Oasis are big. I don’t mean now, when they’re still big but past their best. I
mean back when Wonderwall had just become an anthem to a disaffected
youth, a youth who fervently believed that all the roads he had to walk were
winding and that all the lights that would lead him there were blinding.
Perhaps to celebrate, Noel and Liam had gone to see Spinal Tap live. This
is Spinal Tap was one of Liam’s favourite films ever and his little
northern moptop face was beaming at the prospect of seeing them onstage, in
the flesh. And of course the gig was a belter.
Two hours of pure unadulterated Tap. And then it was time for the encore. For
which the Spinal Tap boys came on as A Mighty Wind. The Wind began to play a
short set of their errant folk music. Liam let them get half a song in
before he leaned over to his brother and said: “Who are these c****?”
Noel looked at him. “It’s them.” “What?” said Liam. “Them who?”
“Them,” hissed Noel. “Them who?” insisted Liam.
“F****** hell, Liam,” Noel insisted back. “It’s them. Spinal Tap.”
“Them’s not Spinal Tap. These are some folk c****,” eloquised Liam.
“No, Liam, it’s them. It’s Harry Shearer and the others. They’re actors. The
actors who play Spinal Tap.”
There is a moment of silence from Liam. Even Noel must have realised what was
coming next. “Actors?”
And with that Liam, disgusted, walked out. It is for this reason that no one
has yet told him the truth about Father Christmas.
My Heart Will Go On, But I Won’t
When Celine Dion came to the UK in 1999 she brought with her all the
flouncing, diva-like qualities that we’ve somehow come to expect from any
Canadian whose best-known song is that one about a heart that can go on and
on, despite it being located in the chest of someone who drowned when their
boat hit an iceberg.
Fast-forward to showtime at Wembley Stadium. With five minutes to go, in
accordance with Dion’s strict conditions, the backstage area is cleared of
personnel so that she can make her way, unhindered, to the stage. Her own
touring crew were well aware that, even though they’d spent the best part of
a week rigging her show, Celine didn’t want to catch sight of any truss
monkeys, sparkies or woodpushers with her own fragile eyes. The message was
duly communicated to the on-site UK crew as well, but somehow didn’t reach a
tiny part of the stage, where a lone rigger sat near some equipment, reading
a newspaper.
Ahead of Celine’s entrance and with 70,000 fans waiting for her, one of her
“people” did a sweep of the stage. “Excuse me, sir, could you leave the
stage area, please?” she said.
He looked up. “What?”
“Could you leave the stage area, only Ms Dion is about to come past.”
“So?”
“So she likes a clear stage. She doesn’t like to see anyone when she goes on.”
“Right.”
“And also her contract states that no one must look at her.”
“OK, well, I won’t look at her because I’m reading the paper.”
“I’m sorry, sir, she’s quite strict about this, I’m going to have to ask you
to leave.”
“Well, I’m not leaving because I’m reading the paper, plus my job is to look
after this stuff in case anything goes wrong.” He nods at the bank of
equipment.
“I’m sorry, sir, but in that case I’m going to have to call security to remove
you.”
He doesn’t look up. “Off you trot then, love.”
She leaves. Nothing happens. Before long the concert is a good 15 minutes late
starting and then, out of the corner of his eye, our intrepid roadie spies
the woman returning with two enormous American security guards. So he does
what anyone in his position would do. He climbs up a nearby truss tower and
clips himself on.
“Sir, come down and leave the stage.”
“No.”
“Sir, if you don’t come down right now we will come up and get you.”
“Knock yourself out,” replies the plucky Brit and promptly climbs another
10ft.
The three Americans glare at him and walk off. Another ten minutes go by
before, from his lofty position where he’s still reading the paper, he spies
a group of people heading towards him, all surrounding a tiny figure with a
cloth over its head. He climbs down for a better look.
Brilliantly, it’s Celine Dion being walked to the stage under a blanket so she
can’t see him and he can’t see her. He climbs a bit further down, still well
out of arm’s reach of anyone, and simply stares as hard as he can at her as
she walks by. The fact that she doesn’t know he’s doing this is irrelevant.
Because of one man in his one corner of the stage that shall be for ever
England, Celine Dion is both under a blanket and half an hour late for her
own gig .
Girls Aloud Fought the Law – and the Law Won
Sadly, success means that the gates of tabloid hell will eventually swing open
in your direction. And so it was on one day early in 2003 when it nearly all
came crashing down like a hippo in a hammock on Girls Aloud.
One of the band – it was Cheryl Tweedy – was in a nightclub in Guildford,
where she was simply doing what any girl of 19 would do. She then went to
the toilet, where on duty that night was a lady called Sophie Amogbokpa, a
toilet assistant. What followed turned into an allegation, a court case, a
racist slur and a fistfight. Not necessarily in that order. The Girl Aloud
was duly arrested and held for ten hours by the police. In court she denied
any racial motivation and was duly acquitted of this charge but was instead
convicted of assault, fined and shamed, and had to do 120 hours of community
service. She then got married to the footballer Ashley Cole, although it’s
not clear whether this was part of the punishment.
One (Drunk) Man Went to Mow
As if living a real-life dramatisation of one of their own songs, the married
couple and Lord and Lady of Country Music George Jones and Tammy Wynette had
their ups and downs. One day, it all came to a head when George was in a
particularly grumpy mood due, in no small part, to the fact that he’d been
on the wagon for several weeks. He was crotchety, annoyed and fed up and
thus tensions beneath the surface of the marriage were simmering like
Brownian motion particles caught in a line dance.
So George simply decided at that moment that the wagon he’d been on very much
needed to be dismounted, and announced that he was driving into town for a
drink.
T a m m y , h o w e v e r , had decided that there was no way on God’s clean
Earth that he was going to do any such thing, and so set about hiding all
five sets of car keys for all five cars that they owned. So he did what any
of us would do. He clambered aboard his ride-on lawnmower and drove at two
miles an hour all the way into town, where he arrived at a bar a nifty five
hours later and proceeded to get magnificently p*****. And then he rode it
home again. Possibly slower this time.
Hey, You, Get off of My Pie
It’s Toronto in 1994 and someone has just eaten Keith Richards’s shepherd’s
pie. And he’s gone absolutely mental. The Stones are on tour (when aren’t
they?) and it’s 20 minutes to showtime and time for Keith’s tea. Tonight
it’s yummy shepherd’s pie. But wait a minute, what’s this? Where has it
gone?
Just like those three bears caught up in a not too dissimilar tale, when Keith
found that some Goldilocks-like figure had been to his dressing room and
eaten his beloved pie all up, he roared his disapproval. That was it. The
limit had been reached and he promptly sat down in a huff and refused to go
onstage.
Hurried talks were had, hapless minions dispatched back and forth and
management called in as the time for the gig to begin came and went. Still
Keith wouldn’t budge. Eventually a compromise was reached. Keith would go
onstage, but only if somebody brought him another pie. This time minions
were dispatched to find chefs. Eventually, a replacement pie was brought to
Keith by no fewer than six people. He ate one mouthful, picked up his guitar
and headed to the stage, where the rest of the band were waiting to go on.
As one crew member recalls: “I think he did it to annoy Mick.”
The Myths and Legends of King Rick . . .
In 1975, while in hospital after a minor heart attack after a performance of
his prog-rock epic Journey to the Centre of the Earth, Rick Wakeman
embarked upon the epic The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the
Knights of the Round Table. To quote Rick: “I wrote it in my head.”
Quite possibly through a fug of heart drugs, Rick began mentally sketching out
the world tour that would accompany his new album. He would take a symphony
orchestra, the English Chamber Choir, a full band, the lighting, set,
costumes and a spectacular stage show of smoke and wizardry and perform the
whole lot on ice.
Once out of hospital Rick set about planning his spectacle. Casting took
place, wizards were recruited, dragons tamed and the enormous ice arena that
was to become the fantasy world of forests, tors, lakes and mists of Arthur
and his brave knights was built at Wembley Empire swimming pool. The night
of the premiere performance drew near. The crowds flocked in, shivering. The
moment had arrived and the Grand Keyboard Wizard Wakeman took to his mighty
stage. Only to find that all the instruments had frozen and wouldn’t even
switch on. It was a disaster.
Ozzy Osbourne and the Exploding Mouse
And now it’s time for an Ozzy Osbourne tale. The notorious live bat incident
had recently passed. Notoriety was following him where’er he did roam and
he’d put up with protests outside venues, criticism from all sides and even
a rabies injection. So when he saw a mouse in the middle of the stage midway
through his concert the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to it,
or, God forbid, accidentally stand on it.
So, even though he was in mid-song, he subtly attempted to attract the
attention of a roadie offstage. The roadie struggled to understand but, with
Ozzy still singing and hoping the heavy metal crowd hadn’t spotted it lest
they bay for its mousey blood, he finally saw what Ozzy was pointing at.
And so it was that, perfectly in time with the end of the song, the audience
was not treated to a display of pyrotechnics but the sight of a 6ft roadie
in shorts running onstage and booting a mouse high above the crowd, where it
hit a light and exploded.
Tsk. Mice, eh?
— © Jon Holmes 2007
Extracted from Status Quo and the Kangaroo – and other Rock Apocryphals
by Jon Holmes, published on May 31 by Penguin/Michael Joseph at £12.99
Buy
the book here for the offer price of £11.69, free p&p
