The Unadulterated History of the Kicking Chievs
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Everybody has ambitions.
Ever since learning to play guitar, mine was to appear, just once, with a real-life bona fide rock group - no histrionic solos or lead-singer posturings for me, just strum a few chords in the right order and at the right time. Perhaps I'm a closet exhibitionist : wanting the acclaim and the adrenaline rush without anyone noticing that it was really me up there. Or maybe I want to accept the kudos when everything goes well, and to be able to lay the blame on someone else when they, inevitably, do not.
I got my first guitar when I was twelve, a gut-stringed classical affair. I took about two lessons and gave up when things like scales and treble clefs and quavers clouded my eyes with misunderstanding. I wanted to play immediately and not bother with the chore of learning.
I got my first LP when I was thirteen, the latest by ELO, a cod-Beatles lightweight Birmingham outfit who became an obsession for about two years. I could even draw their elaborate space-ship logo (all bands had logos in 1979). Credibility took a real knock when they had a big hit with, gulp, Olivia Newton-John. Try explaining that to your hairy AC/DC mates who thought that Angus Young's school uniform was the height of chic.
Even then, music was more than a listening experience : it was, and remains, a living experience. Music must be loud to be enjoyed. More volume means being unable to hear those people who are complaining that it is too loud. So Shine A Little Love and Mr Blue Sky and The Diary of Horace Wimp and Turn To Stone were cranked up through my Dad's old music centre (this was before hi-fis or midi-systems were invented - not exactly a radiogram but a definite offspring) which was so worn out that you had to take pliers to it to change from 45 to 33. Headphones helped and with my distressed acoustic hanging from my shoulders by an old camera strap, ill-fitting headphones as large and as comfortable as limbless tortoises clamped to my ears and a broom handle doubling for a mike-stand, I became Jeff Lynne for a few precious moments disturbing the neighbours with the off-tune warbling and thrashing make-believe guitar chords.
That was the beginning. Pretending to be the world's greatest rock guitarist became an illicit pleasure. After all, it's not something you do in front of your Dad, is it?
Fast forward to June 1984. My mother bought me a genuine Fender bass for my eighteenth birthday - a bargain at forty quid, I sold it ten years later for sixty. Allied with my two best mates from sixth form, both fledgling Angus Youngs, a band was born. We never settled on a name. Rob, a hiker, wanted Tryfan and, yes, designed a logo. Me and Paul thought that was biz. Rob then came up with Ramp : an acronym of Rob, Andy, Martin and Paul. That Martin wasn't in the band and lived in Huddersfield didn't seem to matter. Me and Paul thought that was biz, too.
We settled on Free The Spirit, pinched from a poster on Rob's bedroom wall. We only ever played one song, a self-written heavy boogie called, er, Free The Spirit - and thrashed away through the summer.
I met Dave Blitz during my first week at college. We discovered that we'd both been to the same three gigs over the summer, and, taking this as divine intervention, agreed to form an acoustic folk duo and go busking. We christened ourselves The Pebbledashers, rehearsed once and gave up when it was evident that I couldn't play at all.
Other "bands" came and went during my years at college. One or two rehearsed (I can remember assiduously learning the bassline to Pink Floyd's Lucifer Sam and plugging away in some residence hall in Preston), one or two never passed the concept stage. I even had a family tree of all this once. Make believe run riot. Nevertheless, determined to learn my craft, I spent my last �100 at Easter 1985 on a good acoustic and bought a cheap electric guitar later that summer. Rob sold me his Vox AC15 amplifier and a fuzz box and I spent hours in Preston library's surprisingly well-stocked sheet music section looking for songs I knew and could copy into a notebook. Thus, I taught myself to play and forgot about stardom for a while.
But, there all the time, languishing at the back of my mind like a half-forgotten tomato on the bottom shelf of the fridge, was the old ambition : to play in a real band before real people.
Fast forward to late 1994. Now twenty-eight, married, living in Macclesfield and an active member of an amateur theatre group. The annual Christmas party consisted of members (show-offs all, either explicit or implicit) doing "turns" and I devised the plan of performing a simple acoustic set. Like Topsy, this plan grew and The Kicking Chievs, denizens of Macclesfield's music scene, were born.
My fundamental problem with pop stardom is that I can't sing and have only the most basic guitar-playing ability. This is not necessarily a handicap, you might think, but a real problem if you consider yourself the natural heir to Crosby Stills Nash and Young. What I needed was a singer. And, to round out the sound, a second guitarist who could play lead. I found both of these in Simon Waring, a fellow member of the theatre group, who is blessed with a wonderful soulful singing voice and a keen ear. Give him the first note to a guitar solo and he'll play it flawlessly. Bastard. We chose some songs to play, rehearsed and started to look forward to Christmas.
The plan grew some more. Simon's drum machine was brought in to add some much needed oomph to the last few numbers, with the result that we needed a tape operator to swap tapes (cue : wife). We wanted to play Oh Pretty Woman as our big show-stopping finale, but Simon complained, with some justification, that he found it too difficult to play the complex guitar part and sing at the same time. Enter Steve Johnson whose qualifications as a lead singer were perfect : can't sing too well but doesn't mind leaping about and looking stupid.
We rehearsed seven songs, three as a duo in the spirit of the original folkie troubadour intentions, two as a trio with Steve and the drum machine, two as, hah!, encores.
The day of the party duly arrived. We were booked on first (to get it over with). We had built the stage the previous night and installed a PA and a primitive lighting system. Suddenly the announcement was made : "Ladies and gentlemen. Have we got a treat for you tonight (voice from crowd 'Where?'). They said it would never happen. Unfortunately they were wrong. Please welcome Macclesfield's answer to the famous Moscow rock and jazz combo, the Moscow Kicking Chievs (huh?), put your hands together for the Kicking Chievs!".
How do you follow that? Simon and I stumbled on to the sound of some Moroccan music (if it's good enough for the Rolling Stones, I reasoned, it's good enough for me) and two seconds later, we were finished and in the bar. Well it felt like two seconds but was really about twenty-five minutes. We opened with an R & B version of Mary Had A Little Lamb (Simon's love of Stevie Ray Vaughan showing through here), followed by Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Simon knew the solo, I knew nearly all the chords). I was supposed to crack a joke before the next song, Wish You Were Here, something along the lines of "The next song was the first that I ever learnt to play ... just this morning" but nerves and a keen desire to get on and get off emptied my mind off all thoughts other the next chord. Or perhaps another chord, whatever.
We had received some warm applause for our first three songs, but you'd expect nothing else from a roomful of friends with alcoholic drinks close to hand. As we headed towards our big finale, I introduced our special guest. Steve leaped on stage to the sound of I'm The Leader of the Gang (I Am), dressed in a silver lame jacket, black tights, a plastic medallion and sunglasses. Nothing if not subtle. "Good evening Macclesfield" he shouted (fulfilling one of his own ambitions) and we were off into Oh Pretty Woman, complete with complex guitar, vocal harmonies, the lot. I know I'm biased but we were bloody good, probably because it was the most difficult song in our set (about eight chords) and we'd rehearsed it the most. "Woah-oh", we sang, "pretty woman!". We should have finished there and then and never set foot on stage again.
The last song was a real rocker, Honky Tonk Woman, designed to blow the roof off. It's a pity we didn't rehearse the backing vocals a bit more. Simon valiantly ploughed on with me and Steve bellowing out of tune two feet from his left ear : "It's a haaaaaanky tonk WOMEN!!"
"Thank you, good night!" I shouted. We left the stage for about ten seconds having primed wives and girlfriends to shout for more. The next song was the most embarrassing and shameful performance that any "artiste" has ever performed in the history of popular music. I wanted to do Alex Harvey's version of Delilah. We rehearsed it, a heavy and grungy sing-a-long thing. The first two choruses go reasonably OK with Steve remembering the most of the words and only once resorting to making up his own ("I felt the ... something ... and she laughed no more"). Next comes the instrumental break. My brain forgets any chords it ever knew although my right hand isn't told and strums away happily. Simon's fingers stick arthritically to his guitar strings (Da-da-clunk-twang-da-sproing-click-da-da). We all stopped playing and looked at each other dopily. A wit from the audience shouts "Get off, you're crap". Steve pushes an insincere thank you from his lips. The audience applaud thinking it was all planned.
We were obviously keen, deep inside our tortured psyches, to come over as the worst band in history. We were managing, with some success, to make this come true. We pressed on with out last number. It could only be Johnny B Goode. Three chords, three verses, three choruses. I have to say at this point that Simon's guitar playing was brilliant - driving, fluid and sheer rock and roll bravura. It's a shame that Steve and myself didn't rise to his example. I knew the three chords but never managed quite the right sequence. Steve added a pause at the beginning of each verse, meaning that he was a syllable out of time for the first line - Chuck Berry sings "Deep down in Louisiana, close to New Orleans" and "He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack", Steve Johnson sang "[pause] Deep down in Loosanna ... " and "[pause] He used to carry his g'ar ...". We finished the song and scarpered.
Ever keen to perpetuate the myth, I had taped the concert with the intention of selling a few to mates. I never sold any, but I think that I gave a few away. Two or three, anyway. At least one. To people who weren't there. Steve nearly choked on his beer the first time he heard our backing vocals on Honky Tonk Woman and our version of Delilah remains one of the funniest comedy records of all time. I named our d�but album The Kicking Chievs Live In Macclesfield. Not "live" as in "in concert" but "live" as in "inhabit". The Kicking Chievs quietly split up citing musical differences : I couldn't play and Steve couldn't sing.
That would have been the end, but our pride would swell and we would fall further when, the following Summer, we were asked to play a concert ...
Many months later, when the memory of the disastrous Christmas gig had subsided in the memories of everyone except the three principals (and their wives and girlfriends, no doubt), the band was asked to reform for a birthday party in August 1995. We agreed as we were told that only two or three people who had been around at Christmas would be there. A second chance!
Undeterred by Steve's absence (less rehearsals required) we worked out one new song, the old blues number Nobody Knows You When You're Down And Out, dropped Johnny B Goode and Delilah and played a six song set in Jayne Brierley's back garden; wasps and wind-blown garden plants notwithstanding.
I'm sure that there wasn't one that we cocked up in some way, but the audience seemed impressed enough. We hadn't prepared an encore, so a quick huddle and rehearsal in the kitchen prompted us to play two more songs. The audience, inexplicably, wanted more, and so busked versions four others saw us through embarrassing applause.
The recording of this concert became our second album Unhinged. The Kicking Chievs quietly split up citing personal differences.
Never really knowing when to leave something well alone, a second Christmas gig was set up for 1995. Bribery was now the only option as I agreed to take the arranger's wedding photographs in return for a prime slot at the Christmas party.
To add a new twist, Steve was available for the concert, but Simon wasn't. Now desperate for acclaim, I conceived the idea that we could record backing tracks, with Simon's contribution, and that Steve and myself could perform to these. Faith, got plenty. Sense, none at all.
Unjustified faith in our own talent, and some technical gremlins, ensured that this would not be a performance to remember fondly, although the crowd sang along with some gusto to Twist And Shout and Delilah (during which Steve threw pairs of underpants at himself).
The concert was recorded, as usual, but with so much happening (I had to build a PA and rig lights, for example), one thing had to go drastically wrong. The Kicking Chievs quietly split up citing social differences.
I'm not sure whether Steve has a self-destructive tendency, or whether he's just a big show-off (probably equal measures of both, on reflection), but he conceived the idea of reforming for his house-warming party in July 1996 : playing two sets outside to a large-ish crowd. Of course we agreed, adding a new song and utilising several backing tapes to our set to complicate matters.
Self-confidence was a prelude to disaster.
The first set went really quite well, with Simon and myself playing six songs. Only mass indifference marred the set : desultory applause and much chatter. After a suitable break, we continued with another seven songs with Steve singing. Both sets were recorded and became The Kicking Chievs' Final Final Thank God It's Their Final Farewell Final Forever Never Ever Appearing In Public Again Tour. The Kicking Chievs quietly split up citing psychological differences.
Our friend Jayne must be a masochist. Having seen us four times, she wanted us to perform at her house-warming party in October 1996. We agreed of course, playing mostly unamplified in her dining room, by far our smallest venue. We decided that some new songs were in order, to match the ambience, so rehearsed seven new songs over two nights (some with me singing a bit as well). We were unable to arrange a rehearsal with Steve, as our only free night coincided with his only busy night. So we played this gig as a duo, with Steve watching, poor lad! Jayne wanted is to perform two sets. I said we would as long as we could play the same songs twice. Both sets enlivening by a rowdy audience singing along, although our unamplified voices did not always carry over the sound of the guitars. The second set later in the evening used the same songs, but with four additions, busked badly. Straight after the second set, Simon and myself became immediately bored (adrenaline rush over)
and toddled off, with wives and hangers-on, for a curry.
Both sets were recorded and became our new album Never Mind The Cats, Here's The Kicking Chievs. We even forgot to split up.
For Simon's thirtieth birthday at the end of 1996, we arranged a "secret" party and, to my clandestine pleasure, everyone wanted wanted the KC's to perform. A "secret" gig meant that we couldn't rehearse, so I chose a set list of our most familiar material, adding a new song that Simon and myself had jammed but never rehearsed (nothing like living on the edge. Or falling off). The venue was superb, definitely the best venue we played, a converted chapel in the centre of town.
I arranged with Simon's wife, Melinda, to steal his equipment the previous day, rehearsed with Steve on the Saturday afternoon, then set up the gear on Saturday evening. Simon had noticed that his guitar was missing that morning, so had an idea that something was going on, but didn't really know what, or where.
Memories are vague. I remember sound-checking and starting the first song, but I'm not sure what happened in between. Simon was three sheets gone, Steve found that he was better at tapping a tambourine than singing, and we played a 100 mph All Right Now having never even rehearsed it! A string broke on my new Fender Stratocaster during the second song. Pop, twang, shit!. I switched to my acoustic and Kev the Roadie fixed the bust A. Johnny B Goode lasted about three hours : E A D E A D E A D la la la ...
Some of the audience were so overcome that they needed to be escorted from the building. Others left of their own accord.
The recording of this gig became our next album, 30. We were so pleased that we still forgot to split up.
Around this time I accidentally erased the only copy of 30. Whoops. This is now the great lost Kicking Chievs album.
Gig seven never actually happened. Our friend Derek, host of the Brunswick Arena bash, invited us to perform at the same venue on 1 March 1997. Other commitments forced us to turn this down as we wouldn't have found time to rehearse. As it happens, all three members were together that night at Steve's house. Simon suggested a quick a cappella rendition of Johnny B Goode. Franny feinted and needed mouth-to-glass resuscitation.
1997 also marked the year when The Kicking Chievs would play their first and last gig in public and their last gig ever.
In November, Simon, myself and respective wives travelled to Brownhills, near Walsall in the suburbs of Birmingham to take part in an open mic evening at a pub called The Boat. First up, we played four songs perfectly (to a great reception) and promptly drank copious amounts of the local brain-busting bitter to come down from the high. Two hours later they asked us for an encore. Big mistake. I could hardly see my guitar, we had no songs rehearsed and I was so pissed that I nearly fell off stage. You'd think playing the wrong chords to Honky Tonk Women would be impossible. Not so.
Simon's imminent permanent departure to Canada early in 1998 necessitated a final (really final) Kicking Chievs gig. The Valediction tour started and finished at my house in December, in front of an invited audience at a surprise party for Simon. No rehearsals ... flying by the seat of our pants ... everyone singing along ... a great way to go out.
And did I achieve my ambition? Well, yes, for those four songs at The Boat in the dark depths of the West Midlands will stay with me forever. Will the Kicking Chievs ever get back together and terrorise the the world at large and the blameless folks of Macclesfield in particular? Well, maybe.
and next ...Wild Mercury Sound!