THE CATHEDRAL

As a performer, it is in my opinion, much easier to play to a large crowd than a small one. Being of a nervous disposition, I much preferred a sea of anonymity as apposed to being able to pick out the members on my guest list. With the big gig I could forget there was anybody there and just get on with the job, more intimate performances would lay bare my every imperfection. On an 80’s American tour I remember a hideous scenario where the audience were essentially, dining three feet away while we played. Burger and chips, chicken in a basket and pizza would pass under our noses as we tried to entertain, the music reduced to an irrelevant backdrop, in front of which, punters could top up their cholesterol levels. Being close up to the band is, I’m sure, great for the audience, but for me, ideally, they could listen via a ‘tannoy’ in the car park (where they could also indulge in food and beverage) I have never been in the slightest bit interested in football but when I heard we were to play Wembley Stadium, two nights on the trot, even my heart skipped a beat. This of course was the Wembley ‘of old’, known as the ‘Empire Stadium’, built in 1923 and famously dubbed ‘The Cathedral of Football’ by the great Pele. To me, and I am a football ignoramus, this fine building had infinitely more stature and atmosphere than it’s bigger, brasher replacement in 2007, but I am most definitely not qualified to judge. We were to be supported by the band, ‘Danny Wilson’. They had opened for us on an earlier American tour and who can forget, even today, their standout anthem, ‘Mary’s Prayer’. As we entered the stadium I remember being struck by how immaculate the turf was, albeit mostly covered by a layer of thick plastic in readiness for the seventy thousand strong crowd, a moment perhaps wasted on me, as I focused on the groundsman’s challenge, as opposed to the heady football scent of years gone by. (I’m afraid that lawns, along with fish and chips are areas of my life that have fallen foul of an inexplicable obsessiveness that, when indulged, can bore the pants off even the most earnest of listeners) During sound check, I looked out from behind my keyboard at a vast landscape of empty seats, in front of which, in only a few hours, would stand many more thousands of people. The stage was the largest I have encountered, larger than many gigs I have subsequently performed at and at each end was an ‘ego’ platform, somewhere to run to and deliver your solo. With video screens in place, this was big.
We had been opening our shows with a tune that started with an unaccompanied riff from a trumpet (being the bands trumpet player there was no avoiding this) In theatres I would be expected to stand in front of the curtain and blast out the said intro, and as it rose with stage illuminated, I would then be joined by the rest of the band as the tune began in earnest. To say the least this was stressful and sadly came at a time before my discovery of the trumpet players savour, the ‘beta blocker’. Tonight at Wembley stadium, as the lights went down and the vast crowd roared its appreciation, I would once again have to perform this task. It’s fair to say that in the past, my track record for acquitting myself without blemish, had not always gone to plan and certainly not unnoticed. If the man up front had been James Brown I would have been long gone and not before being heavily fined. Surely tonight, the Gods would be with me.

It’s 1996, and I am making some headway in a new band. This time it’s a three piece with a ‘Drum and Bass’ direction. After two or three releases, all bizarrely reaching the frustratingly inadequate heights of number 41 in the single charts, we would soon land a whopper, that for a brief moment in time would herald us as the new kids on the ‘Trip Hop’ block.
From time to time, as with every up and coming band, we would be expected to take part in promotional activity, that despite often being far removed from our chosen subject would somehow cross pollinate and haul in new audience members. There was to be a charity football match, held at, none other than the afore mentioned, Wembley Stadium, , where bands such as Blur, Massive Attack, and Supergrass, to name but a few would join forces to create two teams (England and Scotland) and fight it out on the ‘Hallowed’ ground. Overcome by the galling feeling that although this was one of the most inappropriate things I should consider doing (but how could I miss out on such an adventure) my ego swung into action and soon enough I could be overheard agreeing to be a team member, along with my band mate and co-producer who was, needless to say, in a different class to me at kicking a ball around a pitch. I was to play for England and my band mate Scotland, and were each issued a pair of boots and a strip with our names emblazoned on the back, however, there had been a mix up and my colleagues shirt had the, absent, Nicky Campbell's name on it. On his radio show the next day, he remarked on how he'd been able to play at Wembley without even being there. I have never much cared for Mr Campbell, but for the time it took to play out this charade, I would have happily swapped identities. As we lined up on the pitch for a pep talk with the ref, I have never felt more out of place, a fraudulent pretender with a very poor foot to ball coordination into the bargain.
As the match got underway, we didn’t have to wait too long for a goal. Daddy G of Massive Attack fame, a six foot five statue of sinew and muscle, planted a peach of a goal in the back of the net and celebrated with a mid air somersault. Shortly afterwards Damon Albarn repeated the process. In the second half my band mate broke away and beat everyone including the English keeper to score for Scotland, but there was no equalizer and the final score was 2-1. All very impressive.
For me however, this was to be a game of two halves. I was on the pitch for the first half, but off for the second, and difficult to determine which half showed the greater contribution. I do recall nearly coming into contact with the ball though. It was just before half time and I can remember willing the referee to blow his whistle and put me out of my misery (the football scene in the film ‘Kes’ will do as a good illustration) Shocked by the vast distances you are required to run and completely out of shape, I noticed a large youth approaching me with the ball. As a defender, I knew that my role was to keep the ball from going in the net and therefore I must, in theory, tackle this chap and dispossess him. Instead, as he got nearer to me, my survival instinct kicked in and I quite literally ran away. Luckily, another defender stepped in and mopped up my mess, temporarily
reducing the shame, or so I thought. To my horror, the whole match was filmed and we were each presented with a keepsake copy. I have lost mine, but Mr G (who, incidentally, has subsequently become my brother-in-law) takes pleasure in reminding me that his is safely tucked away in his DVD collection.

Back at the show and safely out onto the ‘ego’ platform without tripping myself up, deafened by the roar of the crowd I began to blow my own trumpet. I remember how it ricocheted around the stadium and from memory most of the notes were, this time, in the right place. Mid riff, I looked up to take in the crowd and noticed opposite me at the back of the venue, lost in a sea of people, my Methodist preaching and beret wearing Father with cine camera at the ready, sitting with my Mum in the Royal box. He would, throughout my childhood, refer to all pop music as ‘monkey music’ (I will leave you to evaluate alone the dubious undertones of this statement) To him, only classical music and ‘trad’ jazz were deemed acceptable exponents of the art. But here was his son, performing at Wembley stadium; surely there was something there to be proud of? (he once declared that he was genuinely disappointed that none of his children had become Doctors!) In time however, he would soften, and sometimes when off guard, could even be caught bragging to the neighbours. Music is a great communicator, and I’ve always been genuinely amazed at what monkeys can do.