“So how much is it going to cost, then?” The Tour Manager for Symposium was perched next to me in Fibbers tiny office, crammed as usual with expired office furniture, band paraphernalia, old posters and set lists taped to the wall, staff rotas (example note, “Can I work next Wednesday for Mansun, please please please”), long-expired cups of tea, dead microphones, a wonky pile of CDs and several overflowing ashtrays. “£100 should do it”, I said and we pondered the unexpected events following the band’s blistering set that night to a full house, to be full-page reviewed in the NME later that week.
Many musicians are supercharged after a performance and with no wonder after the effort. Symposium’s teenage singer Ross was no exception, and as the band trooped post-performance to the dressing room with the night seemingly over, the house lights went up, play-out music came on and the audience filtered away, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a wild-eyed figure suddenly bursting out of what was generously labelled the Green Room.
With almost nobody watching, Ross leapt back on stage and proceeded to shove over the amp stacks. Trailed closely by John the TM courageously grabbing him from behind. But he broke free, jumped on the stage barrier and leapt for the ceiling fan (a four-winged affair that lobbed lazily around cooling nobody). Valiantly, our man rotated twice clinging like King Louie to the unfortunate would-be air conditioner before it gave way and he crashed to a floor covered in beer, cigarettes, broken glass and flyers. Spent and seemingly satisfied, Ross calmly picked himself up and wandered the short distance back to the dressing room passage. Hardly anybody saw this …
It was a conversation the other night that reminded me of the sometimes fragile state of a musician, usually the frontman, post gig. Edward Tudor-Pole (Crystal Maze! Remember that?) was pretty much unapproachable for a good thirty minutes, not in a bad way he was just babbling wide-eyed like a schoolgirl. Lovely chap, very intelligent, friendly and well-informed beforehand.
After a Sham 69 gig fronted by the legendary Jimmy Pursey, one of the doormen, Paul, was out of the building for while and I asked him about this on his return. He cheerfully reported that immediately after the encore he’d noticed Jimmy run straight out of the back door and, on a hunch, checked around the front. After separating the Hersham Boy tussling with a random stranger in the middle of the road whilst buses veered around them, Paul returned our man to the dressing room unscathed and calm once more.
Poor old Fibbers stage. A quite robust structure when considering the punishment from thousands of rumbling and stickered flight cases, crazed drummers cloned directly from The Muppets’ Animal, and guitarists leaping with the grace not of a gazelle in the savannah but more like a mortally wounded bull elephant. And, of course, an ocean of blood, sweat, bleach and rider lager. Although it didn’t survive One Night Only’s keyboard player Jack Sails who unexpectedly (he’s only a thin thing) disappeared up to the knees, similarly Jason Perry from A who suddenly appeared three feet smaller after jumping, I think, from a stage barrier already buckling and wheezing. The false ceiling, coloured by a million cigarettes and hurled pints, was punctured many times by guitar headstocks, mics on stands thrust triumphantly skywards and the occasional pogo. The lovely Alex Kane (pussycat off-stage, stay the **** away on-stage) kicked a large hole in the wall when appearing with Ginger Wildheart in Clam Abuse (£100 to re-plaster, thank you very much), Barry Martin from The Hamsters tripped headlong exiting stage right to the dressing room and butted a large hole in the passageway (OUCH!) and various trips, falls, stumbles and slips continued to amuse audiences, staff and the First Aid Box (two plasters and a bottle of JD) in equal measure. Bizarrely enough, the most obvious candidate to fall on his nose whilst wrapping himself in mic leads, Mark E Smith, always stays steadfast, well almost, on his feet.
Elsewhere, much-abused venue equipment was patched together on a regular basis by genius house engineer Chris ‘Mantis’ Walton comprising mostly battered mic heads (Roger Daltrey has much to answer for), squashed jack plugs, blown speakers, bent monitor grills (yes … THE guitarist pose of choice), distorted and disabled stands (singers please note a mic stand is not a jack hammer) and on one occasion a drawing pin through the multicore - a complete twat of a trick designed to cause maximum disruption and damage.
On occasions of course it has even been dangerous to step out of the back door. A particularly stupid young boy attended a punk show and immediately went to the car park above - and dropped a breeze block from fifty feet, narrowly missing Donny Tourette who would have been killed. Why attempted murder charges weren’t brought I still don’t know. On other nights, Marks & Spencers trolleys have showered down on tour bus tops and various missiles plopped on the pavement including full bin bags, boxes, glasses and a full pot of paint.
I had to eject a couple from a Nirvana tribute show (Look … this bit is for the band and THIS bit is for you, OK?) and they put a window through by way of thanks. Another enraged chap put his fist through a small pane of toughened, wired glass and got off with it in court, “I was reaching to borrow the doorman’s pen m'lud”, and one lad was let off by the judge for kicking me in the head whilst on the floor because I couldn’t remember the colour of his socks. To great effect, he also appeared in the dock with a pot on his leg. I hope it was my ear that broke his foot because it bloody well felt like it.
Similarly, one quiet evening during a Nick Drake tribute of all things, a minibus carrying handicapped children came through the front window. I imagined the driver giving the kids a commentary as they approached, “Look kids, that’s Fibbers the famous music venue on your right!” BANG CRASH. “Oh. And this is what it looks like inside …”
The loos flooded ( and still do) with almost comical abandon, and during one early Terrorvision show Moses would have come in handy to part the seas at the rear (no pun intended) of the venue. The usual blockage culprits are plastic glasses, rolled-up posters and discarded underwear but I found a pair of false teeth impeding the natural flow of matters one night. They remain unclaimed. One enterprising chap located the stopcock and would occasionally turn off the water on a Saturday night and by the time the customers noticed the pans would be full … I once spent a lovely hour clearing every toilet and the next morning I was as sick as a dog. I resolved that next time I would wash my hands before having pizza at the end of the night.
Not entirely free from tantrums in my own wilder days thankfully long gone I’ve been known to launch the occasional missile, be it an ashtray at the incredibly rude and arrogant merchandiser for whom a final horizon was very nearly brought. Hey, he started it … Or several bar stools sailed toward a local bass player made good but, to be fair, that was my fault all along. I’m reminded by ex-staff of the poor office bin that was frequently converted rugby style around the office and poor Henry Hoover who suffered terrible abuse at my hands. So you see, it's not all cream buns and iced tea.
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