For those of you who don't know my band is called Airstrip 1. The other members are Al Kirkup (tall, effortlessly good-looking, music obsessed rhythm guitarist), Stuart Denyer (Ally McBeal watching, cynical, closet-romantic lead singer), Darryl Mcleod (hairy, macho, rugged lead guitarist), and my little brother Glyn (cheeky, loveable, rascally bass monkey.). And me, the drummer. We have a wide range of influences, which changes depending on which band member you talk to; the Manic Street Preachers, Bon Jovi, Green Day, Ash, the Sex Pistols, Placebo, Led Zeppelin, the Wildhearts, Iron Maiden, System of a Down, Nirvana, Radiohead, Fear Factory, Korn …the list is long and boring.
Our differing personalities mean that we don't really have much of a unified band persona; we all dress according to what we think looks good and come across differently on stage. Al wears eye makeup and Metallica clothes; Darryl dresses quite normally, with jeans, a shirt, a heavy gold bracelet and chest hair; Denyer also goes for jeans, but favours T-shirts from Ibiza with pictures of dolphins on, for some reason. Glyn is rarely seen without his hooded Nirvana top (unless I've nicked it) and green combats and I usually plump for the full on greebo look, with urban night combats, decomposing T-shirt, wallet chain and facial piercings. We all have our own particular tipple; Bitter for Darryl, Lager (or nothing) for Al, Jack Daniels' and coke for Glyn, more or less anything for me and a thermos of tea for Denyer (Strange, but there you go. He takes it to gigs and everything. It's good for his voice, apparently).
Predictably, while we're playing we all do our own thing. Glyn bounces about like Zebedee on an acid trip. Al manages to stand in a way that makes him even more desirable to the opposite sex than he already is. Darryl wanders about, head down, chest hair flapping in the breeze. Denyer stands stock still behind the microphone and doesn't move at all. And me? Well the others swear blind that my head lolls, my tongue hangs out and I dribble, but I think they're exaggerating. Possibly. Occasionally during practices I scare them by taking my shirt off.
Oh yeah. The music. Well, despite our vast range of influences the stuff we write ourselves doesn't really sound like anything. It's a bit Ash, a bit Radiohead and a bit Manics, but really its just us. We still argue about what we should sound like, but it generally turns out okay in the end. Darryl likes long blues-style guitar solos, which are anathema to Glyn, Denyer and myself. We like to be as loud and brutal as possible, which Darryl hates. Al cheerfully plays all sides against the middle, and usually manages to come up with something in between.
A typical practice normally goes something like this; Denyer arrives at my house at about 6:30PM. He, Glyn and I set up the drums, bass amplifier (which was actually made by Glyn for a school project) and microphones in my garage, shortly after pushing the derelict Vauxhall Viva out onto the drive. Al usually arrives three minutes after everything is ready; if by some chance he turns up early then he goes and helps himself from the fridge, or puts a CD on in my bedroom. Under no circumstances will he ever set anything up, apart from his own guitar. Nor will he carry anything down the stairs, with the possible exception of some drumsticks. And a plectrum.
By the time Darryl arrives we've usually got bored of waiting and have launched into 'Oh Yeah'. So Darryl batters on the garage door until we let him in, because it taxes his brain too much to go to the front door and ring the f#cking bell so that my Mum will let him in. Arse. This leads to the first argument of the night.
Darryl starts minging at us for making him stand outside with his amp, so I tell him to f#ck off. Darryl takes offence; he points out that someone could easily have run away with his amp, neatly forgetting four very important points. 1) He was standing a foot away from it for the whole thirty seconds that it was out there. 2) It would be impossible for someone to run anywhere with an amp that size. 3) Driveway muggings at 7:00PM are not common in my street; I live in Wordsley, not the Black Hole of Calcutta, and 4) nobody cares.
Add to this the fact that there might be any number of other miscellaneous people hanging about (Hi Vyki, Vicky, Sarah-Jane, Kelly, Green, Kettle, Stu and anyone else.) and you have some idea of what the evening will be like.
Now I think that it will be instructive to deal with each of the band members in turn, so that you can get the full picture.
Al.
Pretty quiet really, unless the music takes him funny and he starts shouting. Like all of us he's a bit Jekyll and Hyde; he can be either maniacally happy or suicidal. Eats my food and steals my CDs. Argues with Darryl.
Glyn.
Glyn's mood generally depends on how everyone else is; if everything is going well then he's the chirpy, roguish bass molester that we all know and love. If not, then he mutters to himself and calls us w#nkers. Argues with Darryl; also winds him up.
Denyer.
Remains quietly cynical about everything. Distributes fruit juice like it was going out of fashion. Doesn't really give a sh#t, bless him, and so almost never gets moody. Gets the p#ss taken out of him, albeit gently. Argues with Darryl.
Darryl.
Where can I start? Disagrees with everyone about everything. Tries to order Glyn and Denyer about on the grounds that he's been in the band longer than Glyn and that he knows more about music than Denyer; predictably, he gets told to f#ck off. Labels everything heavier than 3 Colours Red as "Death Metal" and gets laughed at. Acts all macho to show up his poofter mates. Fails, because we know we're a bunch of ponces and we don't care.
Sample Conversation (this really happened, no bullsh#t.)
PETE: I got so p#ssed the other night.
DARRYL: What on?
PETE: Vodka and orange.
DARRYL: Oh yeah? Do you know what we call that down the pub? A tart's drink!
Behind Darryl Al rolls his eyes and looks exasperated.
PETE: So? I am a tart. A big fat smeggy tart. That means that I can drink what I like.
We love him really.
Me.
My mood depends on my playing; if I'm doing well, getting my fills right and not f#cking up then I'm nice and cheerful (although I still argue with Darryl). Unfortunately, if I start to mess up then I turn into a right moody f#cker, chucking sticks about and generally being a twat. I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to anyone who has ever had to put up with one of my tantrums. Thank you for your unending patience; I am not fit to drink your bath water. This goes for all of you.
The Nature of the Arguments.
Names in brackets indicate the people who are for the argument.
Al = "Have you got any food?"
Denyer = "Can I phone my mum?"
Darryl = See argument number 5.
Glyn = "Yeah man!" (slaps palm of left hand with back of right hand)
Pete = "Grrr, f#ck, I'm a big w#nker."
I don't want this to seem like me and Darryl don't get on, because we do. He's my mate. It's just that we have radically different opinions when it comes to music. Since we're in a band together this often proves to be a f#cker. He also has an obsession with his own chest hair. Since he has developed a rather large potbelly and some fairly spectacular breasts this is often quite gruesome.
I, however, am not much better. Physically I am no great shakes. Mad hair, toast-rack chest, pipe cleaner arms, face like a dog's bum with a hat on (with a nail in it) and an odd smell combine to form…well…a drummer.
Unfortunately, the rest of the band are just as bad as me (apart from that b#stard Kirkup, he comes round here with his big face and…Grrr, f#ck). Denyer is similar to me, only with wispy chestal hair. But at least he's got rid of the beard.
Glyn is a lanky streak of p#ss with NO FORESKIN (he reckons that it got ripped off during frantic and prolonged lovemaking. Apparently he has to cut down on the sh#gging or he'll be dead within a month. Well yeah). He's now insisting that I write more about him, so here goes. I'll say one thing for him; it's very handy having a little brother who is about your size. Since I have very few clothes of my own it becomes particularly useful when all my stuff is in the wash and I'm late for college. What else? Erm…
Tragically Al's South American features ensure that he finds women wherever we go. Bizarrely, he is almost never interested in any of them. Sod. It is a common occurrence to find Al deep in conversation with an adoring female while the rest of us skulk around behind him talking about breasts (Darryl's).
However, this talk of girls holds little interest for me; I have been going out with the lovely Vyki for a good six or seven months. She's the kind of girl who is sick out of taxi windows and I love her to death. What she's doing with a moody, spotty drummer is anyone's guess.
The rest of the band fluctuates wildly when it comes to relationships; at time of writing Denyer is with Sarah-Jane. Glyn is going out with Vicky, who occasionally sings for us and that's about it.
To sum up; we are five greasy herberts from the West Midlands who fart about in a garage and sometimes manage to bang out the odd tune. I'm sure there's lots of people like us around.
Pete Williams, April 1999.