I Used to be in a Band – ‘What’s That Noise?’ – 1991

When you get a call from the BBC asking you to be on one of their shows its a fair assumption that you’ve actually made it. Yes, the BBC actually called us up and asked us to be on their music artsy programme What’s That Noise. I was a massive fan of the original run of the programme which was charismatically presented by Craig Charles. Being a massive fan of Red Dwarf as well I was so excited I could have burst at the prospect of actually meeting him. Having said that, we had appeared on Jools Holland’s Happening a few years back and not actually met Jools himself at all. I placed my excitement in reserve and in retrospect it was a good job that I did. Repackaged and revamped, What’s That Noise was being presented by Tony Gregory whom we had met before when appearing on rival channel ITV’s Motormouth. Our manager, Norman, even had the balls to ask Tony why he switched sides. Tony answered awkwardly that it was for the prestige but certainly not the pay. Ryan just stuck asking Tony where Craig Charles was, a question which obviously didn’t go any way towards lifting the awkwardness at all.

Technology had marched on during the time that we had been frequenting television studios. Instead of the usual clip-on microphones or makeshift vocals mics on a stand, ‘gun-shot’ microphones placed some way in front of us. Pointing up from the floor they were unobtrusive and picked up the sound beautifully from quite a distance. It was a great relief not to be tied to a microphone whilst playing the mouth organ for a change. One could almost be forgiven for forgetting that the mics were there at all. Set in an arty mood with a studio reminiscent of the minimalistic set for The Old Grey Whistle Test, the new format for the show was strikingly different to what I was used to watching on the original Craig Charles version. Long fading camera shots, multiple takes and extremely talented musicians took up the whole day and went on well into the evening as all acts performed their numbers.

As we were about to trudge back to our dressing room a dandy looking, very petite chap in a red velvet suit stood in the middle of the studio floor and asked us all to gather round. I recognised the musical director straight away. We had been introduced to him earlier in the day but up until that point had not actually had any interaction with him. He explained that he wanted everyone to perform a piece intro music for the show. The piece would then be used as a backdrop for Tony to present the acts and do a talk-over. The idea was for us each to play a different note in harmony with the other groups, artists and musicians appearing that day as one big band altogether. Musical director that he was he knew exactly what he wanted us to play. He walked past the line of us five lads and called a note out pointing to each of us as he passed. I was told to play a D flat, John was told to play an F. Bearing in mind the amount of collaboration that needed to happen between the various sorts of musicians for this to come off correctly, it became obvious to me that this velvet clad dandy knew what he was doing.

At the end of quite a long day of ‘work’ five teenage boys can get a bit restless. Things had got a bit pushy and shovey down the line up as the day had gone on and John was in a particularly odd teenage mood by the time we came to the big band slot. Our managers had retreated hours ago into the control room with the director and editing crew. We were unsupervised, tired and not the most receptive we could have been.

After the first run-through things were sounding a little odd. The musical director moved between the acts and stuck his ear out in front of each of them in turn listening for the culprit with the bum note. He circled past us and stopped in front of John. The chap leaned forward and very politely told John in a whisper that he was playing the wrong note. John seemed to take this piece of criticism very well to begin with. Having a reputation for being more than a little unreasonable at band rehearsals when it came to correction, I was surprised when there came no reaction. When John was right, he was right and no amount of proof or logic or evidence would sway him. I knew it had all gone a little too well. As the musical director turned his back to walk away John pulled a face. Waiting until the chap was half way across the room John started:
“Fucking c***, who does he think he is?” John said under his breath. All the time staring daggers at the musical director’s back across the room from us. The musical director stopped suddenly. Still with his back to us he lifted the index finger on his left hand to his earpiece. His head turned in our direction, just for a second. After a moment he carried on walking, almost as if he meant to go and do something and then thought better of it. Ryan gave an affirming snigger in John’s direction, so John carried on.
“Fucking twat, fucking telling me I played the wrong note. Fuck him.” John grinned across the room aggressively in the musical director’s direction. By this time Peter had joined in the sniggering.
“How much of a twat is he then John?” Ryan smirked, egging him on.
“He can’t fucking tell me what note I’m playing. I know what fucking note I’m playing. I’m doing it fucking right, must be some other c***.” vented John.

As usual at this point in this sort of situation, we all joined in. Swearing, giggling and calling the musical director all the names under the sun then ensued from all of us. Bravely done behind his back and far across the studio floor from him.

Segment finished and in the can, we were presented by a runner to our red-faced managers Norman and David. They ushered us out of the studio, barely giving us time to wash the make up off our faces. Being herded into the back of a white transit van and careering off in a screech of tires was becoming a bit of a habit. We sat in silence on the way to the hotel that night. Silence was also the main theme for the van drive home down the A12 in the morning. Just outside the M25 I ventured to dare to ask Norman what the matter was.
“I’m still too angry too angry to say anything at the moment.” Norman commented sternly.
I hung my head in shame, we had been bad again and again I had no idea what had happened. I reassured myself that I sat on the side of the righteous had nothing to worry about. At this point I had a very clear conscience.

Norman stopped the van just outside of Chelmsford to fill up with petrol. Peter, John and Ryan all piled out of the back of the van and into the shop. For some strange reason, John decided that what would make the ultimate snack, the king of comestibles would not be a pack of crisps or a chocolate bar like any other normal person. Oh no, in his tiny pea-sized brain John thought it would be totally awesome (it was the nineties after all) to buy a sliced white loaf of bread. We set off again and the five of us rattled around in the back of the van getting more and more boisterous. Norman and David on the other hand sitting in the front seats of the van, got more and more stern. Things got out of hand. With no seats in the back of the van the five of us were free to kick the living shit out of each other if we so desired. Something we did quite regularly on tours. With no seats or harnesses in the way we took full advantage of the space and started throwing stuff at each other. A toilet roll, a rolled up towel, a cushion, a wash bag with toiletries still in it etc. This all went flying around the inside of the back of the van, much to our own amusement. In a stroke of pure genius(!) John decided that he would ball up slices of dry bread and hurl them at the rest of us. Pretty soon the back of the van looked like a bad snow scene. Crumbled and smeared white sliced loaf was in our hair, our clothes and stuck to pretty much every surface it could. It was when someone, I forget who, started chewing up the bread and making spit-laden dough balls that Norman stepped in. The van came to a screeching halt in a lay-by. Norman leaned over the back of his seat and started grabbing bits of bread manically. Ryan got the arse that he had been thrown around in the stopping of the vehicle and was making ‘I’m going to sue you’ noises at Norman. Norman was not interested.

“You are never going on TV ever again. This is the last trip I ever do for you lot.” shouted Norman amidst his bread grabbing fury.
“It’s only a bit of fun Norman.” countered John, “we’ll clear it up, don’t cry about it.”
“Yeah don’t howl Norm.” seconded Peter.
“Its not the bread that’s pissed me off, although it would have been nice to have been offered some. I’m starving!” said Norman, “It’s what happened at the BBC that’s really got me mad.”

The five of us exchanged quizzical looks for a moment. Then it dawned on me.
Norman delivered the coupe de grace: “We could hear you breathing in the control room.”

The entire floor staff had heard every breath we took and every word we said. The feed from the gun-shot microphones that we had mistakenly forgotten about had taken our foul-mouthed tirade against the musical director and plumbed it round the entire studio. Most importantly it fed right into the earpiece of the red-suited dandy of a musical director.

“We didn’t know where to look after the first 5 minutes of you boys swearing.” David put in.
“Once you piss off the BBC you have pretty much dug your own grave as far as TV goes.” finished Norman.
He was being melodramatic, but he was understandably very angry and embarrassed. I am sure at the time we all thought it was a great big laugh, but really… you never know who’s listening.

I Used to be in a Band – Radio Norfolk 1989 – Part I

A cabaret act made up of 5 teenage boys from Great Yarmouth playing mouth organs? Sounds exactly like the sort of thing that would win a talent contest run by Radio Norfolk, doesn’t it? As a band we had attended many of these sorts of local talent show events. Our older manager, Norman, thought it was a great way for us to get local exposure and keep us in the public eye. Our younger manager David on the other hand, was always looking at the bigger picture of national coverage for the band. Well, when I say that the exposure and brand awareness was for the band, what I actually mean is that it was for the organisation that bore us: Harp Start. The children’s harmonica school aimed to put a mouth organ in the hands of every child in the UK, free of charge. Running an organisation like that required sponsorship, earnings and donations from wherever possible (as long as they were legal!). It was therefore important that we took every opportunity to get into the public eye that we could. Which included humiliating ourselves at a local talent show.

We were put onto the event by Radio Norfolk impresario and children’s entertainer, Olly Day. Not his real name I was led to understand, but he lived up to the name by being one of the most nauseatingly happy people I have ever met. You know, one of those people who almost makes you want to rise to the challenge of pissing him off. Even at the tender age of 12 I was sure I wanted to make it my mission to wipe the eternal smile from his face. Something I am almost ashamed to say that we achieved collectively as a band. Norman and David had been trolling the local radio stations to try to get a bite for local coverage for the band and came across a friendly ear in Olly. He invited us onto his evening radio show so that we could play a few tunes and Norman and David could beg for cash. Sorry, I mean ‘put out a well-mannered plea for sponsorship to be forthcoming’. My bad, but in the years following the events depicted here the constant pleas for sponsorship became blatant and to be honest, plain embarrassing. At its lowest point David basically used to get us to play at bars so that he could get free drinks all night. The man was an alcoholic, amongst other things, so I guess he had needs. Having been one myself as an adult, I understand.

Upon our arrival at the Radio Norfolk station HQ the 5 of us lads were ushered into an empty studio to wait for Olly to be ready for us to go out live on the air. Norman and David were off pressing the flesh, meeting and greeting etc., whatever managers do, I really can’t remember. The point is that we were unattended in what was basically a studio room with a sound desk, microphones and sound proofed walls. We foolishly assumed that the equipment was switched off and that the massive mirror along one side of the studio was for us to see ourselves in. What is it they say? Never assume anything as it makes an ass out of you and me.

John was first. Pretending to be conducting an interview he donned the ‘cans’ that were floating around on the desks and started to play his harmonica as loud as he could into the assumed not-live microphone in front of him. “Yes, yes ladies and gentlemen that was John playing the mouth organ and yes he is fucking awesome so fuck you all and goodnight!” he playfully chatted in his best radio voice. Situations sometimes spiralled out of control with us as group of lads. Just the same as when you are a kid hanging around on street corners. Someone shouts at an old lady, someone kicks a milk bottle, someone else throws something and before long you have a ‘chase’ and it all gets out of control. Most of the time with us 5 it just seemed to be a small spark to light a firework. Once John had broken the seal of faux radio voices and swearing into the microphone we were all doing it. “Hi, my name’s Olly-fucking-Day it is, and that is my real fucking name because I’m a fucking twat!” was Peter’s riposte at the top of his lungs into the nearest microphone. Ryan chose an American style radio voice for some reason, “My name’s Olly Day and I like to suck a lot of cock.” I will spare you the rest of the depth of profanity that graced those fine radio station walls, but needless to say that all of it was the product of undereducated underclass teenage boys imagination and none of it was suitable for broadcasting.

After about 30 minutes of this and a whole bunch of other japes, which may or may not of included one of us pulling a mooney in front of the ‘mirror’, Norman and David came to get us to take us through for the live show.

The studio for the live broadcast was only next door to the one we had been held in. I say ‘held’ because it really did seem like being held in a cell after 30 minutes of that sort of behaviour. I thought it seemed odd that they didn’t have a mirror on their wall, just a dirty great window that looked into an empty studio. I could hear music playing through the cans that graced the desks and hung from microphones over tables that looked like the sort you play cards on. There was one guy at the sound desk with cans on and next to him with cans round his neck and a very red face indeed was Olly himself. It looked like someone had achieved my ultimate goal of wiping the supercilious smile from his face. Ever the professional Olly ushered us in, forced a smile and gestured seats for us all. He arranged us round a microphone with a stern face and more forced smiling, then positioned microphones and even patted one of us on the head when we did as we were bid. It was true to say that through all the professionalism that Olly displayed, he atmosphere absolutely stank. The free and easy Olly Day that we had all met when we first came to the station that night had gone and a stern, professional exterior remained. I could sense a change in his demeanour and Norman and David definitely sensed it. The interview was given to David from an increasingly red-faced Olly who seemed like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Was it my imagination or was he rushing the interview and getting to the bit where we were to play a tune rather quickly? It was previously arranged that he would speak to one of us lads and ask us about our personal experience with the mouth organ, but that didn’t take place. Perhaps there wasn’t time?

At the end of our segment Olly thanked us all and shook all our hands on our way out of the studio. Our new best friend in radio-land, happy to give us a plug whenever he could, helping us on our merry way of promoting our career down the very path we required. Or so we thought. Just as the last of us exited the studio door, Olly called after Norman and David, “Could I have a quick word please gents?” he asked, ever politely. “You boys can wait in reception and try to behave yourselves.” David offered after us, a tad too little too late.

Five minutes later our teacher/managers emerged into the reception area of the Radio Norfolk foyer with very sullen faces indeed and eyes that could look at anywhere but us. I was used to conflicts in adults and as a child grew up with a violent father who could turn on you at any moment, I knew when I was in trouble and Norman and David displayed all the signs. “What’s up?” I asked David. It was always easier to ask David about his feelings on a subject, he was usually less angry and less likely to dish out a punishment. Perhaps I felt like I could get away with more where David was concerned, I had known Norman longer and knew he had higher standards and ran a tougher regime. “You’ll have to wait until we get back to the van, I am sure Norman and I have a few choice things to discuss with you all.” I hated waiting for retribution. As an adult, waiting for punishment gives me have a panic attack, as a child I dealt with it in far worse ways.

Back at the van, blissfully unaware that we had done anything wrong, the other lads carried on with their usual japery and banter. Norman started the engine and as soon as we were mobile, David started his speech. Turning round in his seat the face the rest of us that were lounging around in the back of the Ford Transit van, he explained it all.

It turned out that whilst we had been left alone in the vacant studio room, all the microphones in there had been left on and the ‘mirror’, you might have guessed, was a one-way glass that was visible from the studio that Olly resided in next door. The feed from all the microphones in our room had been ringing in his ears throughout the broadcast he had been engaged in previous to our segment, ready for him to interview us from that very room. Apparently, Olly had said that we were never to darken the doors of Radio Norfolk ever again. He didn’t get his wish, we had a talent show to contend in!

To be continued…

Diary of a Graphic Designer

Monday April 8^th 2013

Was asked to design some logos for the company website. Decided to use the same font I have used on everything else as its edgy in its sans seriff-ness and its also monospaced so it’s really difficult to read. Will really make me stand out as a designer I feel.

Placed the font ‘white-out’ on a number of different coloured backgrounds (2 to be precise) and stared at them for 2 hours tapping my forefinger on my chin and sighing intermittently. I wanted the other guys in the office to know that I am working very hard on this, so I got up a few times as well to view the logos on my screen from different distances.

Decided that both logos are fantastic and that I am a fantastic designer so I printed them out on the finest quality, most expensive paper the office has in stock and stared at those on my desk for a good hour, just to make sure I was sure about the two colours I had chosen.

Have decided that both colours are terrible and need to start again from scratch.

Really should start the company calendar for 2014, someone might try to bring me some actual work soon and I need to do all I can to avoid that!

Tuesday April 9^th 2013

Finished two new logo designs, using old font and two new colours. Printed out another two copies of each logo idea for the company website again (one for my portfolio) and decided that I would submit them. Rehearsed my presentation speech in my head as to how to explain how I came to the design and the thoughts and feelings I was trying to convey with them.

Made a really cool folder to keep the print-outs in to go on my desk. Hunted round for at least an hour to find the correct colour piece of card and spent ages cutting it to shape so that the print-outs jutted out of it just-so. Was truly vexed as it wasn’t complete without a natty little label to tell me what it was in case I forgot what the folder was that was on my desk. Spent reasonable amount of time making label look like it had been thrown on, but in a kitsch, nonchalant way.

Wednesday April 10^th 2013

Searched for 2014 calendar schedule in Bing. I like Bing as it is not as mainstream as Google. Google is so passe. I can choose a photo I like to go behind my Bing page and make it more personal to me, more individual. I don’t think people get me, or understand how individual I am. I mean, I design things. I make people feel things and make them look in awe and wonder. Like my Bing search page and my new folder for my logo proofs. I am soooo individual.

Search took a good 4 hours to find a calendar site I liked the look of enough to use their information. I mean, the site can’t expect me to use their information if their site isn’t well designed and great to look at! Everyone knows that the information is always more reliable on a well designed site.

Thought I would just copy and paste the information for one month at a time to retain the accuracy of the information, but then decided to re-type the info as that would make me more edgy and individual. I mean, if I never use copy and paste then I can’t be accused of copying anyone and therefore be more individual!
Started with July, as it’s a cool month and opened last years template.

Thursday April 11^th 2013

Decided using last years template is plagiarism and started new document from scratch. Went and measured every calendar in the building to try to find a size that no-one has used before.