The Boys In The Band

Every once in a while, something so strange happens you just have to share the experience, no matter how inappropriate it feels.  And if you have a blog, that's where you're going to do it. Or at least I am.

I'm on holiday this week, not that it's all that easy to tell, given my regular working week is only two days long. Still, it does make a difference. Mostly, it makes me feel I ought to do something I don't usually do - or at least go somewhere.

As it happens, where I should be right now is in Spain. In January 2019, I booked flights to Porto in the north of Portugal, meaning to fly there in June, hire a car and drive up into the only part of the Iberian peninsula I've never visited, Galicia. The pandemic cancelled that plan.

Since then I've shifted those flights at least four times, from Porto to Barcelona to Lisbon to Bilbao, from June to March to June to September. Maybe a few more I've forgotten. When the world finally shifted back, close enough to where it had been that it seemed we might actually be able to get on a plane again, two things happened: we got a dog and everyone stopped working.

Back in July, I was on the verge of cancelling the flights, something that's a lot harder than you'd imagine. Try it sometime. It's like trying to cancel a contract with AOL. I knew I wasn't going to get a refund. I wasn't even trying. It was so long ago that I'd paid for the tickets I really didn't care. I just wanted someone to acknowledge that there'd be two fewer people on the plane that day and we'd call it quits.

Luckily for me, before I'd figured out a way to get someone at the airline to understand what I wanted, I got an email saying the flights had been cancelled anyway. At the time there was a major problem with airlines in the UK not being able to staff their operations and flights were being cancelled all over. I imagine it was a huge disappointment for most people but it was a godsend for me. I got my money back and I didn't even have to ask.

I'd already booked the time off work so I just let that run. I get more than seven weeks paid holiday a year and since we stopped travelling it really hasn't mattered when I take it. September is often a lovely month where I live so it seemed as good a time as any.

We did think of going away for a couple of days, just to somewhere we could reach by car, but with Beryl the dog to account for we decided against it. She travels very well but I'm not sure she's quite ready for hotel life just yet. Maybe next year.

Rather than do nothing at all, I thought we might at least take a few day trips, if the weather was good. On Wednesday the forecast was excellent. Warm and sunny all day. We thought we'd drive over to the big city down the road and take a walk along the waterfront. 

Everything went wonderfully. Parked right by the water, strolled around in the sunshine for a couple of hours, had delicious crepes for lunch with ice-cream after... Beryl had a great time. She loves people and she loves water. She was in her element. 

It was on the way back that I happened to look in the window of the MShed, Bristol Museum's waterside extension devoted to all things Bristolian. It's the city where I was born and where I grew up so of course I've never been inside. Do I look like a tourist?

Right in the center of the window was a book. The black and white cover caught my eye immediately. I went over to have a closer look. There, under the inelegant title, Bristol Boys Make More Noise, were a bunch of names I knew very well; bands I used to see play live, places I watched them, even faces I recognized.

I handed Beryl's lead to Mrs Bhagpuss and went inside. I was curious to see who might be between the covers. I even wondered if there might be a mention, somewhere, of the band I was in back then. The subtitle of the book was "The Bristol Music Scene 1974-1981". We were there for part of it, at least, even if there's no evidence now we ever existed.

I found the book in the museum gift shop and flipped it open, ready to scan through the text for maybe a fleeting mention and suddenly there we were. The Android Pups. My band. Not just a line in a listing or a footnote. A whole frickin' chapter of our own.

Well, four pages. The chapters are all pretty short. One page of text and three full-page photographs because what the book really is is a collection of the work of John Spink, a guy who thought to do what no-one else back then ever did, which was to take his camera with him when he went to see bands.

I had already seen the photos he took of us back in 1978. They're on his page at Bristol Archive Records. I've actually used the one of me on this blog before. I was fairly stunned to find them there a few years ago but it's a testament to the enduring power of the physical world that the impact of seeing yourself in print in an actual book hits so much harder.

Obviously, I bought the book. I told the woman at the cash desk I was in it and she asked to see, so I showed her. I was that shameless. I am now.

The ironic thing is that, other than the photos, the entire Android Pups entry consists of the author, Gill Loats, explaining she has no clue who the band is and neither does anyone else. We get one paragraph and then she goes on to talk about the venue, the Bear in Hotwells, where we played four or five times, at least. We also played at the Dugout, where Gill was the DJ. I guess she wasn't on that night. 

To make matters worse (Or funnier, depending on your perspective.) the one person who does get a name-check is my old friend Martin Skidmore, now sadly deceased, who I went to school with (And, briefly, university - he dropped out after one term. I stayed on.). He also introduced me to role-playing games, co-published a comics fanzine with me and went on to publish my stuff in his prozine, FA, which seems to be where Gill found a quote from him that mentions the band by name.

The Android Pups were, at core, three people: me, Chris, my best friend from school, and his brother, Phil. In the couple of years or so we were active (Phil went on to form another band in the early 80s, for which I was the singer, but that's another story.) There were several other members, including our other friends from school, Paul and Pat, my cousin Simon, Phil's friend Ivan (Playing flute - not a good fit.) and Phil's pal Nigel. I'm sure there must have been more I've forgotten.

I'm not going to give any more details on names because it would piss me off royally if I came across my name being bandied about on some blog by some guy I hadn't seen for forty years, but I will say that the three of us briefly went by the names Dave Id, Phil Pup and S.T. Dee. What can I say? It was punk; everyone was doing it.

The book itself is an excellent record of the time. I remember most of the bands and several of the people, although I never did much more than say "Hi" to most of them. It was always Chris and Phil who got the gigs, did the organizing and talked to everyone. I never really got involved.

The photos make the point that Bristol punks did not follow trends. Pretty much no-one in any of them looks anything like the conventional image of a punk. In the shots I'm in you can see me wearing a safari jacket (It was olive green and had a lot of pockets.), a Cockney Rebel scarf (I bought it outside the Colston Hall when I went to see them in either 1974 or 1975.) and two unfashionably large badges (Howard the Duck and Che Guevara. Now, there's a double act!). You can't see my lower half but if you could you'd probably find I was wearing white Oxford bags.

On the way back in the car, Mrs Bhagpuss, who was momentarily impressed to see my picture in a book but who very soon got over it, asked me if I wished we'd taken it further. I have to say I probably don't, although if we had, that would have been fine, too. We had a lot of fun and that was enough. I'm kind of glad it never turned into a job.

On the other hand, I do very much regret not at least making a record. I mean, every other fucker did! Seriously. It cost a few hundred pounds back then to record and press five hundred singles. We had the money between us. We certainly had the songs. 

Why we didn't do it I have literally no idea. I can't recall it was ever even discussed. Or mentioned. 

Which is why it felt so good to find physical evidence of our existence as a band in this book. It doesn't add much to the record. There's nothing there that isn't already in virtual existence online and none of it actually tells you anything about who we were or what we sounded like. 

A book is a book, though. Somehow it has gravitas and permanence a web page can't match. Or a blog post.

My heartfelt thanks to John Spink, then, for having the determination to cart a camera around all those years. As Gill Loats says in the foreward, "So many of us could have done that but couldn't be arsed." 

If it wasn't for his photographs I'm not sure I'd believe it ever really happened.