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Dark Phader guest writes for Rhino for shows at Harrogate, Scarborough and Southport.Unfortunately Rhino is temporarily suffering from PPIS, or Parfitt Parallel Injury Syndrome. This has, sadly, resulted in an acute manifestation of writer's cramp, rendering Rhino incapable of using his right hand for what he does best, which, as we all know, is to write this tour log. We suspect that the probable cause of his PPIS is the excessive use of the right hand and wrist indulging in his favourite hobby and pastime, polishing and bashing his instrument. Anyway, in the meantime he's asked me, Dark Phader, to fill you in on a crew view of Harrogate to Southport. As I have a problem remembering which bunk on the crew 'bus I'm sleeping in most nights, I'm not sure I'm worthy, but here goes: |
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Harrogate: Posh place in Yorkshire. Fancy restaurants with fancy names. We had a day off there before the show, so I did the rock 'n' roll thing and had my haircut by a proper Yorkshire barber and now I only look good in a cloth cap, pulled low over my ears. Some say that The Country Club (those strapping young men that pile up the Marshall cabs and organs and drums and stuff every day) looked that way on show day because they'd managed, against all odds, to have a good time on a day off in Harrogate and hadn't been to bed since the last show. Well that's just not true! I know for a fact that at least one member spent some time asleep in the bath with his stash of beers, and then went to bed with a headache. 
Show day was spent trying to shoehorn two trucks of light, sound and stage set onto a platform built for one truck. And avoid the Harrogate International Centre 'Smoke Police', a particularly malicious breed of non-smoking officials who pounce during moments of stress and indecision. "Excuse me," one smiled greasily, "but this has been declared a no smoking building. Could I ask you to do that outside?" I looked at my unlit Marly, and then at the two smoke machines kicking out the equivalent of a dozen Amsterdam coffee shops on a Saturday night and then back at him. Giving him one of my steeliest looks, I did the rock 'n' roll thing and slowly put the unlit Marly back in its pack and sloped off to catering. Over my doughnut and tea, I noticed that the caterers had made a wry and topical reference to the Jonathon King thing and put 'Toad in the Hole' at the top of the menu. I've watched over a thousand live Quo shows now and Francis still manages to make me laugh out loud every night with his audience banter. Harrogate brought us 'The Fart'. Francis' eyes could be seen watering from our FOH desk positions as he gagged for clean air in the fetid arse gas that swirled, with putrid menace, around the front row of the band. Accusing a punter on the front row of depositing the contents of his bowels on his seat, he then turned to shout a cheery "Helloooo! People in the posh seats!" Magic. Sources very close to the band tell me, however, that the rancid aroma was more likely to be a legendary Rhino 'Haymaker', a gaseous anal expulsion of such mythical potency that it is rumoured to have played a part in the recent conquest of a remote and unstable foreign state. Rhino was apparently spotted eating day old cold curry on the way to the gig. (What!!...not true, it wasn't me!!! ... OK Marks, if that's the way you want it, this is war. - Rhino) For me the show was a bit of a technical bummer, with half my wibbly wobbly lights going into sulk mode and refusing to play. I responded in a similar fashion, and pulled out the Marly Lights. A member of the Smoke Police came over as I sparked it up. I was shouting down the intercom to my man on the stage-side as the band went into full-on 'Down, Down', but the lighting rig didn't. It just twitched nervously. "Excuse me," he bellowed loudly, "but this has been declared a no smoking building. Could I ask you to do that outside?" Stumbling around my desk in his excitement to enforce a rule, he kicked over my bottle of wine. "Sure," I shouted back, "Would you mind just taking over here for a minute or two?" 
Scarborough: Pretty little bay with small harbour, overlooked by remains of big old castle up on the cliffs. Apparently the castle was the site of the original Scarborough Fair. I didn't realise that Paul Simon was so old. Scarborough also boasts a wicked sense of humour in the shape of the Futurist Theatre. Nothing about it has anything at all to do with any possible past or present future. From the stage backwards it becomes almost surreal, with concrete stairways winding up and down to shower cubicles and toilets piled high with paint and ladders and chairs. Some of the shower cubicles and toilets didn't have paint and ladders in them and these came in handy for dressing rooms and production offices. Again, the load in and fit up was a bit of a plod. The lack of stage space, or any other space, to put road cases and equipment can lead to what we in the touring industry technically call a 'clusterfuck'. Clusterfucks slow you down, make your day longer, so the last thing we needed was the North Yorkshire Fire and Rescue Service storming the building an hour before sound check fully kitted out with helmets, full face breathing apparatus, hatchets, torches and radios making load squawking noises. "Can't you lot hear the fire alarm? You've all got to leave, right now" the man in the different coloured helmet from all the rest shouted. The theatre was deadly quiet. No alarms. No flashing lights. It seems that only the street alarm had gone off, so the people in town and on the beach knew we were burning to death, but not us. So we stood outside in the Yorkshire drizzle with the four fire engines and waited and waited. 
As always, the show looked blinding, ('Paper Plane' being my current fave.) sounded great and the band kicked bottom. All out front, the audience, that old silver fox of a concrete mixer and myself had a splendid time. Strange how the satisfaction you get from a show can often be directly related to how difficult it was to make it happen.
Southport: Another windswept coastal town. Another cramped stage. During the fit up we were truly humbled to discover that Ken Dodd had been on this very stage only hours earlier. (Did you know that Ken Dodd's dad's dog's dead? Repeat this after 6 pints of Stella.) The afternoon tea dance in the adjoining Floral Hall, attended by the blue rinse of Southport, provided an amusing diversion on the long trek from the stage to catering, which due to heavy Smoke Police activity was the only place we could indulge our filthy habits, smoking being just one of them. Rick's blue balls continue to provide us all with moments of mirth and merriment as all forty of them glow silently blue in a corner, receiving their daily charge, ready for their performance.
The show was memorable for Francis almost getting through 'Never Say Never' word perfect, and the appearance of the tour tumble dryer sitting proudly on stage next to Rick and Francis' Marshalls, complete with some of Rick's balls. Salty says there was nowhere else to put it. I'm thinking of sticking a light in it and making it a regular feature… Perhaps an ironing board on the drum rise as well? But hey, this is supposed to be 'newsy', up to date stuff, not my rambling fantasies. I'm here to keep you abreast of things. Talking of keeping abreast of things, or even a thing of breasts, have you seen our support act, Nicole Lacey, the Scandinavian blonde from Yorkshire, recently the subject of a photo spread in the Daily Star? Suffice to say that Tim Monitors can't wait each night to plug his bits into her ears before she goes on stage. I notice she's sponsored by 'Nails of Distinction'. Odd that she should want an ironmonger as a sponsor. P'raps she's going to release an album called "Two Inch Ovals", or "Pin MC Hammer" on the "Nails of Distinction" label. I can see the TV ad now; three wooden crucifixion crosses on top of a hill, the centre one is empty. The picture then cuts to a bearded man, bleeding heavily from hands and feet, running through a crowded market, pursued by a group of Roman soldiers. Then up pops the slogan, "They should have used Nails of Distinction"... P'raps not. See you in a town near you soon, and remember, without lights, its just radio! Dark Phader. 27th Nov. 2001.
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