by Jamie Jones
When I got back to the campsite, it was alive with talk about Sunday night’s headliners, Nirvana. A band that were at the height of their powers but, due to Kurt Cobain’s fragile mental and physical state, nobody was sure if they would appear at Reading that weekend.
We had a spare day-ticket for the Sunday, thanks to our mate Dave being caught with an Oxo-cube size lump of weed the previous week and thus being grounded by his mum. I stood outside the festival entrance for an hour trying to sell the ticket for its £25 face value, but to no avail. In the end, out of boredom and a desire not to waste anymore of my time, I sold it to a genial scouse ticket tout for a fiver. I then stood and watched in awe as he sold it to the lad stood next to him for £15. I hadn’t seen touts first hand before and I was spellbound by the way he had made a tenner so easily.
Determined to throw ourselves head first into the festival, we filed into the arena with the hordes and cracked open our cans of cheap lager. We figured that, as we were at a festival, the “never drink before mid-day unless you want to become an alcoholic” rule that our parents had drummed into us could be relaxed.
The first band that I really wanted to see that day were Leatherface, a UK hardcore band who we had seen play in front of 20 people at a Peterborough club the previous month. As we wandered over to the Melody Maker tent to see their set, it became apparent that a lot more than 20 people were cramming themselves inside. Doody, even at 17, was a wise old head and said, “Why don’t we stand near the back and get a decent view?”
I, of course, wanted to get to the front and throw myself into the mosh pit. My thinking was, I had been in the middle of the pit at Neds and Carter USM gigs, and they were bands playing to big crowds, this lot would be tame by comparison. I didn’t want to take any chances though, so put my glasses into their hard backed case and stored them in the pocket of my army surplus combat shorts. I made my way to the front of the crowd just as Leatherface took to the stage. On the sound of the first chord being struck I knew that I had made a terrible mistake. As the people around me appeared to show no desire to listen to the music being played, I found myself spun around like I was in a washing machine, with the arms and legs of various people whirling around my head. I was now genuinely scared and, as the band banged out “I Want The Moon”, I did my best not to get banged out by one of their fans. I somehow survived that first song with little more than an impending sense of doom and a string of spit hanging from the left shoulder of my Mega City 4 t-shirt. I knew my luck wouldn’t hold for much longer.
As the next song kicked in, the violent aggression of the crowd cranked up another notch and I must have resembled a human yo-yo being thrown backwards and forwards. When the crowd surfing started, I knew instinctively that I had to get out of there, back to Doody and my can of Carlsberg. Initially I tried not to push or shove people out of the way but it was hard work and after about a minute of getting nowhere, I put my head down and marched through the mass of bodies. Then, only 50 yards away from safety, a big sweaty skinhead in a “Cockney Rejects” t-shirt, took offence to me making my way through the crowd and without saying a word, decided to smack me in the mouth. Thanks to the swaying motion of the packed crowd it was a glancing blow and, as the trickle of blood hit my tongue, I staggered away as he simply turned back to throwing himself around to the song as if nothing had happened. Finally I managed to reach Doody and flopped down next to him, covered in blood, sweat and beer. He looked at me, smiled smugly and said; “Busy down the front was it?”
I had survived my first, and last, UK hardcore mosh pit.
We walked from the Melody Maker tent to the main stage to see the band that meant it all to me, Mega City Four. It was my first time seeing them play live and I was bouncing up and down with excitement. As they ambled onto the stage in the late afternoon, I thought that this was my moment, this was my band. As they rattled through “Scared of Cats” and “Words That Say”, I sang along to every word. For the first time in my life I experienced the therapeutic feeling of bounding around screaming along to songs in the open air. I didn’t spend any time thinking about Jo but it was undoubtedly her that I was aiming those words at, despite her being 150 miles away. MC4 had been our band and, in the wilds of Berkshire, I finally moved on from our relationship. By the end of their set I was drenched in sweat and had an inane grin on my face. It was my moment.
How was I to know that less than 4 hours later I would find a band that would blow me away?
On Friday 29th August 1992, I found The Charlatans.
I knew of The Charlatans before that fateful night but had written them off as just another Stone Roses clone band with one good tune in the form of “The Only One I Know”. Doody was a fan though, so I’d agreed to stay and watch their set that evening to keep him company.
The drummer, bass player, guitarist and organist shuffled onto the cavernous main stage and began slowly building an atmospheric instrumental track. I was fast losing interest when the most beautiful man that I had ever seen lithely shimmied onto the stage. It was love at first sight. I had fallen for Tim Burgess, the lead singer of The Charlatans. I stood mesmerised, gazing at him as the opening song rattled the ground that we stood on and pushed the menacing storm clouds from the sky above us. I was pretty sure that I was straight but the feelings rumbling around my chest were of love, lust and desire. I applauded wildly along with the rest of the crowd as the band came to the end of that opening song, “You’re Not Very Well”.
Whilst reeling from my new found feelings for Mr Burgess, I was quickly introduced to one of the other elements that made this band extra special. Up on the stage, a man was hunched over a Hammond organ and hammering out a mesmeric riff. Rob Collins’ inspired opening to “Weirdo” slid down my spine like electricity, forcing my legs to dance and my serotonin levels to reach a new found high.
I was in a sense of shock, totally gone, caught up in the moment, dancing like I was possessed to a song I didn’t know, to a band that I didn’t think I liked.
After a quick, “This is fucking amazing!” exclamation to Doody, I was back to dancing around the field to the likes of; ‘Tremolo Song’, ‘Then’ and ‘Indian Rope’. Tim Burgess had the entire crowd in the palm of his hand with his incoherent between song ramblings being greeted with the same throaty cheer as a winning goal at Wembley.
That 50 minute Charlatans performance changed my musical life. For the time that they were on stage, I didn’t think about anything in the world other than the songs and Tim Burgess. I knew after a euphoric run-through of “The Only One I Know”, about 20 minutes into the set, that this was my band and that they would become a massive part of my life. I looked over at Doody during that song and seeing his mad mop of curly hair bouncing around in delight, I knew that this was one of those moments, the type that sear into your brain and pick you up when times are crap with their unending pot of positivity. Dancing in a field, to the best live band on the planet, with my mate stood next to me, life couldn’t get any better.
With only 9 minutes of The Charlatans allotted stage time left, things did get even better. Martin Blunt’s heavily plucked slow bass rhythm was the start of the most amazing live song that I’d ever heard. The guitar and drums slowly came in before Rob Collins began to frantically smash away at the Hammond, then like an indie soothsayer, Tim wandered to the microphone and announced “This is where it all ends”. I didn’t know the words, I didn’t know the tune, I didn’t even know the name of the song but I danced as if my life depended on it. The majestic beauty of “Sproston Green” lit up the night and left me in a state of unbridled euphoria with an aching for more. As Tim departed with a final “Thank you very much indeed”, Doody and I stood there giggling with delight before having a manhug, safe in the knowledge that we had just witnessed absolute genius.
The Wonderstuff headlined the main stage that night but I left them to it and sought out the bootleg tape stall that I’d read about in the pages of the NME. I was soon to discover that such st
alls were dens of iniquity that sold illegal recordings of bands live sets minutes after they had left the stage. They were always poor quality recordings, on cheap tapes, with one colour (usually orange or bright green) paper inlay cards. Large groups of folks (usually eager young men with glasses) would crowd around the stall eagerly awaiting the delivery of a certain bands bootleg tape. That night, eventually the; “Charlatans from the main stage is ready” shout went up and I quickly handed over £5 to get my sweaty palms on the contraband tape.
It was only after buying my “The Charlatans – Roading (sic) 1992” tape that my adrenaline dropped to vaguely normal levels and it dawned on me that I still hadn’t called home to find out my GCSE results. I wandered off site at 11pm to find a phone box without bothering to consider whether Mum would be asleep. She wasn’t pleased to hear from me, especially as the phone in her bedroom was on Dad’s side of the bed, so she had to reach over him to answer it. She was reasonably happy with my grades but then decided that, to be ringing her so late, I must be drunk. I assured her that I was having a lovely time and had only had our preagreed 3 pints a days before imitating the pips and insisting that I didn’t have any more change. As I was putting the phone down, I could hear her growling; “Don’t put the phone down Jay, I mean it…..” I figured that I would deal with her mood when I got home.
As it was, I had enough GCSE’s to go on to do my A-Levels and that was all I was bothered about. I had a festival to enjoy.
Saturday daytime was full of rain and crap bands. The evening though, featured my only contact with a female that weekend. I had never been good at talking to girls that I don’t know but this was a particularly glorious failure. I had somehow managed to get split up from my mates during the early evening and ended up in the middle of the main stage field, which was fast turning into a swamp, as Ride took to the stage. Emboldened by my experience with The Charlatans, 24 hours previous, I thought I should give these shoegazing indie types a listen. They turned out to be another revelation – not in the Charlatans standard of earth shattering revelation, but a revelation to me nonetheless. Ride’s set that night was mainly made up of tracks from their recently released “Going Blank Again” album. As they blazed their way through their set of multi-layered indie-pop, the heavens re-opened. Thousands of festival goers left the Main Stage area to seek cover in the Melody Maker or beer tents. The dual vocal melody of the simian Mark Gardner and the ice-cool Andy Bell captivated those of us left in the sodden field. After a soaked to the skin jump around to the gorgeous “Twisterella”, I realised two things:
1 – I was now stood in a gigantic puddle where, when I moved my feet, the water would gently lap over the top of my trusty DM boots and onto my freezing cold legs.
2 – A very pretty indie girl was dancing in the same puddle and she kept looking at me. By this time, due to the rain, my curtains hairstyle had been ruined and was pushed back to keep the wet hair out of my eyes. This wasn’t the kind of look that anyone was going for and, coupled with my rain streaked glasses and black Carter USM top, I must have looked like a young, short-sighted Dracula impersonator.
No matter what the weather threw at us, me and the pretty girl with long dark hair and a “Curve” t-shirt, continued our puddle dancing. She kept looking over and I kept looking over, she kept looking over and I kept looking over (repeat to fade). At times we would be dancing in our new watery home, brush inadvertently against each other, and smile, but still neither of us said a word. I was desperate to say something, anything to her:
‘Hi, do you often stand in a huge puddle watching bands?’
I didn’t say a word despite her smiles, sly and not so sly, looks at me and the fact that she was dancing ever closer to me. Due to the biblical downpour, whenever one of us moved, the wave effect in the puddle would splash freezing cold water all over our legs. I looked down and saw that she was wearing Adidas Samba Classic trainers so her feet must have been absolutely soaked. Still we didn’t leave the puddle. Still neither of us said a word.
As the band ended their set with an epic version of “Mouse Trap”, even the few thousand hardy souls that had stayed out in the elements ran for cover. Me and “Ride Girl”, as she was now forever to be known in my head, remained in our puddle. Finally after what seemed like an hour, but in reality was probably no more than 5 minutes, she turned towards me. My nerves raced up and took a firm grip of my mouth as she said slowly and forlornly; “So….see you then…..” and walked at a snail’s pace away from the puddle that had been our home for the last hour. All I could manage was a muffled “Err, bye…” and a sense of annoyance that I knew would linger.
I went and got a beer, two in fact, I needed them. I checked that Ride Girl hadn’t returned to the puddle and then promptly got my head expanded by that nights main stage headliners. Public Enemy smashed their way into my indie-boy skull with a set of hip-hop rhymes and beats that were from another planet to the one that I inhabited.
The Sunday morning brought more rumours about whether Nirvana would play that night. More worryingly, it brought more rain. I stood, drenched, in the main arena admonishing myself for the 10,000th time for not bringing a coat. How I didn’t get pneumonia I will never know.
Sets by Teenage Fanclub and Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds made everyone smile (TFC) and want to call their mum in fear (Cave). Then, in the pitch black of the wet Reading night, a blonde-haired figure was brought onto the stage in a wheelchair, dressed in what looked like a surgical gown. As Grohl and Novoselic beat out the rhythm to “Breed”, Cobain rose from the chair and proceeded to enthral the expectant crowd. Despite not being a Nirvana fan, I couldn’t help but be impressed by their performance that night. Cobain wasn’t a traditional frontman, but he had a voice that felt like a cricket ball smashing you in the teeth and a quiet but firm control of the apostles. We all knew, stood there in 3 inches of waterlogged grass and mud, that this performance would be an “I was there” moment.
What a sparkling weekend it had been. I had been to my first music festival and was instantly hungry for more. I had fallen in love with Tim Burgess and his band and got soaked to the skin for 4 days. It felt like being initiated into the world of festivals was our final step on the road to adulthood. If you could stay in a tent for a weekend, watch bands, drink and smoke a spliff, what more was there to learn about life?
In reality, Doody aside, our intrepid group were all back at school the week after Reading. The big difference that September was that we were heading into the 6th Form. This provided the dual joy of being able to wear our own clothes and being allowed to call our Business Studies teacher “Malc” rather than Mr Mason. The only other major change to 6th form life compared to school was that we got to sit around in our dedicated common room and play Tetris on the Gameboy for hours at a time. Jacko and I were joined by Mark as he had managed to escape his catholic secondary school to come to the wrong side of the tracks. Being a good looking charmer, coupled with his new to the school status, at least a quarter of the girls in the lower-6th quickly developed a crush on Mark. I had made a conscious decision to let my hormonally charged peers get on with their brief couplings. I had a diet of music and football to keep me occupied.
I spent the rest of the year running the 300 yards home from school and playing whichever indie singles and albums I had managed to buy, borrow or steal. All I wanted to do was be able to close the door to my room, crawl under the desk and listen to Billy Bragg, The Charlatans and any other indie music that I could find. Music had become an addiction, one that I needed to feed on an hourly basis, with even the 2 minute walk from one class to another being filled with a quick blast of The Stone Roses or New Order on my Walkman.
Jacko and I had managed to secure gainful employment at our school, which had been renamed “Stanground College” over the summer as it had started to host evening classes. Our job was to put out the trampolines and judo mats for those classes. It was tough, at times dangerous, physical work for two slightly-built 16 year o
lds but we needed the £2 per hour on offer in wages. In order to ensure the trampoline was properly sprung, one of us would have to hold down one end with all their weight, whilst the other hung like a bat on the unsprung section until, eventually their weight would pull it down.
I didn’t become a monk for the rest of the year as there was the odd one night dalliance between Jo and I. We would occasionally get bored or lonely, reminisce and then let nature take it’s course. Laid in her bed afterwards we would reach another mutual decision that this wasn’t a good idea and that we were “definitely splitting up for good” this time.
1993
Moz & Me
AS 1993 broke, my obsession with The Charlatans continued to grow. I hadn’t cut my hair since seeing them at Reading in an attempt to emulate Tim Burgess’ flowing locks. Following the critical slating that their recent album, “Between 10th & 11th”, had received, they appeared to be in decline but to my teenage senses they were a peerless band that were on the up. I would sit in the space under my desk and listen to their debut album “Some Friendly” and marvel at songs like “Then”, “White Shirt” and the swirling, Hammond organ driven slab of genius that was “Sproston Green”.
Doods and I had bonded further over our mutual love of the band, and would regularly scrawl “Tim Burgess Is God” on walls, t-shirts and anything else we could find. We were desperate to see them play live again and would scour the NME and Melody Maker every Wednesday morning for any gig announcements. Then, one bleak January morning, I saw in the NME an advert for our dream gig:
Day Tripper – The Charlatans & Ride at Brighton Centre (12th March 1993)