That Close

by Suggs

  After much umming and ahhing about doing a farewell tour, we fell into conversation with Vince Power the promoter who organised the big Irish festival, the Fleadh, in Finsbury Park, on our doorstep. It was his suggestion that we might want to try doing our supposedly farewell concert on that very site. He could keep up the fencing and the staging so it wouldn’t cost that much. The only problem was that it held 35,000 people, and were we in a position to sell that out? Well, as it turned out we did, plus another day, so 70,000 people turned up for ‘Madstock’ on the weekend of 8 and 9 August.

  We had got a bill of great bands like Ian Dury & the Blockheads, Morrissey, Flowered Up and Gallon Drunk. Mid-afternoon, about four hours before we were due to go on stage, Vince came in to say that the cheque for our deposit had disappeared. Various stories did the rounds, one that it had been left on the roof of a taxi, which seemed fairly far-fetched. Another that it had been stolen. It was suggested at the behest of our management that the quite considerable sum of money we’d been guaranteed would have to be collected in cash from all the beer tents and hot dog vans. Which it duly was. Two stuffed mailbags appeared in our dressing room about an hour before we were supposed to go on stage.

  I remember walking up the stairs to the stage feeling like I was leading the England football team out to a World Cup Final. We were all very nervous. Spontaneously we all just lined up across the front of the stage and the audience went completely crazy, the gig was one of the most memorable we’ve ever done – we were suddenly exposed to all that we had achieved. The park went ballistic. People going mental – the crowd further than the eye could see, across the whole park, jumping up and down in unison. The whole of Finsbury Park felt like the sprung dance floor of those early 2 Tone gigs. It was beyond words!

  Even causing an earthquake, as this extract from The Times explains …

  On 8 August the police phoned the British Geological Survey, saying people had reported an earthquake in North London. People were frightened. Tower blocks were evacuated because they thought they were going to collapse. An earth tremor registered at 5 on the Richter scale. Seismologist Alice Walker told the BBC:

  When I told the police that I thought the cause of the earthquake was a Madness concert in Finsbury Park, they were sceptical. [I bet that’s not the word they used.] When the same effects were felt at exactly the same time the following night they had to believe me.

  I remember leaving the venue seeing people literally emotionally and physically exhausted, lying on the pavement outside. It was a truly monumental moment in the history of Madness. Our compilation album Divine Madness was number one in the charts. Mike agreed to return, minus the balaclava. And we were a band again.

  An earthquake had indeed erupted.

  ATHENS

  In the last ten years we have been asked to play more and more festivals. In the olden days when we started out there were only about four festivals in Britain that I can think of, and even fewer in Europe. I can only really remember playing Glastonbury in the eighties, and no other. Reading was for heavy metal and the Isle of Wight was for serious ‘rock’. The facilities were shit and you had to bring your own food. I can’t honestly say I would have chosen to go to these things anyway. But boy have things changed. There are now festivals for every taste, from book reading to body piercing, folk to flower arranging. Big ones, little ones, urban ones, festivals up mountains, on the beach, in peoples’ back gardens. All with toilets, showers and food from around the world.

  In the last ten years we have played: Bestival, Camp Bestival, Port Eliot, Leeds, Reading, The V festivals, T in the Park, Henley, our own Madstock, Rockness, The Hull festival (in the car park of the Co-Op), Kew Gardens. The whole thing has exploded, which is great for us as we are, even though I say so myself, a great live band. I think almost in direct proportion to the downturn in record sales there has been an upturn in the desire to see the real thing. You cannae download the live experience, Jimmy.

  We’ve played all over Europe. Way back when, I can only remember playing Pink Pop and the Festival of Fools in Holland, I think that was about it. But now we have played festivals in Spain – we were the first non-electronic band to play at Sonar – Germany and Montreux jazz festivals. Belgium. Italy. The Weenie Roast and Coachella in California. Viva Latino in Mexico city (to 80,000 screaming kids – we felt like a boy band for the first time). Buena series. All round Australia with Elbow, The Kaiser Chiefs and Snow Patrol. And even more recently in Eastern Europe, Moldovia, Croatia, Serbia, Czech Republic, Poland, a few times in Russia and the Communist one in France, Rock en Seine. Rock En Seine is the biggest festival in France. It was the usual old carry-on. Our compartment packed with our wives, girlfriends, uncles, aunts, kids, mates, the mates of our kids’ mates, people I’d never met in my life. I remember thinking: They never show this much interest when we’re playing in Hull.

  The usual mayhem: someone’s daughter’s boyfriend (it could have been mine) is being frogmarched from first class; the trombone player’s nicked a couple of miniature bottles of Chardonnay from the drinks trolley (even though they’re complimentary); two of the band are vociferously sorting out their differences and one of them’s shouting ‘Whose side are you on?’ in my ear.

  And as we all piled off the train at the Gare du Nord, in a cascade of shouting and laughter, it was obvious to anyone that we’d all had a good time: bodies, bags and broken bottles tipped onto the platform.

  Looking down the train I see Noel Gallagher, getting out of his first-class compartment, on his own, a newspaper under his arm. A veritable Oasis of calm.

  And for a second, I almost wished I was him.

  When we get to the festival we’re told Oasis, the headliners, don’t want us to play the main stage before them. We’ve been relegated to a smaller one. We didn’t know why. We didn’t know if it was them or their management. They just didn’t want it.

  We were pissed off, but we’d never blown out a gig before and we weren’t about to now. All the crowd who wanted to see us on the main stage were crushed into a field half the size. People were hanging out of trees, trampolining on top of the beer tents, and crowding on the roofs of the hot-dog vans. It went berserk.

  After the gig we’re backstage relaxing in our smoking jackets when there’s a clang that sounds like the first chord to ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ coming from the Oasis dressing room. Liam had smashed Noel’s guitar and there’d been a fight.

  We’re relaxing and having a post-gig drink or three when the promoter flies in through the door.

  ‘Sacré bleu! Oasis ’ave gone home! Zey ’ave gone ’ome! Zey’re not playing. Zey’re not ever playing. Zey’ve fucking split up! Pleeeeze will you go and play instead of zem on ze main stage?’

  Our hardened roadies are nervous and aren’t sure it’s a good idea. ‘Listen, there’s a massive crowd screaming and throwing bottles at the stage – you’ll get lynched.’

  ‘Come on, chaps. Let’s do it.’ After a little negotiating, including pretending to get in a cab, I throw on a pink suit and we head for the stage.

  ‘Alright, let’s not mention Oasis. Let’s have some dignity, yeah, and respect. Don’t take the piss.’

  We walk out on stage, doing the Liam walk.

  ‘All right Pariiiiiiisssssss! Let’s fookin’ have itttt’

  It turns out to be one of the best gigs of our lives.

  And as the band strike up ‘One Step Beyond’ I look down at the stage. And there, between my feet, is a strip of tape with the word ‘Liam’ written on it.

  *

  But the most unforgettable of all our festival experiences, for all the wrong reasons, was the Exit festival in Athens.

  Anne, my wife, was in Italy staying with an old pal of ours who’d moved to Salento, the southern most tip of the heel. She’d flown over there to sort out some problems with a house we’d just bought, an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Difficult to get to as there were no direct flights, but a most beautiful unspoil
t part of the world with a stunning coastline. The first time we went we flew to Rome and caught the night-train down there – the most amazing trip. Like Cornwall, with a bit more sun. Laid back, lovely people, and terrific food.

  Salento is only a hop and a skip from Greece. Anne was planning to come with Toby, an old friend who was helping me write my one man show, and his girlfriend to meet me and the girls in Athens, whereupon we’d all go off to the festival together. It was Toby who suggested it might be more practical and fun to take the boat to Greece. There were overnight ferries every day from Brindisi, the big shipping port, gateway to the Orient. The boat would take about ten hours to get to Patras on the Greek mainland via Corfu.

  Me and the band flew out from Heathrow with a big contingent of family and friends, as is often the case when we’re playing somewhere nice. There were my two daughters, Scarlett and Viva, and their pal Tansy, two of Debs’ brothers and an assortment of waifs and strays. We were all at the venue by the time Anne and Toby rolled up, windswept and interesting after their all-night ferry trip from Italy. Their hair standing on end. Toby’d been involved in a documentary about the sinking of the Estonia and thought it might be prudent if they all slept on the deck, where it was windy but warm. Anne was laughing. Just before they left the boat Toby got in a row with a Berlusconiesque character who was complaining about all the bloody foreigners. Toby was asking him what he thought about all the Italian emigrés to America, etc., to little or no avail. Shouting and gesticulating Toby left the boat in Patras, only to be greeted by a Greek cab driver saying exactly the same shit. Anne said, ‘Toby, leave it’. It’s a long drive to Athens.

  It was about sundown when we hit the stage; we were supporting the Beastie Boys in the old Olympic basketball stadium. There were about 50,000 in the crowd and the gig went great. Apart from Woody falling off his drum stool during ‘Wings of a Dove’. Actually that was the very last time he had a drink, and he hasn’t touched a drop since.

  Our dressing room was crowded by the time we came off stage and discussions were taking place as to who wanted to stay and see the Beastie Boys, and who wanted to go back to the hotel straightaway. A big contingent decided they would rather go back now. The bus would then come back later to get the rest of us. Me and Cathal from the band, Anne, Scarlett, Viva and Tansy, Debs’ brothers Darren and Mike, and Hugh and Jim from the management decided we’d stay. We loaded up with drinks from the dressing room and headed out into the arena. It was a beautiful balmy evening. The Beasties were rockin’, all done up like the FBI in trilbies and raincoats and giving it some. They kicked off with ‘(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party!)’ and the place went ballistic.

  After a few numbers a bunch of us headed back to re-stock, but once in the dressing room we ended up staying and chatting. As time went on more people started to drift back and the talk was just turning to heading to the hotel when the window right next to my head imploded. Then the next one. What the fuck! Then the one opposite; glass flying in all directions. Our dressing room was like a corridor, with windows down either side. I instinctively grabbed Anne and headed for a big steel filing cabinet in the corner. I opened the door to inexplicably discover two Japanese girls in there already. Double what the fuck! One by one, every single window came in. It was like a horror movie. I looked sideways out of the window nearest me, street-side, to see hundreds of kids drifting silently down the road on mopeds, their engines cut, wearing full face-helmets. Dropping the bikes to the ground they were systematically smashing the place to pieces, with base-ball bats and axes. On the other side somebody shouted that the Beastie Boys had left the stage, and the crowd was screaming and running in all directions. Through the broken window nearest the door Toby was passing towels and water out. The guy guarding our dressing room had been attacked and was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. It was carnage.

  For the first time I looked round the room, everyone was staring at each other in shock and complete disbelief. Everyone except Scarlett and Viva. It was like time stood still. They were still out there somewhere in the crowd. Smoke started to drift in. We gotta get out, they’re starting to torch the gaff. Anne rang the girls and tried to explain through the pandemonium that everything was fine and that they shouldn’t come back to the dressing room. What we didn’t know was that they could see the anarchists breaking through on the other side, chopping their way through the fence that protected the bar area with machetes and heading for the dressing rooms. They weren’t leaving their parents, they were headed straight in our direction.

  A fire bomb could have come through the window at any moment; we were sitting ducks. Hugh and Jim had taken their lives in their hands and gone to take a look outside. After a few seconds they came running back in. Hugh was of the opinion, given the short time he’d been out there, that what appeared to be indiscriminate violence was in fact being very specifically directed at the venue, and the people associated with it.

  By now half the stadium was ablaze. We took off anything that connected us to the gig, passes, etc. I looked around the room – plastic chairs, tables. There was nothing of any use. Debs’ brothers clinked two empty wine bottles together and said, unforgettably, ‘We were born together, we’ll die together!’ And with that, we went for it.

  The first door we passed was the band Underworld’s dressing room. A Coke machine lay on its side, and next to it, one of Underworld. There was blood coming out of his head, a steward was shouting, ‘Leave him, he’s been shot!’ But his bandmates weren’t having that, and we helped them drag him to his feet. He had in fact been hit on the head by a brick. He was in a bad way, but he wasn’t dead. The end of the corridor spilled out into the main entrance. To the right the venue, to our left the road. It was full of people screaming and running this way and that. We turned left. Outside the door we were surrounded by a phalanx of crash-helmeted, baseball bat wielding anarchists.

  It felt like we were in the middle of one of those coups you read about, where everyone is slaughtered. The mood was out of control. But it was too late now, we ducked and ran through them. Hugh’s theory seemed to be correct, they were leaving us alone. We spilled out in the road, into a throng of people desperately trying to get away and formed a small circle against the tide. All we knew is that we were on the wrong side of the stadium and we had no idea where to go. The orange light of fire was filling the night sky.

  The girls! Anne and I looked at each other, unsure as to what we’d said to them during our brief garbled conversation on the phone. A patrol car with its lights flashing came down the road, thank God! As it approached, a Greek copper jumped out, took one look at what was going on, grabbed a traffic cone and jumped back in! The car about-turned, wheel-skidded, and shot back up the road. Great!

  A minibus came towards us from the opposite direction, Jim jumped in the way, Hugh pulled the door open it was empty, the driver looked petrified. ‘Jump in!’ There was no way Anne was going without the girls. I was still of a mind to tell them to get out of the stadium any way they could. ‘Just go, we’ll wait.’ Then, really like some miracle, Scarlett, Viva and Tansy appeared out of the crowd running towards us. Hugs and tears all round before we realised we better make the most of our newly commandeered van. Our rightly terrified driver was trying to drive away, but our entrance was blocked by a fella who’d squeezed in front of us, struggling to get two wheely bags in the van. ‘You can get them out of the way!’ We all piled in, followed by the man with the suitcases who dragged them on his lap as the van took off. Turned out he was the Beastie Boys’ bag man (accountant.) The cases were filled with the merchandise cash. Wide-eyed he clung on for dear life as we shot up the road.

  Back at the hotel everyone was amazed and horrified to hear what had happened. Our agent bought drinks all round and suggested it may have been a rival promoter or a disagreement amongst rival security firms. We huddled round the telly in the bar waiting for the news to come on. It did and there was no news of the riot. We asked the barman to
put on the local news. ‘This is the local news.’ What! We explained what had happened to us. He carried on polishing glasses. ‘They burnt down a bank earlier. It’s happening all the time, the whole place is going crazy.’ Little did we know what was to come for Greece.

  We couldn’t wait to get out of the place the following morning. I joined Anne on the ferry for the return trip back to southern Italy and the relative tranquility of our house.

  BASSO SALENTO

  Salento is the area, and it’s a simple and beautiful part of the world, the perfect antidote to the hectic hustle and bustle of my beloved Londinium. It’s a place of abundance, the climate perfect for growing just about anything. One of the many joys has been planting sapling fruit trees or, more to the point, watching Anne do so, and seeing them bear fruit only a matter of a few years later. A miracle that never ceases to amaze me. We have a small vineyard, a vegetable patch and a consumptive cat called Mister Mange. The house has its own well. If we got a couple of goats, we wouldn’t need to go to the shops at all.

  The food is completely seasonal. If it’s artichoke season we eat artichokes. Courgette season, courgettes, etc. The vegetables are home-grown, fresh and delicious. The local wine is home-made, varies from village to village, and comes in unmarked containers. One of my favourite beach-side restaurants is in Porto Badisco. A very simple family-run affair with plastic tables and cutlery. But the food is excellent. Once in the early days, during a most agreeable lunch, I asked for the name of the fabulous rosé we were drinking. The owner looked at me quizzically, scratched his head and said, ‘It is wine, signore.’ Everybody makes their own.