, and only too grateful for our visit. It served us right, I suppose.

By the end of our first song our remaining audience of two abandoned us in favour of the new attraction. Even then, it wasn’t, as one might have presumed, that the two remaining young ladies had chosen, out of some respect unique among the concert going fraternity, to stay and hear our first number before joining the others at the disco. No, I got the distinct impression that it was simply that their physical constitutions were such that they were unable to get their pints of Guinness down their throats in a period of time any shorter than it took us to play our first tune. This, coupled with a financial constitution that precluded their leaving their drinks behind, as they hurried on to the evening’s ‘real’ entertainment, was, I surmised, the only reason why the young ladies stayed for the few minutes that they did. 

In any case, that was the end of the only audience we were to have for the whole night. Any atmosphere out of which the glorious Sample and Hold might have fashioned a night’s entertainment had just been sucked out of the door. The Principle of Reciprocation and even its Inversion was null and void. The situation was hopeless. Pathetically, we struggled to hold up our end of the deal, ourselves and the bar staff in the empty pub. We proceeded to play for a full two and a half hours, and with such a painfully long performance, we had to take all the measures we could to fill in the time. We played all the songs we knew; many of them twice. We even resurrected Gloria, which we hadn’t played since the Devonshire Arms. After Gloria had been noodling along for something like ten minutes, our drummer did a drum solo of all things. I did the odd extended solo myself, and at one point in the proceedings even our guitarist, against his nature, surprised us all with one. A lot of what we tried during this gig-with-no-audience served as experiments in performance possibilities. Sadly, however, just about all of our experiments failed. The one reassuring comfort was that, despite all the cock-ups, our esprit de corps invariably did kick in to save us from going completely belly up on any particular song.

Shortly after one o’clock we called it a night, got ourselves packed up and set off into the cold night for our three hour drive home. The whole thing was a gruelling slog. The one hundred pounds in our pockets did offset the feeling of humiliation a bit, but really it was simple tiredness that dominated the mood in the van. In a way it was all too bizarre to think about. We got back to Belfast and dropped the guitarist off home just in time for him to go straight out the door again to work. I got a lift home from the drummer at six twenty-five a.m., as the sun came up. I made a big fry for the two of us, our sausage suppers of the previous night a distant memory.

intolerably bothersome

Well knackered and just about rock ‘n’ rolled out, we had two more gigs to go. Tuesday night (3rd March 1981) found us in Winkers. Some Venues are nothing more than a room above a bar, which the owner has opened up with the minimum of investment, in the hope of adding to his coffers by exploiting some unsuspecting young beer swilling musicians and their young beer swilling fans. Winkers was just such a place. It was the first floor of a fairly shady docks pub called The Dunbar Arms, which was the type of establishment that hosted a stripper on Saturday afternoons. As a venue it really was a bit of a non-starter, but it served well enough for those of us keen to get away from the University environs. Awkward narrow stairs made a band’s get-in and get-out intolerably bothersome. As we heaved our monster P.A. up there, we were reduced to something that looked and felt very much like a Laurel and Hardy routine.

Thirteen people showed up for the show, most of whom we knew personally. We weren’t complaining; following the absurdity that was Castlederg, we knew only too well that we could do a lot worse than thirteen. The band was definitely starting to flag, though, and while I myself was miraculously energetic throughout this penultimate gig, this appearance of enthusiasm was deceptive. Given the struggle of getting the cabs and the rest of the stuff up the stairs, not to mention the still smarting Castlederg humiliation, as much as ever before I was running on contempt. The Inversion of The Principle of Reciprocation was in play, and what energy I had was all bad energy.

* * *

Finally, on Tuesday 10th March 1981, we made it to the Polytechnic at Jordanstown for the last gig of this, our first offensive. It was to be a long one, but a hell of a night to finish on; quite possibly knocking the Pound gig off the ‘best gig so far’ position. A band called Colenso Parade came up from Belfast with us in the van to play support. They were nice people and they sounded good too. The singer, Oscar, sang in a low voice, and the keyboard player was a girl. She was using only a single Yamaha CS-5, the baby brother of my own Yamaha CS-15 synthesiser. Conditions on stage were cramped. In order to get into position behind my Wakemanesque semi-circle of a set-up, we keyboardists had to go into the next room and climb through a conveniently positioned service hatch.

I suggested to my colleague that she use my Synth since it was capable of producing all the sounds that the CS-5 could, and it had identical ergonomics. However, as I plugged her CS-5 into a spare channel in my mixer and found a place for it on top of my Vox (looking really cool alongside my CS-15), I realised why my fellow keyboardist had declined my offer. She had the names of the notes written on the keys in felt tip.

The glorious Sample and Hold gave a fine performance despite some complaints from the guitarist’s amp, which was showing signs of fatigue. Just like us, it was suffering mostly from having too much beer poured into it. But apart from the odd technical difficulty, the band was by now a well-oiled and mean machine. Thanks to all our gigging experience the songs were as tight as hell, and we were pretty much unstoppable. 

The crowd went mad. A hippie-type young woman came up to the front of the stage and did a snaking-about-sort-of-dance. Our guitarist was doing a bit of snaking about himself and he accidentally hit the hippie-woman on the head with the end of his guitar. It had to happen sooner or later. In fact, it really is surprising how seldom guitarists and bassists hit punters, or fellow musicians. There had been quite a few punters, on other occasions, who actually deserved a good whack on the side of the head. But of all the candidates at all the gigs who might have got thumped on the head with a guitar, this lady was not the one any of us would have selected.  Anyway, it wasn’t the end of the world. Love and peace were in the air and, apologies having been given and graciously received, the music and the dancing continued with gusto.

The folks in the Poly didn’t want us to stop. But, we had done all the songs we could to do. So, having worked up to an exuberant and emotional climax, we came off the stage to rapturous applause and a gratifying amount of whooping and whistling. The joint continued to buzz with happiness, excitement and love. So much so, in fact, that we had a word with Colenso Parade, and then, in an unprecedented move, our support band went back on to do a few more songs, and to soak up some of the love. That was the kind of generous band we were; a far cry from the mentality of the scud button. 

When Colenso Parade had had enough of their second helpings, the glorious Sample and Hold hit the stage again with a second wind, and well liquored up to boot. We went into overdrive. The crowd flipped. The joint jumped, on stage and off. It was a night of multiple orgasms.

After the show, emotional exhaustion hit us hard. The comedown of loading the van was rough, but a very pleasant woman called Ann Marie came to our rescue. As Entertainments Officer at the Polytech it was she who 

stage presence

had booked us for the gig. By way of showing her appreciation for the night of fine entertainment and love, Ann Marie helped to heave gear about in a very impressive fashion. It was a perfect gesture with which to end a perfect night. We were done in. Never again would we do such a concentrated batch of gigs. Sample and Hold were over-night old hands, experienced rock ‘n’ rollers with the bruises and the rapidly developing psychoses to prove it. Troopers that we were, after only a few days recuperation, we happily resumed our recreational drinking and self-destruction, (as opposed to career drinking and self-destruction). Regardless of all the reasons for not doing what we were doing, the band had been blooded, and we were going to need more gigs. But there was none lined up for, and, for the time being, the guitarist and I returned to our scheming and dreaming. Only, now, we would have some experience upon which to base our extrapolations. Then, as April and May passed, and our second gig-less summer came into view, we began to get moody and artistic all over again. The glorious Sample and Hold was all talk and no action. We annoyed each other with tortured phone conversations about ‘direction’ and ‘band identity’. I bought some tartan trousers, intended as my contribution to ‘stage presence’, which had also become a concern.

* * *

After a long six months since our last performance, we were back on the block. It was, Thursday 24th September 1981, and time again for another Freshers’ Ball in a vomit filled Speakeasy, and a trial run for some new songs. The glorious Sample and Hold were all together more professional, not to mention original, but the Speakeasy crowd responded with studentish indifference. Consequently, this was not a memorable gig. 

Nevertheless, in a Proustian sort of way, I myself will never forget a remarkable few moments that occurred during this otherwise unremarkable gig. During ‘Tears of Tolerance’ I lost my concentration. I lost my concentration, big time. This is where things get Proustian. I have a vivid memory of looking out off a first floor window on a late summer’s evening, daydreaming. My thoughts ran like this: “Those people out there crossing the road are students. Some of them are coming into this building, into the Students’ Union. That’s where I am, In the Students’ Union at Queens’.” It was bizarre, like an out of body experience or something. My dislocated thoughts continued, “That’s right, I’m in the Students’ Union. Oh my God, I’m on stage. There are three hundred people looking at me. This music that I’m hearing is being made by me. I can’t think what this song is exactly, but it is definitely the case that I am playing it. Oh Christ, I better not think about it right now. Thankfully, it seems to be sounding all right without me thinking about it. Well, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.” It was an existential moment, a moment worthy of Sartre’s Nausea.

not really in the room

I had to think quickly to save myself from the situation. I surmised that what was happening was that, thanks to too much practice, I knew the song too well. The last forty or so times through it had been for the benefit of ‘band tightness’ or, more probably, for the drummer to perfect some extra little thump on some cymbal or other. Consequently, I knew ‘Tears of Tolerance’ so well that now it required no mental activity at all, on my part. The result was that, now, on stage in the Speakeasy, my brain had gone into neutral. Apparently the phenomenon, which some classical musicians have called ‘muscle memory’, had come to my rescue. My fingers, seemingly of their own accord, had continued to do what they were supposed to be doing. As the moments passed and I recognised the song that my fingers were playing, gradually I increased my grasp on reality. Bit by bit I eased myself back into real space and time. The muscle memory part of me handed over the baton to the conscious part of me. 

All very fascinating it was too, but it was not the sort of parapsychological experiment one wants to be performing while in front of three hundred people, who are assuming, quite naturally, that the people on stage are on the same astral plain as everyone else in the room.

* * *

For the next gig, the glorious Sample and Hold were destined to play to an audience of over a thousand people. It was to be our fist ‘big gig’, and we were to pull it off with only a few hours notice. Thursday 15th October 1981 began like any other Thursday. I sat through my morning classes in the tech. Then, in the middle of a sleepy afternoon lecture, the singer, of all people, appeared at the classroom door. I was intrigued. Our conversation went like this,

SINGER: Whitla hall. Tonight. Right?

ME: Right.

SINGER C’mon.

The gig, a booking secured because the singer was in the right place at the right time, was a support slot for Hazel O’Connor. Operation Big Time was under way. I made my apologies to the lecturer and left my classmates to their note-taking and napping. Rock ‘n’ Roll was calling my name, and I had to go. 

A few hours later we arrived at the Whitla and set up our stuff on stage among the main band’s stuff that was already there. Then we hung about back stage while the audience came in. As we peeked out to see the crowd, it was, as expected, massive. The Whitla hall was filled to capacity with around twelve hundred people, scary stuff. We had elephants as well as butterflies in our bellies, and our wee tins of beer were trembling in our sweaty little hands. Still, there was no turning back. This was what we had been working for. Wasn’t it?

We went on at the appointed time and played a set that went like this: 1 Inside, 2 Advert, 3 Blind People, 4 Smile For The Ladies, 5 Drowning, 6 Painful Independence, 7 Never Give An Inch, 8 Whatever Happened To…?. A set of eight original songs, which was more than was on offer from Hazel O’Connor’s outfit. 

Whitla

Reports about the gig were good. A friend of the singer’s who was in the audience said that as he entered the Whitla, we were already playing, and at first he thought he was hearing a tape. He said that we sounded and looked very professional. However, as the mere support band, we were grudgingly received by our audience, and with a good deal of disrespect. The feeling was mutual, these were Hazel O’Connor fans, just kids really. To our inflated egos––mine in particular––it would have been a bigger insult had they liked us.

One of the funnier moments during the show came as the singer leaned over for a word with the guitarist. With some perhaps inappropriate candour, between the lines of whatever song he was singing, he put his hand over his microphone and expressed his heartfelt opinion that the kids who made up the audience were no better than “fucking animals”. the guitarist started to laugh at the sincerity and conviction of the comment. Legend has it that a friend in the audience got a photo of this moment, but I’ve never seen it.

Due to there being two complete band set-ups on the stage at the same time, I ended up perched right up near the front of the stage. There were two young girls below me, practically underneath my keyboard stand. They were no older than thirteen and, to my puzzlement, they kept trying to touch my feet. I was very worried by these apparent gestures of adoration, but later I realised that it was probably more a case of a mocking parody of adoration, not unlike that which was meted out back in the Knock Presbyterian Church hall incident. But it’s best not to dwell on these things. 

The Glorious Sample and Hold came off stage to the anticlimax of it all. Hazel O’Connor ran around in a tizzy. “Where’s me skirt? Where’s me skirt?!” she panicked. We stood around with fresh tins of beer in our, now steadier, hands, trying to comprehend that we had just played in front of twelve hundred people, and now it was over. Someone took a photo of the singer with Miss O’Connor just before she stepped onto the stage (with her skirt on).

Then the recrimination started. The singer got on his high horse. The poor bass player got it in the neck. It seemed that his crime was to have interrupted the singer as he was introduction one of the songs. On a whim, the bass player had dedicate the song to a friend in the audience, speaking over the top of the singer’s ‘official’ introduction, in the process. Apparently, this represented an outrageously unprofessional disregard for stage etiquette, an offense akin to that of the ill-judged action back in the Speakeasy, to wit ‘the nudge’. Actually it was all a bit ridiculous, since, really, all that anyone in the audience would have heard would have been one incoherent mumble being augmented by another incoherent mumble. I mean, has anyone ever had the slightest idea what singers are wittering on about between songs?

* * *

The next gig, on 7th November 1981, was another ‘big’ one; a support slot for The Comsat Angels in the Snack Bar, in the Students’ Union. The gig came courtesy of our friend-in-a-high-place, Basil Fox. It wasn’t as prestigious as the Whitla Hall gig but it served the purposes of career advancement.

The Comsat Angels were an English band who would go on to have a long career without ever really making the big time. They were pretty good, I thought. They had a keyboard guy and, among other things, he was using a Hohner Duo, just like the ones used by me and Stevie Wonder. The Comsats guy had an impressively percussive technique on the Duo. Basically he slapped it about, and sort of bunched it a bit. It was a good effect. I made a mental note.

Tim Barnett––he of the incongruous purple tux in The Pound––was at the gig. His hair was red on this occasion. After the gig Tim and a few other regulars said that they thought it was our best performance to date. This was confusing. The guitarist and I were of the opinion that we had played without much feeling. Perversely, perhaps, it seemed to us that the band generally gave a better account of ourselves in front of smaller audiences and on the occasions when it didn’t ‘matter’ so much. Since this gig was a potentially ‘important’ gig, those of us afflicted with a pseudo-Holstian temperament felt unable to give of our best.

Of course the difference of perception between those of on stage and those of us off it, may well have been due to altogether more mundane considerations. For, as ever, the sound on stage had nothing whatever to do with the sound out front.

Three weeks later, on Wednesday 25th November 1981, we found ourselves back in the Polytech for an altogether more heart felt evening. This time we played on our own. While we were never going to match the vigour and expansiveness of the first Poly gig, this was a good solid gig and we worked up a decent enough sweat.

Gig Memories 1981 (Part 1)

The band spent nearly half of its lifetime, from the summer of 1978 to the summer of 1983, in gig-less preparation. In 1981 the real active life of the band began. Getting the hang of booking gigs, band promotion, and all that, in a hectic five weeks from 3rd February to 10th March, we had lined up for ourselves nine engagements. Nine gigs in five weeks may not seem a lot for most bands. But then again, unlike most bands, Sample and Hold were never in the business of just going through the motions. A gig for us was no small thing. Each gig contained all the highs and lows of life. We visited the peeks of elation and pits of demoralisation. Emotional exhaustion was a familiar condition, not to mention bodily ruin. And, as a rule, the amount of drink taken was nothing sane. 

The first of these gigs was in the Catholic Chaplaincy at Queen’s. It was a sort of party-and-disco-and-three-bands affair. The running order for the evening was: disco; Sample and Hold; Big Self; The Lids; disco. Geoff, singer and mainstay of The Lids supplied the P.A. The Lids were a great cover band, and during their sound check I couldn’t resist jumping up and joining in. They were playing Let’s Dance and it was the perfect song for a Vox Continental.

The evening’s entertainment got under way with a Terri Hooly disco for an hour or so. Terri had an unusual line in DJ patter. By way of a catch phrase he would shout into the mic, “sure whaddy I know.” Terri, is an important figure in the history of the music scene in Belfast (or so he tells us).

The rest of the evening did not go as planned. After Mr Hooly’s hour of disco and self-deprecation, Big Self got up. I think the boys in Big Self just wanted to get the thing over and done with so that they could get off home. In my opinion Big Self were the best band around. They wrote great songs with a Clashesque blend of punk and reggae, with a special sound all their own.

As we prepared to get up and do our thing, the second change to the evening’s agenda occurred. A band called The Trial appeared from nowhere and jumped onto the stage in front of us. Later, I found out that it was Terri Hooly who had spotted the guys from The Trial standing at the bar, and it was he who had dragged them into the proceedings. I had nothing against the band, but I thought it was a bit of a liberty on Terri’s part. But then Terri is not known for his tact or sensitivity. 

Having been set up and ready to go since 7.15 p.m., we finally stepped on to the stage at nearly midnight. This was a long time to maintain our performers’ adrenalin/alcohol equilibrium. 

The singer was experimenting with a shirt-and-tie-and-blazer image, which didn’t really get off the ground. Still, it was more of an effort than anyone else was putting in. With original songs mixed in among the covers, our basic set for this and the next lot of gigs ran like this:

The fabulous Big Self

Inside—original

Furniture Music—Bill Nelson

Advert—original

Bye Bye Love—The Cars

Can’t Explain—The Who

Watching the Detectives—Elvis Costello

Moving in Stereo—The Cars

Working for the Yankee Dollar—The Skids

Drowning—original

Whatever Happened To…?—original

What Goes On—The Velvet Underground

Ghosts Of Princes in Towers—Rich Kids

Dirty Water—Nine Below Zero

Half way through our performance a spokesman for The Lids walked up, waved his watch in my face, and told us to, “hurry up and get off”. They might have been a bit more diplomatic about it but it was understandable; it was a Tuesday night in Belfast not Friday in New Orleans, and The Lids naturally enough wanted to get on before it got any later and the punters started to drift off home. We acted like gentlemen, left out our last two numbers, and “got off”.

Then The Lids went on, cranked up all the volume knobs and blew a fuse (not figuratively, literally, blew a fuse), bringing everything to a silent standstill for five minutes. I felt sorry for Geoff. It was late. Everyone else had been using his gear all night, and now it was letting him down. The Bar was by now closed and the management in the Chaplaincy seized their opportunity. The house lights went up and out rang the customary bouncer’s cry, “right folks, drink up and get out”. The Lids did their best to soldier on, and by the time the power came back their bass player had had enough and buggered off home.

Some of our fellow musicians in the Chaplaincy that night were kind enough to mention that they liked our music. However a few of the punters did point out that we “weren’t loud enough”. There was perhaps a reason for this. It is a common enough practice for head-line bands, being in control of the mixing desk, to put the scud on support bands by ensuring that they aren’t as loud as they themselves will be. Consequently, the increase in volume that accompanies the entrance of the ‘professional’ main act makes them sound really confident and exciting in comparison with the seemingly lack-lustre ‘amateur’ support band. Sometimes it’s almost as if there is a secret button somewhere on the mixing desk which makes everything sound crap while the support band is playing: ‘a scud button’, if you will. The scudding strategy works every time because punters, on the whole, continue, as ever, to miss-hear low volume and poor sound quality as ‘bad music’ and ‘bad musicianship’. (You can’t separate the art from the wires.) 

Until now, innocents that we were, we hadn’t imagined our fellow musicians capable of such cynicism. I don’t want to accuse The Lids unfairly here, but if indeed our hosts did play such an unscrupulous trick on us, then at least on this particular occasion, happily, the trick seems to have backfired.

* * *

Next, we returned to Spuds in Portstewart, but once again it was Friday, the wrong night, and there were even fewer people there than the first time. As we arrived, our sixth-former fan from our previous visit was there to greet us. The guy had changed somewhat since our first meeting a few months earlier. He had, in fact, changed more than somewhat. His hair was bleached blonde and he was in full make-up. His eyebrows had gone and he had new ones painted on a bit higher up. More power to him, I thought: this was Portstewart for God’s sake, he wasn’t exactly making life easy for himself.

Some pencil work

Our blossoming New Romantic friend had brought his own blossoming New Romantic band along with him, and he enquired keenly if we would be prepared to let them go on before us for an impromptu support slot. He didn’t look as though he had considered the contingency that we might refuse his request, so, graciously, we obliged.

His band were very young indeed and, sadly, it has to be said that their music was a shambles. The keyboardist was astoundingly out of tune. Even as he was setting it up it had been clear that he was not at ease with his technology. He needed help to find the output socket on his drum machine and I stepped in when I couldn’t bear to watch any more. The bass player stood off-stage with his back to the audience throughout the performance. Not for moody effect, as one might have supposed, but rather because he was petrified, and he had opted for the ostrich approach. Their music wasn’t good, but it didn’t really matter because the audience in Spuds that night was only eighteen strong, and evidently they were all school chums of our impromptu support band.

It was with some reluctance that we climbed up onto the stage in front of the school-outing-type audience, who had come along to hear ‘the other band’. As we ploughed our way through our set, our performance was decidedly strained and ragged. This gig marked a general change of mood and intent within the band. No longer content with merely getting a chance to play, our mannish young egos henceforth would required a ‘good gig’, in a ‘good venue’, with a ‘good audience’. This Spuds gig was simply unsatisfactory.

Missing

The right amount of the right type of resentment can work well at times, giving some bands an attractive edginess. This was part of the mechanics of the Punk phenomenon, and certainly, by the time we got to the last two songs of the night, our playing was so raucous that we had indeed become Punk-like. However, since we were never meant to be a punk band, our self-destructively haywire performance had little to commend it. For us, the undercurrent of self-important drunken resentment was merely the natural enemy of proficiency. In Spuds that night we set a precedent in un-professionalism. We played Working for the Yankee Dollar so fast that we just about held it together. So frantic was our rendition that the guitarist had to stop playing in the middle of it for a rest. During the last song of the night the bass player’s instrument fell apart, and, to cap everything off, I mislaid my favourite blue jumper. 

We got back to Belfast in the wee small hours of the morning, bitter, and weary from the drink. As we arrived at the student house in Stranmillis Street where the singer and bass player lived, we trouped in for a cup of tea and a band meeting. There followed a tense and protracted discussion that went on for about three hours, and which including a good deal of recrimination and character assassination.

* * *

Tuesday 10th February 1981 found us again in front of the students in The Speakeasy. Big Self were the main act. Sample and Hold were in the middle, and the first act up were called The Synthetic Fibres. There was a lot of gear to get on and off stage with a degree of efficiency which doesn’t sit well in an amateurish rock ‘n’ roll setting. By the time Big Self had had their sound check, there was only a natter of minutes for  me  to organise my megalomaniacal pile of keyboards before the first band were due to play. It was pretty hard to look cool, as I jumped around the stage with my boxes and wires, I must have looked as I felt; just like some mad scientist’s monkey-man-assistant.

The Synthetic Fibres did their bit. They were a bunch of trendy young guys, with their guitars up round their chests, baggy trousers, and their long fringes hanging in their faces. After they had finished their fairly tuneless jangling, the we went on and played a lot better than at our previous gig. However, by no means, did we play well. For, to play well it is helpful for a band to be having fun, and it was hard to have fun in the Student’s Union.

Too many decibels  

On top of the artistic hurdles, I had some technical problems as well. Unfortunately I was not yet au fait with some of my recently aqcuired equipment, and the two seventy-five watt amps that were built into my mixer cut out a few times, an act of self preservation on their part, before I noticed the meters were well into the red. I was, quite simply, far too loud. Consequently, the guitarist had to turn up his amp all the way to try and match me, decibel for outrageous decibel. This of course was the wrong way to go about things. Really one is supposed to let the P.A. system do all the work, while the amplification on stage is really just there to give one the right sort of feel or something. Throughout the lifetime of Sample and Hold, neither the guitarist nor myself ever did fully grasp of the concept of plugging into the P.A. and letting it take the strain. It took me many years to realise that it was not a good plan to try to blow the punters out of the room with my own private noise weapon, especially not while the speakers of said noise weapon are perched up on a table and situated right beside my own poor head. 

Happily, the night finished on a high. Big Self got up to do their stuff and they swept us all off our feet. They were so good in fact that even I myself had to have a bop. I danced drunkenly to their first few songs, at which point the glands in my neck got swollen and I had to sit down.

* * *

Our next gig, on Thursday 19th February 1981, was in the famous Pound Music Club just off Oxford Street. This was a great night. We were to play The Pound five times in all, and these were some of our best nights. I was thrilled about getting to perform on such hallowed ground, but I played it cool of course.

Nice horse

Let me just say a few words about The Pound. It was quite simply one of the grottiest holes you could imagine. It smelt bad and so did its clientele. It also happened to be the best music spot in town. It was a common assumption that The Pound was named thus because it cost a pound to get in. This was not the case. The Pound was called The Pound because it was built originally as the pound for the stray horses of Belfast. It was all very appropriate really. It had been designed with animals in mind, and right enough here it was, frequented, by and large, by animals.

Arriving in the early evening to start setting up, it was odd to be in The Pound, and to be relatively sober at the same time. It was scary too; scary to actually see the place for once. There were no windows, and there was only one narrow exit. The structure of the building itself wasn’t really very safe. Its frame was made from old railway tracks, rather than proper ‘I’ beams or the like. There was an extra half-floor from which you could look down on the band, but the rough concrete steps, which led up to this ‘mezzanine’, were each about a foot high; just right for horses, and funnily enough, if you were sufficiently drunk, these giant steps actually seemed to make a lot of sense. As I started to shift some tables and chairs around to make platforms for our P.A., I was surprised by the unusual rubbery texture of the furniture. Then I realised that everything in The Pound was coated with layer upon layer of beer, and various other spilt and discharged fluids that didn’t bare thinking about. The whole place was spongy with it. 

A cover from the day

Anyway, we got some drinks and things normalised a bit. The Pound seemed reasonable again. Then the audience arrived and the night’s music got underway. A band called Autostrad went on before us and they were very interesting in a jazz-funk sort of way. They had an English keyboard player who played a Hohner Clavinet through a wah-wah peddle. He was great, but the driving force behind Autostrad was their superbly proficient drummer. Roxy, as he was known, also wrote the lyrics for their songs, and he told me later that he got his ideas from reading Cosmopolitan.

When it was our turn, from the moment the we hit the stage, we were in our element. The audience were generous to us, and we were generous in return. We played our full set except for Moving in Stereo, which just seemed too understated for our exuberant mood. We played a storm. The singer put his foot through the stage, which was as rotten as everything else in the Pound, accept the music. A friend of mine from work, was at the gig for his first look at the band. Tim had been evolving into a party animal of an altogether more flamboyant strain than myself. Along with  the Portstewart guy, he was now in the vanguard of Northern Ireland New Romanticism. He changed his hair colour a lot. Once, when he dyed it three different colours in as many days, is hair had surrendered, and, as Tim himself observed, with some disgust, it was “like a bloody cobweb”. He looked great in The Pound, Mecca for retrograde rockers and biker desperadoes, resplendent and completely incongruous in his purple tail-coat, blue hair and orange blusher. 

It was much blacker that this

As we came to the end of our set, love was in the air, and an encore seemed appropriate. We resurrected I Need To Know, the Tom Petty number which we hadn’t played since the Devonshire Arms gigs, but first, I jumped off stage for toilet-break. While I was in there I had a conversation with a guy from the audience. The exchange went like this:

PUNTER: What do you call that band?; ME: Sample and Hold. 

PUNTER: What?; ME: we are called SAMPLE AND HOLD. 

PUNTER (surprised): Are you in the band?; ME: Yeah. 

PUNTER: It’s really good.; ME: It’s nice of you to say so.

This was not a remarkable conversation in itself, except that the punter apparently didn’t recognise me as one of the performers he had been watching for more than an hour. But then again, this may have been because our conversation took place in utter darkness. That this toilet was, as a rule, kept in pitch-black darkness was a mercy. At least those of us who frequented The Pound during these last few years of its existence have thus been spared any lasting and disturbing image of that hell hole that was the Pound toilet. Thankfully, we have only a gaping black space in our minds’ eye where the disgusting image would, otherwise, be lingering. Because of the darkness no-one was ever sure of the precise location of the urinal, assuming there was one. We lads just went in a couple of yards through the doorway and took care not to touch any walls. Then one simply aimed low into the darkness, hoping that no-one else was in there before you; equally mindful of the very real danger that somebody, perhaps drunker than oneself, might come up behind one, through the darkness, and piss all over one. The Pound was a great place.

After the show I congratulated the Autostrad guitarist on his band’s music. He said “Yeah, thanks, but it’s a pity it was all a bit zombie-like.” I think he felt somewhat deflated after seeing the glorious Sample and Hold leaping about on stage half crazed. And right enough, he had seen us at our best, for this was the first of the real Sample and Hold nights. Unlike the University venues, The Pound was real, and this was a real gig.

* * *

On Tuesday 24th February 1981, we made our third appearance in the Students’ Union Speakeasy, but now we were topping the bill. It was another three-band affair. A band called Etc. Etc. were first up. Paul Maxwell the singer and Howard Ingram on bass were to become our mates. Etc. Etc. were an interesting band. Keyboardist Steve Malaghan made a convincing argument for the use of echo with keyboards. A keyboard set-up of any kind was still a rare enough thing, and I was impressed. Paul and Howard offered a minimalist rendition of George Gershwin’s Stormy Whether. Trend merchants, these guys weren’t.

Next up were a band called Still, who, by contrast, certainly were trend merchants. As with the Synthetic Fibres, from our last visit to the Speakeasy, they were done up in the style of the day: guitars up around their necks and long self-conscious fringes hanging in their faces. Taking themselves awfully seriously, they were.

By the time we got onto the stage the adrenaline was flowing, and we played most of our fourteen-song set too damn fast, again. Evidently there was not enough alcohol in the mix. Elvis Costello’s Watching the Detectives, with a fun-filled chromatic extravaganza of a solo on my Vox Continental, was an exciting new addition to our set. It had gone down a storm on its first outing in the Pound, but this time, as we launched into Elvis Costello’s little classic, things didn’t go as planned. We played the intro as usual, but when the singer was supposed to start singing, he couldn’t remember the first line of the song. No big deal really, it happens to singers all the time. However it was a shock to the system for the guitarist and me. We were used to our singer following the format of a song as strictly as the rest of us. From our side of the fence, we didn’t generally hold to any of that band-follows-the-singer malarkey. 

The singer stood there sort of grooving along to the music with his head down, hiding the fact that he was racking his brain trying to conjure up the illusive Costello lyrics; and who could blame him for not remembering a line like, “Nice girl’s not one with a defect cellophane shrink rap so correct”. It was then that the guitarist made a regrettable  move. In his impatience he shuffled sideways and ‘nudged’ the singer on the leg with the point of his shoe. Coincidentally, just at that moment the singer remembered what he had so painfully been trying to recall, and sang out, “Nice girl’s not…” and so on. The effect was comical. It looked as though the guitarist had somehow ‘activated’ the singer. There was some laughter in the audience. 

Nudge nudge

The nudge incident was a rare exception. For the most part, we of the Sample and Hold fraternity shared a keen sense that we were ‘all in it together’. We took care of each other on stage within a sort of mutual support system; a system grounded in a common purpose, even if the purpose was often nothing grander than a panic-driven determination to get through to the end of a given song without complete band collapse.

Personally, I came to appreciate this aspect of gigging as one of the most enjoyable elements of the whole adventure. As I gained more experience I even came to believe that the most exciting thing that can happen on stage is for a band member to ‘crash’ in some way or other: be it a broken string, a dropped drum stick, an exploding amp, or whatever. For, only in these emergency situations might the rest of the band get a chance to demonstrate their true musical strengths and inventiveness. In these moments we musicians must be sharp enough, first, to notice that a comrade has fallen and, second, to be able to compensate with volume adjustments, ad hoc song rearrangement, instant impromptu solos, and whatever else that might be required.

The nudge incident had offended against the esprit do corp, and, after the gig the singer gave the guitarist a mouthful along the lines of, “…if you ever do anything like that to me on stage again, I’ll…”. His indignation was justified of course. But it should be added in the guitarist’s defence that it wasn’t until this incident that it really dawned on some of us just how completely visible one is on stage. It suddenly sunk in that when you’re up there, people can see everything you are doing. Henceforth, there was a bit less on-stage nose picking and trouser-adjustment.

* * *

The ‘nudge gig’ was followed, the very next night (Wednesday 25th February 1981), by the ‘shock gig’, which took place in the Dining Hall in the Elms’ students’ Hall of Residence. Whenever we could get it, we practised in this plush wood-panelled hall. It had great acoustics, moody subdued lighting and a marvelous big stage; a ‘proper’ gig situation and just the sort of thing our mannish young egos were after. This turned out to be a great gig, a solid contender for the ‘best gig’ position. But before we started the gig itself, there was a bit of drama. During our sound check the bass player got electrocuted half to death. One minute there he was, standing on stage messing about on his new bass. Then as he grabbed hold of his microphone, he completed the circuit and literally was knocked off his feet. The next minute he was flopping about on his back, his left hand clamped around the neck of his bass guitar with its four live strings, and his right hand equally tightly clamped around the deadly microphone. As the rest of the band looked on, initially confused and then horrified, the drummer was the only one who understood what was actually happening. As an electrician he had seen this sort of thing before, and, in one giant leap just like Superman or something, he dived onto the plug board and switched off the juice. There are no two ways about it, he saved the guy’s life right there and then.

The injured man, with blisters across the fingers of his left hand where they had been burned by the bass strings, said later that in those moments while he was on his back, he could feel his heart speeding up, ready to burst. The drummer pointed out that this wasn’t surprising considering that his heart was doing its best to get in sync with the fifty cycles per second alternating current that was pulsing through his nerves and muscles.

Not a big saving

On investigation we discovered that, due to a criminal piece of cost cutting, the fuses in the lighting rig that we had hired for the gig were in fact rolled-up bits of silver paper. Even after putting in proper fuses and checking the rest of the gear for any other nasty surprises, it required a good deal of guts just to switch the gear on again. After a while however, and allowing the bass player the right of veto, we all decided to go ahead with the gig and to put the ‘accident’ down to unpleasant but educational experience.

The rest of the night went tremendously well. We sensed that it was going to be a humdinger of a gig even before we went on. Technically it was a dream gig, (notwithstanding the near death incident). If the Elms was a great place to practice, it was a superb place to gig. The stage set-up was marvellous, with all the room in the world for jumping around. Also, there was no hassle with support bands or complicated sound check arrangements. Add to this a great crowd who were clearly ready and willing to be entertained. There were more than two hundred in our audience, and to our surprise and delight just about all of them to every single song. The joint jumped.

During the intro and first verse of one song I got so excited that I jumped off the stage for a quick dance with the audience. Then (perhaps inspired by the drummer’s giant leap earlier in the evening) I leapt back up on stage, just in time for the first chorus, and my chords on the Continental. Very cool it was. This was what happened when we found ourselves in front of an appreciative audience. The band shifted up a gear. We blossomed. We stretched out our paws and purred.

There was a comic moment too. Just before the last couple of songs of the night our singer announced on behalf of the management, as was the tradition, “last orders at the bar, please”. To his amazement and dismay, he turned around to see most of his band-mates obediently stepping off the stage in the direction of the bar. Drinking at an heroic rate, the guitarist and I had polished off our lavish beer supply. The singer pointed out afterwards that really there had been no need for us to panic. His announcement had not applied to the musicians, he explained. He was ahead of us on that one. Some of us were not quite so puffed up, as yet, with any sense of pop-stardom as to assume that we were exempt from the licensing laws.