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Ride the Highway West
Friday’s gig was postponed at the last minute as Digital Criminals had called in sick. Instead of having a quiet night, we unleashed a Freaky Friday in the bar. With incredibly random songs on the jukebox, a good gang at the pool table, and a lot of beer sloshing around, it made a welcome change from karaoke in the Cambrian. Which brings us to Saturday night. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I wish to refer (again) to your humble reporter’s misspent youth.
As I’ve mentioned before, I spent far too much time in the Carpenters Arms back in the day. (Note for younger readers: ask your parents about this particular den of iniquity. Or your grandparents, come to that.) As well as spending many evenings passively stoned, I acquired a fairly broad knowledge of the Rock scene.
This half-remembered list of popular beat combos came in handy on Saturday night. Aberdare Motorcycle Club were holding a fundraiser in memory of Gar Jones – popularly known as ‘Trike’ – who has sadly gone to ride the big highway in the sky. With biker colours everywhere, it didn’t look like the sort of crowd who would ordinarily listen to the Bangles. A few songs into Barrie’s default 1980s Pop Party playlist, I decided to dust off a project I started a couple of months ago.
Having typed out the names of thirty or so rock bands, I passed the Netbook to Barrie. Then I remembered that my Dobermann CD was still in the laptop anyway. We cranked that up while Barrie went through his library, searching for any of the bands on my list.
Rule 35: Don’t be afraid to outsource work to someone who might be able to do a better job.
As soon as the first Dobermann song kicked in, the faces of the hard rockin’ dudes by the bar lit up. I took the opportunity to tell them what a great band they’d missed on my birthday, and recommended checking them out. A few more classic rock tunes followed, and the atmosphere was perfect for the Witching Hour to take to the stage.
They’re a very young five-piece band, fronted by a female singer. In fact, they’re so young that had I been in barmaid mode, rather than virtual DJ mode, I’d have had to ask them all for ID. But youth is no barrier to ability. Most musicians start learning their craft far earlier than my own first faltering attempts to play guitar. (They’re still faltering attempts. – Ed.) They have a very contemporary sound, with laid-back vocals over nice melodic content. Were I to label them, I’d probably veer towards Emo. But all the barriers are breaking down these days (as I noted with the Stiff Joints last week). It’s a good thing. For a long time, Heavy Rock seemed to be stuck in a rut – and if you don’t evolve, you go extinct.
By way of contrast, the Witching Hour suggest that there’s still fresh territory to explore. How many old-school Rock bands would include a great version of Britney Spears’ hit ‘Toxic’ in their set? If you missed them this time, they’ll be here for another benefit gig on 12 May. If I hadn’t pretty much finalised the line-up for my own Anthony Nolan fundraiser a fortnight later, I’d be tempted to invite them along. They’re definitely on the bench in the event of illness and/or injury.
While the bands change over, I’d like to take you back four decades or so and relate my first encounter with bikers.
We’d spent a week with relatives in Kent, and were heading home on the Saturday afternoon. The M25 was still a dotted line on a town planner’s map, so we were taking the scenic route through the North Downs. Mother was driving; Dad was ‘navigating’ (allegedly); Phil and I were playing I Spy in the back seat. Between Dorking and Guildford there’s a fairly steep hill, and halfway up this hill the engine of our VW Golf coughed apologetically and died.
There was a phone box not too far away, so Dad went to call the AA while we sat in the car. (Note to younger readers: ask your parents about phone boxes too.) The Knight of the Road looked more like a Boy Scout when he turned up, but he got us moving again. For a mile or so, anyway.
This time, Dad went in search of a garage that might be open. At which point the bikers appeared.
A bunch of extras from Mad Max hove into view and drew to a halt just behind us. Mother was pretty frightened by this bunch of long-haired, bearded, tattooed, leather- and denim-clad mountain men, but one of them came over and tapped on the window. Mother cracked the window and the guy smiled at us all.
‘Having a bit of trouble, love?’ he said, very politely and calmly.
Mother explained what had happened, and he asked her to pop the bonnet open. We watched while he detached a hose from the engine, spat a couple of mouthfuls of petrol onto the verge, and reconnected the hose.
‘Try turning her over,’ he said. The engine started first time.
This cheerful ogre explained that a bit of paper – possibly part of the label from our petrol cap – had become lodged in the fuel line. He’d sucked it out and resolved the problem. By now, Dad was on his way back to the car. The lads greeted him, we told Dad what had happened, and he offered them some money in return. (He didn’t have a lot of cash in his wallet, but probably enough to buy them a pint each.) They told Dad to keep his money, and asked where were heading to.
‘We’re turning off at the next roundabout,’ the Viking warrior told us. ‘We’ll stick with you until we get there, just to make sure everything’s OK.’
And they did. We had a biker escort for the next mile or so, and they all waved us off as they roared away into the distance.
From that day on, I’ve always had the utmost respect for bikers. Through drinking in the Carpenters (of course) I got to know a fair number of the local crowd. I only knew Trike to say hello to in passing, but that’s why I made a point of coming on Saturday night.
And you’re back in the room.
Universal Translators are from Brecon, and if Witching Hour represented the younger end of the spectrum, these guys were slightly older … than me. With a bass-playing frontman, a superb guitarist, and a drummer laying down granite foundations, Universal Translators were just what the doctor had ordered.
They kicked off their set with ‘Money for Nothing’, which definitely isn’t in the Great Valleys Songbook. You’ll be pleased to learn that I kept my Sting-style backing vocals to myself this time. I haven’t heard Cheap Trick for years, so I’d forgotten what a great song ‘I Want You to Want Me’ is. ‘Back in the USSR’ took me back to my early karaoke experiments, while ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ took me back to my more recent karaoke experiments. (They weren’t successful experiments. – Ed.) ‘You Really Got Me’ is often described as the first true Heavy Rock song. It fitted perfectly into the set, as did ‘Stuck in the Middle with You’. In fact, these guys were hitting all the right notes in the right order.
My gast was totally flabbered when my old pal Kerry (naturally blonde and happy that way) rocked up to our table and asked if I’d seen Cathryn and Julie. The others were there, but they must have sneaked in when I was at the bar. It’s good to know that their tolerance for alcohol is still as limited as it was when I first met them. But they liked the place, and I think we’ll be seeing them again.
Rule 36: We’re gonna need a bigger beer garden.
Most bikers I know smoke, and at one point I think there were more people outside than there were in the music room. But people were dancing and everyone was enjoying themselves. I chatted to a fair number of people over the course of the night. As always when I’m around bikers, I was struck by their sense of community – especially in support of old comrades. The club had even had patches made up in Trike’s memory, which they were selling on the night. I know a lot of the gang by sight, of course, but it was a great opportunity to reforge old friendships and establish new ones. Everyone had a great time in a fine setting of respect and solidarity.
The raffle was drawn during the interval. I don’t know how many prizes there were, but it seemed to go on for hours. I didn’t win anything. Again.
Then the band came back on. My list of Barrie’s Top Rock Picks had included ‘Fleetwood Mac (not the airy-fairy nonsense)’, and Universal Translators had obviously taken this advice. They played ‘The Chain’, but only the important bit, without farting about for five minutes first. The second half of their set was firmly rooted in the Great Valleys Songbook (a samizdat copy has obviously found its way to Brecon), but by this point everyone was having too much of a good time to care. The punters kept dancing. The punters kept drinking. The punters kept smiling and hugging. Most importantly, the punters raised well over £600 for Trike’s family.
And ‘family’ is the operative word here. One guy I spoke to during the night is 70 years old, and he described the biker scene as ‘family’. Any loss is deeply felt throughout the family. I’ve called this one ‘Ride the Highway West’ because (as all fans of heroic fantasy know), the West is where the fallen heroes go to dwell among the undying. RIP, Trike.
