Cartwheel nurse

Extra Nurse with roses

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Chapter 4 Amsterdam
Whilst the band continued on to their last warm up gig in Newcastle, transporting themselves and gear via a hastily rounded up small flotilla of mates cars and hitching, Walter and Little legs tied up some loose ends, dug out passports, cobbled together as much cash as they could muster and travelled together down to Welwyn. They substituted the taxi for the van and then drove up to Newcastle to meet the band at their lodgings in Fenham, a rough suburb of Newcastle frequented mainly by immigrants and students. The gig at the Broken Doll was, as usual, a great success, the band having a small but loyal and enthusiastic Geordie following. An injection of a generous Newkie Brown rider, cash from a full house and good Northeast vibes restored band harmony and a happy van sat in the queue for the overnight ferry to Amsterdam, once again having averted disaster by a hairs breadth.
“Wing and a prayer my middle name, mate”, Jer opined
It was greeted with barely a flicker of surprise then, when on boarding, the van battery gave out and the sight of a rag tag bunch of humanity jump starting a battered transit attracted the unwelcome attention of customs, who, though thorough in their investigations, were unable to find any actual reason to stop them boarding the ship. Sensibly everything illegal had been drunk, smoked and removed from persons and van before exiting the UK. A previous annoying and humiliating long delay and strip search on the Belgian/French border caused by a former drummer who thought he would be clever and try and smuggle E’s in an Anadin bottle had resulted in this band law which was rigorously enforced. There would be plenty of opportunity to replenish stocks in Amsterdam. The band still hungover from the last night slept soundly in various sprawled and/or slumped positions around the ship seating and by mid morning found themselves happily motoring towards Amsterdam.
Little Legs drove, Walter took up the front two passenger seats and was happy to navigate.
Sat from left to right, highly illegally, on an upturned speaker with a blanket thrown over to simulate actual seating sat Jer, guitarist, Mo , bassist Steve and Brooksie drummer.
Jer wasn’t lying when he said he had a degree in Mechanical Engineering. Despite his malnourished pallor, charity shop chic, variously tattoed and pierced body and slightly faux punkish attitude he actually came from a very comfortable and privileged background. His parents (both GP’s) though secretly appalled and disappointed at their sons current direction were in their polite lower middle class way supportive, believing this to be a temporary hiatus on the journey to an inevitable and eventual respectability.
He had the confidence born of a degree of privilege and was happy to be a unspoken leader in all matters of general planning, organisation and general front line duties. He also made a beautiful jagged racket from a battered telecaster and assortment of distortion pedals.
Steve was a loner and in some ways it was a miracle he was in a band at all .When not on tour he lived with his elderly father in a house in Hitchen, worked as a postman, wrote music on a portastudio and drank. Drinking didn’t make him outgoing, more the reverse. After an unsuccessful suicide attempt in his teens (the rope snapped) he had decided that fate had decreed that he stay alive and do what he pleased. He had not changed direction one iota. His father happy to use his pension to smoke, gamble and watch old Laurel and Hardy films did nothing to push his son who he relied on to provide a little routine in his life and stave off loneliness. Steve provided most of the bands material and provided a dub like bass enhanced with an occasional  massive flange.
Brooksie was another enigma, what drummers weren’t? He currently lived in a squat near Heathrow inhabited by a group of anarcho punks who made sculpture from items removed from skips and abandoned buildings, spray painting and attaching small motors to animate them. Parts of old car radios provided sounds. A mix of Raushenberg, Tinguely and The Clash. He seemed to have an ever changing and evolving back story and people couldn’t work out whether his conversation was wise, gnonmic or gibberish. He often laughed at nothing and produced acts of the most selfish cruelty or incredible generosity seemingly randomly. More a percussionist than drummer his ”kit” which swelled and shrank in a mysterious cyclical manner could usually fit easily in a large suitcase the only conventional part being a battered snare he claimed had been used by a famous Jewish band from Berlin in the Weimar republic days. Like most things he said there was the possibility that it was the truth. For a short time before protests became almost violent he insisted on a large filthy oil drum becoming part of his kit. It ended up abandoned on the roadside whence it had arrived.