Blog 16
Thank you to anyone still sticking with this blog after the caesura of the summer and lockdown. Any comments would be most welcome, if only to dispel the uneasy sense of writing to the hollow echoes of a vast empty room. I mean, really, they would.
The Cheating Hearts have been my band for the last quarter of a century. The older you get, the more easily phrases like that slide of the tongue. Those of us on the precipice of seventy are wealthy in time spent. It is why the pandemic is a double hit. Not only is it more lethal, it is robbing us of an increasingly finite resource: years to come.
So for over a third of my life, I have been a Cheating Heart.
The Hearts are the Trigger’s broom of the local music scene. Our handles and brushes have been frequently replaced.
The Ken Barlow of the band, the Father of the House, is Shugs Millidge, the bass player. He has been a member for one gig more than me. He is, or so he asserts, the ‘moral conscience ‘of the band. That’s certainly one way of putting it. ‘Taste Nazi’ would be another. “The Eagles? I’m not playing that Peaceful fucking Queasy Feeling!”
In 1995 he was asked to dep for a band from Barnoldswick. Suitably impressed, (and why wouldn’t they be, Shugs is an outstanding bass player), they immediately asked him to join.
“So I said yeah, but I have certain demands” Shug told me the day after on the phone. “We have to have a keyboard player, that’d be you Nick, and the name’s got to go”.
“What are they called now?”
“Rocker’s Revenge”
“The name’s got to go”.
And so Shug told his rather startled new band that he was joining, the new piano player would be coming along to the next gig and they were now called ‘The Cheating Hearts’.
Sadly I can’t remember where the first gig was but the band comprised myself and Shug, a fine drummer called Mick Beckwith, or possibly a chap called Andy Nutter, (Mick soon became the permanent drummer), and a local guitar strangler of some renown called Ian Alveston. Ian was an elegant dresser, although in fairness the Hearts are a band that sets the sartorial bar pretty low generally. As far as I know, he is the only Cheating Heart sadly no longer with us. It is a double blow really as he was the only one amongst us to possess a tie. (That’s not quite true; I have always felt that you should get up on stage not looking like you have just come in from the street. The rest of the Hearts tend to not even care which street they have come in from).
Bands are invariably built around the singer; in this case the epicentre of the band was a great bull of a man called Peter Gardner. Peter is a genuinely authentic country singer, (although he is not confined to country). He has the widest repertoire of songs at his fingertips, or larynx, than anyone I know. Hundreds, if not thousands of good songs are at his disposal, and dispose of them we often did. Consequently a Hearts gig can last seemingly forever. Apart from the period when The Watson commanded the stage this has always been a feature of the band. Peter summed up this approach one night before a gig. “See what it is, Nick,” he explained, “If the crowd isn’t with it, or not really getting it, I have a technique to win them over”. “What’s that then Peter”? I asked, genuinely interested. He took a swig of beer. “I just plough relentlessly on” he said.”Usually works”.
And he did. We never had a set list. Pete would just set off and we would follow on behind, if only out of curiosity, and so it has been for the last 25 years. One of us is first out of the traps, (with our current lead singer James, you have to be a bit sharpish) and off we go, wandering down rhythm avenue, taking in the sights along the way. We have some favourites we usually include but it could be anything really. Before you make a mental note never to come and see the Hearts It is a little bit more than busking, but sometimes not by much. More often than not, it is deeply satisfying, everything slots together, it’s fresh, it develops and it says something. What it says I’m not entirely sure of admittedly, but it does. It can on occasion groove like a motherfucker, as Bing Crosby used to say, but of course, just occasionally it can be a train wreck with each band member limping into the station ruefully one at a time. Only the odd tune, mind, but that the price you pay for a pathological reluctance to rehearse. Others call it laziness, we prefer ‘improvisation’. The Hearts have never been a financial triumph but we have always been a success d’estime. People come from miles to see us. Of course, an equal number would probably travel the same distance not to see us.
Like all singers and front men Peter had a substantial ego, but that is a necessary condition to get the job done. There is though, a type of bandleader whose enormous self esteem is matched by an equal regard for their fellow musicians. Peter is of this kind. His massive presence on stage would never obscure your solo. He knew his worth but it didn’t stop him being self deprecating. He may have been the main man, but he admired and respected his fellow players. And he could be very funny.
He was also touchingly kind. He would frequently advise me to get a hard case for my piano, instead of the less protective gig bag I used. “I’ll make thee one” he offered a few times. (He was from Barnoldswick where they have always refused to speak twentieth century). I didn’t take his offer seriously.
One sunny afternoon we were playing a festival in the town of Barnoldswick. It was in a kind of amphitheatre in a park and the weather was glorious. Shug and I parked up and crested the hill above the stage area. There, centre stage was a magnificently crafted flight case for a piano. Peter had got the dimensions of my Fatar master keyboard and spent hours making a flight case. I say made, hewn would be more accurate. Consisting of, I suspect, solid teak and constructed with an adze, Peter had finished it off in bright blue with ‘Nick Cornall’ in fluorescent red letters that could give you a migraine. I have probably lived in houses less sturdy. I have certainly lived in houses less heavy. It took two of us to carry it, squinting and purple faced to the car. I was brushing sawdust out of the piano for months afterwards. It was an act of great generosity. I still have it in one of my sheds. Come to think of it, it is one of my sheds. Peter did his best to cover up his thoughtfulness with a gruff trucker’s bellicose manner. He rarely succeeded.
We were in ‘The Duke of Edinburgh’ one evening, a pub in Barrow-in-Furness. This was a musician’s pub, one of those rare venues where the audience have gone specifically to see the band. Discriminating and knowledgeable, they were attentive, understood the social contract, (applaud each song, its good manners if nothing else) and we liked playing there. Any local musician without a gig that night would come down and the atmosphere was always welcoming. These places are few and far between. Nowadays they are the only kind of pubs we play, which explains the longeurs between shows. (Well, mainly explains them).
Usually, and certainly at ‘The Duke of Edinburgh’ there would be a few among the audience eager to have a chat after the set. Invariably they would be fellow musicians. This particular evening we were picked off one by one. ‘Hi, I’m a drummer too’ said one bloke, immediately engaging Mick in drummer talk. The temptation to make a joke here is almost overwhelming. The fact that that joke would be supercilious and patronising just makes it even more tempting to be honest, but I won’t. No, really I won’t.
(Ok then, given my approach to temptation is always to embrace rather than resist:
How do you know there is a drummer at the door? He knocks too loud and doesn’t know when to come in. Good eh?)
‘That bass, is that really Duck Dunn’s signature on your precision?’ said another member of the audience, addressing Shug rather reverently. ‘Great chops, really enjoyed it’. Another guy approached me about how I got the Hammond sound. ‘Growly, definite growl, what is it, an overdrive of some kind?’ I am a sucker for anyone who shows an interest in gear. Ian, who was always engagingly self regarding and had gone to some effort to look particularly dapper and soignée that evening looked discomfited for a moment. We had all been immediately accosted and he was stood slightly alone. He was missing out on the praise, clearly. Ian was rather used to praise. Fortunately another punter blundered over and looked at Ian. ‘You the guitarist?’ he asked. Out of the corner of our eyes Shug and I saw Ian mumble modestly, preen a little and pull himself to his full height.
‘I like your hat’ said the punter.
In 1997 we were at the Colne blues festival again. That year we were the Saturday night band at the marquee at the rugby club. We had also been booked for the Sunday afternoon. Usually there would be two or three bands on but the organisers knew how long The Hearts could play for. Booking The Hearts could save them a fortune. To tempt us, we were offered free beer.
Shug decided to take advantage of this unlooked for rider and take Mabel. Mabel was his enormous double axled motor home which had the advantage of getting all his and my gear in, and offering somewhere to sleep between the two gigs. Mabel was quite impressive, illuminated on the exterior with dozens of lights to safely announce her huge bulk in the dark. The first time he ever came to pick me up for a gig was a misty October night and as Mabel drew sedately up to the house in the crepuscular fog she looked nothing more like than an 19th century brig kissing up against Bristol docks to offload the contraband.
(Shug would use Mabel to go to work. One day, he claims, there was a Lancaster bomber, obviously on its way to some aeronautic display flying just to larboard. Famously slow and unwieldy to fly, 15 miles later approaching Clitheroe, the Lancaster was still lazily cruising parallel to Mabel).
We arrived and set up. Our first beer arrived in a huge dinner ladies flagon, with some empty pint glasses. We made short work of it and sent off imperiously for a refill.
Peter counted us in on Dylan’s ‘I’ll be your baby tonight’ and off we marched to the distant foothills of battering the audience into submission. We only had four hours or so and Peter had a lot to get through. The beer kept coming by the flagon. We had an appreciative packed crowd, a warm festival atmosphere and Peter was particularly brilliant that night. I mentioned authenticity. The Hearts have always had that. We know our limitations, we have no ridiculous illusions of stardom but we do we do well and more to the point, it’s worth doing. Peter started that whole ball rolling for us 25 years ago, singing what he knew were real songs with real musicians and frankly, sod the audience. It’s not exactly a business plan of course, but it is what we do.
The drummer that evening was Declan Sanderson. Dec is a small compact neat guy, but small stature also can mean, I suppose, small bladder. His suggestion after an hour of a short break became a cross eyed pleading by the hour and a half mark. Eventually he could wait no longer. As Peter gave one of his lengthier introductions to the next song, Dec swivelled on his drum throne and, having adjusted his ride cymbal for modesty’s sake, peed thankfully into the gap between the stage blocks and the tented sides of the marquee, in an exhalation of steam and relief, finishing just in time for Peters next count in.
After three hours Peter did take a break which we took gratefully, and in Dec’s case rather resentfully. Shugs told me he was going to move Mabel to just outside the back of the marquee as it would be easier to load the gear and he would be too pissed later to do it. My personal view that that particular ship had sailed well over an hour and about four flagons ago did nothing to dissuade him and off he went. He re-emerged 15 minutes later via the canvas flapped side of the marquee, Eric Morecambe-like, having been quite unable to find the very visible entrance. ‘Ok?’ I said, concerned. He patted my arm and tapped his nose. ‘s’alright, sorted, just outside, nice and bonny’. When Shug is really pissed you can tell, his eyes start rolling uncontrollably upwards. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not pissed’ he reassured me, as his eyes rolled upwards.
We finished the set at 2 am. We had started at 8 pm. The bar manager had been home for a sleep in the intervening period. We had started another flagon as we sat in the bar exhausted. He stamped over, somewhat indignant that we had, in his opinion, rather stretched the rider somewhat. ‘Come on lads, its 2 am, you’ve been on free beer for 6 hours’. ‘We’re the Saturday night band, the only one you booked, and it was free beer for the band’ we protested. ‘Yes’ he said, ‘Saturday’s band, this is 2 am Sunday morning!’. Peter was affronted. ‘So will Sunday’s band be on free beer?’ ‘Sunday’s band will yes, but that’s Sunday, and you’re Saturday’s band’ remonstrated the aggrieved manager. ‘Reet then’ said Peter thrusting the flagon into the manager’s hand with some satisfaction, ‘Fill her up, we’re Sunday’s band too’. ‘Bollocks’ muttered the defeated manager retreating to the bar to fill the jug again.
We decided not to leave the gear in an empty marquee overnight and set about packing up. This is the really enjoyable part of being an amateur. Tired and sweaty, being allowed the privilege of humping amps that are twice as heavy as when you carried them in, untangling leads that were completely untangled when you laid them and squeezing gear into bags and cases that fit perfectly well a few hours ago, but now, somehow, don’t. This is in addition to barking your shin on a Fender Twin left inexplicably just where you wanted to walk. (Why can you only bark a shin, why are there no recorded cases of barking an elbow?) Packing up is by far the best part of the evening. It’s even better of course when you are tired, drunkenly uncoordinated and it has been pissing down for the last four hours.
(I once heard an ex roadie talking about working for ‘The Animals’ in America. Eric Burdon’s fine band was the first to ‘break’ America. Their support band on this particular occasion was ‘The Beatles’. As he was carrying an amp off stage he brushed against Paul McCartney. ‘Watch where you’re going’, snapped Macca. As he carried the amp apologetically off stage John Lennon leaned over and said, ‘just smack the cunt’. ‘I thought at the time’ he said, ‘they’re not going to last forever’.)
As we packed up Ian leaned down and retrieved some cables from the gap behind the stage blocks. Shug and I had seen, with some amused delight, Dec’s urinatory exigency against the back of the marquee. Ian hadn’t. He picked up the cables and ran them through his hands, sinuously straightening out their full length. ‘Here, look at this’ he grimaced. ‘There isn’t half some condensation on these leads’. Shug and I looked away.
The last job was loading the assembled gear into Mabel parked conveniently just outside the back of the marquee in the pouring rain. Just beyond this was the campsite for festival goers, none of whom had parked or set up on the suspiciously flat, manicured half acre where Mabel now proudly sat. ‘See’ said Shug, proudly. ‘Perfect, we can get the gear in, have a sleep, and,’ he beamed, ’maybe more beer’ he rubbed his hands together. ‘Then tomorrow we can have breakfast and carry the gear in nice and easy’. He looked thoughtfully at the empty space around Mabel and the distant rows of tents and parked cars. ‘Can’t think why nobody else is parked here actually’
‘Because it’s their bowling green?’ I suggested, eyeing the double axled tyre tracks carved and gouged like muddy crop circles into the beautifully kept grass.
‘Pardon?’ Said Shug.