Mad, Bad and Dangerous - The Book of Drummers' Tales. Spike Webb
seconds later as helpers ran on to pull John out of a huge hole in the stage. Lucky for him it was just scratches and bruises and a chunk out of his Gibson. Needless to say, the rest of the set was devoid of acrobatics. In fact, Knox and the boys were walking on egg shells.
More embarrassing for me was a show at Middlesbrough Rock Garden, where an extension had been built on the front of the stage. Our encore at the time was ‘Troops of Tomorrow’, which starts with a mournful tom-tom beat on the drums and slowly builds to its climax. The cool thing was for me to walk on alone and start with the others following on gradually. But being a big-headed git I figured I could hog the limelight for a few seconds by going to the front of the stage and announcing the song. So I walk out so cooool that James Dean would look a nerd next to me.
Shame I forgot the lip at the front of the stage. I tripped over it, head-butted the microphone, plunged over the monitor and fell head first into the crowd, closely followed by the mic stand and monitor, and lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.
The crowd were falling about laughing so much they couldn’t help me. I had to struggle to my feet on my own, replace the monitor and mic stand and clamber back on stage to even more laughter and jeers from the crowd, even as the other guys were coming on stage giggling and smirking at my oafishness. Of course, I had no choice but to see the funny side but I was relieved to get back behind my kit.
At the end of the day, the drummer’s always the fall guy. Yes, it can be hazardous up there. Dylan Howe from The Blockheads has been there too…
Misjudging the height of a stage even by the tiniest amount can prove unforgettably painful. I discovered this at the Borderline venue in the West End of London. I was doing a gig with the excellent Canadian guitarist Tony Smith during one of drummer Neil Conti’s club nights in the mid-’90s. The house was full and we were assembling on the side of the stage after a good soundcheck and I was really proud to be taking the stage with these guys. Everything seemed just right and I was feeling full of energy.
As the rest of the guys started plugging in, instead of just carefully mounting the stage, I thought I’d go for gold – take a run up and jump it. Unfortunately, when I was halfway airborne my shin connected with the sheer steel edge of the stage. Arriving on the stage on your face with a throbbing shin is not ideal.
I immediately stood up, acted like nothing was wrong and tried to hobble round to enter the kit hi-hat side. It wasn’t until I had sat down and started rubbing my shin that that I noticed I now had a small red waterfall appearing through my jeans and my right leg was in an uncontrollable spasm. With the rest of the guys still sensitively enquiring whether I was OK, and with tears running down my face, I said, ‘Yeah, of course!’ It wasn’t until the end of the fourth song that my bass drum foot had stopped having an erratic mind of its own.
So we’ve seen how explosions, smoke, dodgy stages and the fact that drum risers are never big enough can all be a source of danger, but there are other risks involved in being a drummer. One of those is the fact that you are the one instrument that often acts as the unofficial conductor, and as such you are responsible for the general smooth running of things. If it goes wrong, you risk looking a complete idiot…
EVERYONE LOVES A BIG ENDING
John Lingwood is a personal friend, perhaps best known as a member of Manfred Mann’s Earth Band from 1979 to 1987. He featured on the albums Chance, Somewhere in Africa, Budapest Live, Criminal Tango and Masque. Between 1998 and 2002, John played with Company of Snakes, largely made up of ex-members of Whitesnake. He has also spent many years touring with Roger Chapman from ’70s blues-rock band Family.
John told me about a particularly scary performance back in the early ’80s, when he was playing drums in the then-longest running musical of all at a major London theatre.
I’m drumming in a hugely popular West End musical, renowned as the author’s best work yet. It’s hard work, as my concentration has to be spot on. I always look forward to the last song as I can relax into a dramatic ending, which is always fun and rewarding. So far each performance has been a roaring success.
Tonight the writer and composer of the musical is in the house. To mark the occasion a special encore has been planned for the end of the show, a reprise of some musical high points followed by a rousing finale. To put the icing on the cake, the much-celebrated writer of the musical has agreed to wow the crowd by taking the stage to conduct the finale.
So we get to the end of the show. Usually the crowd applauds enthusiastically, but tonight there are cries for more and we begin the encore to ecstatic cheers. Right on cue, the celebrated composer walks on stage. There is rapturous applause. The effect is electrifying. I can feel the anticipation of musicians and audience alike as the band begins the chorus of the last song in the medley. Then we hit the last coda which is prolonged into organised chaos for a truly dramatic finish on the last note.
Bliss. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. All the hard work and concentration is behind me. Nothing can go wrong now. The audience are applauding already. Someone stands up in the front row. Then others follow suit. Soon the whole place is standing.
I am shimmering my cymbals in a frenzy for maximum dramatic effect. I continue until it feels right for the show to end with a final stroke from the whole band. I look up in anticipation for the writer-turned-conductor to signify that final stroke, but the man with the baton looks back at me with a worried expression. What could be wrong? There’s nothing left to go wrong!
So I carry on, waiting for a sign. But nothing happens. He just looks increasingly more distressed. Panic ensues. The violinists are looking pleadingly at the man with the baton as their arms begin to ache with the strain of frantic random bowing. Cellists glance at each other in alarm. Even the audience look confused. Heads turn in all directions, looking for some kind of sign as to when the music’s actually going to stop. Suddenly everyone turns to look at me.
I have a choice. I can wait for the conductor to do something, which is what I’m supposed to do, or I risk everything and take the law into my own hands. Oh well, here goes. I deliver a loud, slow roll round my tom toms to signify where the last stroke of the conductor’s baton should be. Luckily, it works and the piece actually finishes reasonably well. I can’t believe the look of relief on the conductor’s face.
Later, we are both leaving the building via the backstage door to visit the pub opposite. He turns to me: ‘Thanks for that.’
I tell him I’d like a pint of Guinness.
It’s the stuff of nightmares: no one seems to know when to stop or how to end the piece. The truth is the conductor, not being a real conductor, had no idea how to signify such an ending with his baton. So once again it’s down to the drummer to take hold of the situation and, in a split second, pull a happy ending out of the bag.
But make no mistake – if it hadn’t worked, the whole unfortunate business would have been John’s fault.
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