Coke in the '80s - Nels tells all. (Mr Stickleback returns, too)

Where we got to in the story...

Can you trust a guy (called Guy) who drinks shandy? Nels thought, as she pulled apart the bag of scratchings and inhaled the salty fug of putrified fat. She was starving, a consequence of drinking strong cider.

"You said Matt was being a bit silly back in '82. Why?" said Guy, crunching a segment of pig trotter.

"One day he chucked a guitar amplifier out the window of the Torpid Emancipator. He was paranoid, thought we were hiding from him," said Nels, chuckling, "too much Coke."

"Well, I suppose, 1980s, cocaine, all the rage in the rock world, I bet," said Guy, sounding even uncooler than the blazing open fire.

"No, not cocaine, Coca-Cola. Matt was on at least 8 cans a day. When he chucked the amp, he was on a sugar rush. Big time. Totally manic," said Nels.

By now Nels was desparate for a fag, her leg restlessly jiggling; but she didn't want to move away from the warm bar to the windswept, umbrella enclosed, courtyard area full of smoking builders. Anyway, she was in her 50s now - although no one believed it - and should really think of giving up.

Nels continued, anything to take her mind off cigarettes: "We looked out the window and the falling amp had caused a couple of teenagers to dive for cover onto some old geezer's car. Smashed up the bonnet. The oldster was giving them a hard time, so Matt invited them up to watch us rehearse. I remember asking Matt if he really wanted people to see us - 'Hair Tom' - in a bloody mess like this. And when the kids arrived it was like a scene from 'Let It Be'."

Guy looked kind of confused. He took a big glug of shandy, primarily to wash away the chemical taste of the pork scratching, and coughed as a bubble went down the wrong way.

"Am I boring you yet?" said Nels.

"Oh my God! No!" said Guy, "I, I'm just amazed, that's all. I thought you were such a strong unit"

'Unit' thought Nels. Guy sounds like he's on 'The Old Grey Whistle Test' or something...she shuddered, then realised that it was the pub dog, not Guy, rubbing her leg.

[to be continued - Me and Duggie are back next time!]

[Mr Stickleback says: Just wanted to say, Steve, that I'm really enjoying the blog. It's starting to reel me in (my word, I'm a fish saying things like that!)
Loads of others in the river are reading it, too. Trout was a little confused and Pike spluttered and coughed a bit after I read it to him - well, you know what a stick in the muddy riverbed he is! The Newts are well into it, as is Toad. Thing I'd like to point out to readers is that we're all in this for the long haul. Each blog kinda connects. If you don't get something, look at earlier posts. But don't try to make total sense of it all...let's face it. Life isn't that easy.
One thing, Steve. Could you, maybe provide some descriptions of things like the 'Torpid Emancipator' and the prog-rock movement: 'Sound of Torpidity'? Also a short biog of 'Hair Tom'? See ya!
Steve says, in reply to Mr Stickleback: Sure. I might just do that...let's get Duggie and his mate back into the story and I'll see what I can do. Thanks for reading, Mr S!]

Nels: strong cider, spliff and The Hour of Bewilderbeast (Badly Drawn Boy, 2000)

“By 1982 it was all over for 'Hair Tom' really,” said Nels, soaking up the heat from the Inglenook like a black towel laid out on a summer beach, “Matt, you know, Matt Score, was being a right pratt.”

Matt. Pratt. She was aware of the rhyme, she liked choosing her words like that.

Guy, the guy she met on the bus (Nels liked that, too), who had bought her a nice cloudy cider said: “but you did your best stuff after '82, I mean, 'Illustrations of Gargoyle, 1985...”

“Shh!” said Nels, striking a kestrel-on-the-alert pose, “that's 'Badly Drawn Boy', isn't it?”

“Um, I'm sorry, I don't know any of the locals...” said Guy.

“No! The album, 'The Hour of Bewilderbeast' by Badly Drawn Boy. They're playing it. Thought I heard something that sounded like it on the way in. Must be playing the whole record,” said Nels, taking a large glug of the strong cider.

“Oh, yeah. They often play whole albums in here. I heard the complete 'White Album' once. Don't know much about this pop stuff,” said Guy.

Pop stuff! Thought Nels, conjuring up the image of a spliff in her mind - this album always did. She remembered, she was holed up in a flat on Brighton seafront when it came out, back in 2000, the year the computers didn't crash. Matt had been paranoid about his state-of-the-art digital mixing desk exploding or something for months. He was a bloody nightmare!

Yeah, the flat. Brighton seafront. Salt-lashed and crumbling, part of a kind of modern 1930s place that had gone to rack and ruin [it's been renovated now]. Full of illegal immigrants and squatters. Nels and Matt were squatting with the remnants of a festival group, a mix of Hawkwind session guys and some bloke who said he'd been in the Levellers, although must have been airbrushed out of the band's history, if indeed he was ever part of it.

Dope was constantly in the air during that time. Probably no need to smoke a joint in that flat, just inhale the ambience of the place.

So, one day, Nels had skinned up a nice, mellow, early-morning-slowly-wake-up joint. A hazy sun was enveloping the horizon, turning the sea apricot colour, when the flippy floppy riff that leads into 'Once Around The Block' came on.

Nels can't remember who put it on, probably Pauley, it was his kind of thing. He was crashed out on the balcony. “I'm fascinated by your style/your beauty will last for a while/feeling instead of being/the more I live on the inside the more that I give...” Yeah. What a track. Must be a cover, who did it first. That fantastic “dooby-do-wah” chorus and the inbuilt crackles. No. (she glanced at the cover) It's an original! What a song. What a writer. 'Hair Tom' and prog-rock seemed a neolithic age away. This was vital. “Take a left a sharp left and another left...” Even a little solo on the vibes [vibraphone] as the track fades out. Retro, yet soooo fresh. And then 'This Song', trips in like when 'Abbey Road' fades out to 'Her Majesty'. Hmmm.

Nels remembers placing the stylus on the first track, sparking up her spliff and listening to the whole thing, all the way through. It played like a patchwork of the best riffs, words and melodies that someone could come up with, jammed on a totally-full two sides of vinyl. There were even glam rock and sitar riffs on there - in the same song (check 'Bewilderbeast', opening track, side two). Respect. 'Hair Tom' could hardly fit one song on an entire album towards the end.

It's funny how music, like smells, can take you to a particular place in time. Not just anywhere, a certain somewhere. That record. That flat. That day. That spliff. It turned out that someone had switched Nels's gear. She was monged out for the rest of the day after her wake up smoke. Missed rehearsals. Matt spoke about commitment, professionalism, got pissed in the Zap Club and got off with an 18 year-old student. Just to get back at Nels.

Back in the pub and Nels eyes resembled a stained glass window to Guy: glazed over, animated by the pictures created in the dancing flames of the open fire.

She shook her head and swigged some cider, coming round. “Where was I?” she said, as Badly Drawn Boy warbled about “causing a rockslide”, through the pub speakers.

“I don't know,” said Guy, “somewhere else. I think.”

“Yeah,” said Nels, “that's where I am. Can I have some Pork Scratchings?”

We now meet Nels, bass player with Hair Tom...on the bus.

“So, you are Nels from Hair Tom. I knew it,” says the man in the leather coat. Nels just looks up at him, through her fringe. She's holding her bass guitar close, to protect it and to shield hereself from freaky 'fans'.

“I was so into Hair Tom in the early '80s. It just took me away from that early '70s hippy stuff, the stuff my father used to listen to,” he didn't half go on.

Typical, she thought. He even says 'Father'. Not 'Dad' or 'the Old Man'. Thing about this prog rock stuff is that it's mainly middle class lads that are into it.

Nels just got carried away by the dope. The bass lines Hair Tom needed were flowing. Like you could see the notes coming out of the amps. You could easily play stoned.

“...so, I just had to buy the box set. Had to have it! I even bought the sheet music, I can't play a note...” and he's still going on.

“'scuse me, mate,” says Nels, blowing her fringe out of her eyes, “want me to take you back?”

He looks flumoxed, “What? To your place?” adding a nervous laugh. She hasn't got a place, she's dossing down in Matts caravan at the moment.

“No, you dirty get,” says Nels, she can take lecherous guys in her stride after a couple of decades touring with the likes of Hawkwind, “back in time. Want me to tell you what it was like in the band back in '82?”

“Why, yes! I'd love to hear your anecdotes...” she stops him.

“Let's get off at the next stop, then. You can buy me a cider in the 'Juggling Rosary' (a pub in Thursby Down).”

Anything for a cider, thought Nels, anything for a cider. And at least it'll be warmer in there by the fire than in Matt's van.

[But why was Nels walking around in the pouring rain with her guitar? She'd had a bust up. Hair Tom, or what's left of it, were rehearing in a barn owned by Mansell (an associate of 'Torpid Emancipator' supremo, Ricky Fleese – the man who' desperately trying to get Hair Tom to reform and tour - “don't worry, I'll tell you all about this later,”says the Narrator.) The rain started and leaked in, shorting out the electricity supply to the new keyboard player's Korg synth, “Bollocks! I'm still paying the HP on that,” he said as the smoke poured from the instrument and his ponytail swung violently. An argument ensued. Nels stirred it up in order to get out the door. She wasn't really into this reforming the band thing in the first place].

Taking the story forward - The Bus Driver, oh, and New Boots And Panties!! - Ian Dury (1977)

Driving a green bus, like the guys from On The Buses, I see things other people don't.

I'm also like George Formby cleaning his windows and peeking at the ladies, or a butler in a massive mansion turning a blind eye to misdemeanors, we're the invisible people who listen-in to your lives, while earning our living.

So, one day, on a lonely route. I pick up a girl carrying a bass guitar. Soaked she is, the guitar's dripping wet, too. It hasn't got a case or anything.

She buys a day-rover ticket. Cheapest way, see. And I say, "so what, you a musician or something?" And she looks at me like I'm taking the Michael. Suit yerself, I think.

A couple of stops later, this guy gets on. Hair slicked back by the rain and long black leather coat glistening like mink. So, he gets a ticket to Thursby Down, 'bout two miles away.

I really like the rain on this route. It's clear, pure as if it was glass. The drops are huge, much bigger than normal. If you're caught in a shower round these parts and you're a bit thirsty, just lift up your head and take a few gulps. Amazing.

The guy sees the girl with the guitar, stops for a second, as if he thinks he recognises her but isn't sure, and sits down. A few minues later, I see him in the 'rear view', he moves to sit next to her. She looks pissed 'cause she's gotta move the guitar and that. But he looks well into it.

I wonder if she's famous or something. I'm not up on new bands, so I wouldn't know. Anyway, that's what I saw. Might be something developing there. Who knows.

Us 'invisible men' will keep you up to date, don't worry.

[Bus Driver's bestest record: I'm into Ian Dury, of course. What bus driver wouldn't be, eh? Bus Drivers prayer, you know? It's New Boots and Panties for me, though. That was THE coolest album to have when I was a kid. That and Setting Sons by The Jam.

The opening bit of 'Wake Up And Make Love To Me' - first track on the album, a oriental sounding piano riff - great one. Sweet Gene Vincent, My Old Man. Blockheads. What a cracker!

I'm totally partial to Ian Dury's Abracadabra, you know. Even better, I'm from Essex! Straight up - not Billericay, though. Unfortunately (Fortunately? Surely!)

I remember the LP being available for about £3.99 from Woolies. Too much for me in them days. I had to wait 'til Christmas to get a copy. Up until Christmas Eve, I was certain me granny was gonna get me a pair of shoes and some underwear instead.

You can never trust your grandparents with important stuff like records. I couldn't wait to play them that track with all the swearing at the start - Plaistow Patricia - I thought that meant I was being a total punk, rather than a total prat.]

"Oi, get that bus aht!" (says a voice, slightly off-stage).

Better go. Don't forget, us invisible men will keep you up to date. Know what I mean? (says the bus driver, tapping his nose as he speaks).

Head On - Bobby Hutcherson (1971)

[Just for a moment, Me and Duggie are back. Laying on Duggie's bed. They've had a few beers. It's Thursday night, 'the girls' are off late-night shopping, or something. They've taken the kids with them.]

Duggie's mate has been itching.

Sorry, I mean he's been itching to play this new CD that he's carrying around.

Bobby Hutcherson on the Vibes back in 1971. 'Head On'.

“'s 'is must udventurous wurk,” says Duggie's mate.

Duggie, trys to sit up, spilling the remains of a can of Fosters on the duvet, “Y' jest red that sumwear, y'dick 'ed.”

“Nur, nuh.” syad Duggie's mate. “Nur. 's rev.rev.revo. It's revolootionry vibes, man.”

Duggie has a little bedside CD player and his mate slots the CD in.

The first track of Head On: 'At The Source' starts up. A few squeezed notes, opening into a mellow vibraphone riff, then moving to blusey free jazz and a bass solo.

“Kinda chall'nging,” says Duggie's mate.

Duggie's snoring, blowing lager bubbles through his nostrils.

“I mean, I'm getting more inta, or outa jazz these, um, daze. Y' know?”

Now it's gone all high-speed bing bong playing.

Duggie grunts and wakes: “what's that diggin' in me 'ead. Like a drill.”

“It's a marimba solo. Bobby Hutcherson. Hutch? Yeh?”

Within seconds Duggie is snoring again.

Duggie's mate was drawn to the CD first of all by listening to a jazz show on Radio 3. Then he googled Bobby Hutcherson and saw a cool photo of the front cover of 'Head On'. It shows Bobby wearing an orange woolly hat and clutching his head like he's a school kid who's forgotten his packed lunch or something. Highly cool to Duggie's mate.

Music: swirling and twirling through the hard bop landscape, the early 1970s, inner-cities still scarred by degrading slums. Docks are a series of vacant spaces in varying degrees of dilapidation and squatted occupation. There's a fog over New York and no one has noticed (or is Duggie's mate now getting confused by memories of early episodes of Kojak? “Who Loves Ya Baby?”). Perhaps it's the beer affecting his brain cells. Making the wrong connections.

And the music continues to move, grooving a course of crashing cymbals and roaming bass lines and the globble bobble of the vibes. Even Duggie's renewed snoring somehow complements the seedy burps of Harold Land's sax.

The streetlamp casts a white light over Duggie's bed, illuminating one of his toes as it peeks though a hole in his sock.

From the bonnet of an Austin Maxi...

[Me and Duggie are still back in 1982...]

“Walking down here in 1982, the thing I notice is how busy the shops are,” says Duggie's mate.

“Yeah,” says Duggie, “and the fact that people actually bought brand-new Morris Itals in '82, thinking they were brand-new cars not just Marinas with replacement headlights.”

[STOP! That's meaningless to anyone who cares not a fig about early 80s cars! (says the Narrator) So ignore that last comment if you couldn't give a toss.]

Duggie's mate says: “It's still the 1970s really, isn't it? I mean, spot the difference!”

“Yeah [again],” says Duggie, “Those shows like 'Life On Mars' and that 1980s one ['Ashes to Ashes'] were too perfect. I mean everyone was in 1973 – all riding flamin' Choppers and the like.”

[pause]

Duggie continues: “It's like a typical 1930s working class family being depicted living in the height of Art Deco style in some villa, rather than 6 families crammed into a back street two-up-two-down terrace house.”

“Or,” says his mate, “a heritage centre that doesn't smell of cat piss!”

“What are you on about?” says Duggie.

[interjection by a critic of the 1990s Heritage Interpretation movement, the guys can't hear this: What your mate means, Duggie, is that when you visit a heritage centre, one that includes immersive environments, you often have a certain aroma that suggests a particular period.

Now, if you are presented with: a Victorian street-scene, or the service alley behind a Roman palace, or a Viking fishing village or the workshop of an 18th Century shipbuilder, your nostrils will be met by a fragrance that sums up the smell of the period. I can bet you any money you like (within reason, of course) that the smell that you will smell will be cat piss. Pure, unadulterated cat piss. Honest!

It's like the smell of heritage. Cat piss!]

“Watch out!” says Duggie, pushing his mate away from a large black box that's just been flung through the window of a room two floors above.

The box – a 150 watt Marshall Guitar Ampifier – crashes to the ground amidst a shower of glass
(which punctures the radial/cross-ply mixed tyres of several nearby cars, including a beige Austin Maxi).

Duggie and friend land on top of a beige Austin Maxi. The bonnet crumples like paper [Narrator: they used to in those days, something to do with the oil crisis I suppose, don't know why.]

Me and Duggie could hear voices in that room two floors above:
“You bastards! Why d'you leave me?” says a man's voice.
“Hey, hey, Matt, man,” says a woman, “we were just hiding.”
A man agrees with her: “Yeh, yeh, yeh, cool it...”
Sound of heavy breathing, someone trying to calm themselves down.
Whoever is trying to chill peers through the broken window, to get some fresh air.

Duggie looks up: “Look, It's Matt Score, from 'Hair Tom', they must be recording or something in the Torpid One [that's the nickname of the Torpid Emancipator – see earlier posts for information].”

Duggie's mate is watching a slight, middle-aged man walking intently towards them. He's wearing a tan-coloured rain mac, a beige cap and carrying a large golfing umbrella. He looks rather angry.

“Duggie, how would you describe 'the look' of a typical Maxi owner?”

“Dunno,” says Duggie, “I suppose, a tan rain mac, beige cap, some kind of golfing accessory.”

“Like him you mean?” says Duggie's mate.

“Yeah!” says Duggie.

[Narrator: at this point, Duggie stands up. He's a big lad. But the thing is, in 1982, he's still a lad, 14 or 15 years old. But he does look older. Duggie's used to solving man-to-man issues with his physical presence alone. so doesn't feel intimidated by the livid Maxi owner.]

“Yes, mate,” says Duggie, “Can I 'elp you?”

“You layabout,” says the Maxi owner, “you've buggered my bonnet!”

[Narrator: oh dear...]

“Calm down now, Mr.” says Duggie.

“You bloody kids,” says the Maxi owner, “you think the world owes you a liver!”

“A liver! surely you mean...” and that's all Duggie has time to say.

[from the perspective of 'Me': He just laid one on Duggie. He's out cold. Thwump! Nose in shreds of red, like a sliced capsicum. Dunno about the ethical side of punching a kid. But, you know, as a time traveller, his real age is 40-ish.]

All Duggie can think of is Scooby-Doo and the 'you pesky kids' unmasking of the baddie. Then music. He's on stage with Hair Tom. Finally, he's floating in a red sea. Then his nose drifts by on the tide.

[Mr Stickleback says: “Hard Cheese, Duggie. I mean, you are a bit of a bully sometimes – I should know, we've had our run-ins via the hook and line (and I haven't yet become a sinker!). Maybe you getting knocked out by Maxi man is a bit of rough justice. Afterall, you can be a bit of a bully!]

Rehearsals - 'Hair Tom' - 1982 [a kind of interlude]

[Contextual remark - 'Hair Tom' is one of the toppermost early '80s proggers in the Sound of Torpidity movement, centred around the Torpid Emancipator, a record shop, recording studio and general place to hang-out. If this doesn't make sense then you must be a new reader. If so, check out some of the earlier posts.]

[And a contextual remark from Mr Stickleback: "You see, I'm a follower of all things local, you know. But as I am a fish, listening to music can be a problem. I mean, I haven't got any ears for a start. The deep vibes resonate, but, you know, I seriously lose the treble. Anyway. I'll leave you to it."]

[Studio two - up in the roof of the Torpid Emancipator]

"1-2-3-4..."

[silence]

"and a 1-2-3-4...?"

[silence] Matt pauses. Mutes the 6-tingling strings of his Gibson by placing his hand across the fretboard. There's something wrong.

Try again Matt [says the Narrator]

"1-2-3-4..."

Matt pulls his skiiing shades down. "The bastards have gone home!"

[The danger of wearing shades indoors.]

Chinese chips - 1982 stylee (by Narrator #1)

Because of all that's happened on TV and in Cinema over the past few years, and, I suppose, in books, what I - the narrator of this piece – am about to say will sound pretty well-worn. I might even go so far as to say it's cliched...

“Oi,” says Duggie, “Shut up, you're boring the pants off mine and my mate's readership!”

“Yes,” says Duggie's best friend, “what you mean to say, Mr Narrator, is that Duggie and his friend are about to trip-out and return to their collective past. To travel in time.”

Precisely. Shall I continue?

“Yes,” says Duggie, “Cos this whole scene is weirding me out already!”

You see, Duggie and his friend are now walking down the High Street. It's 1982. They're both in their early teens and scoffing a portion of chips - yes one between them – from the Chinese chippy next to the bookies. The chips are a chunky cut and served, at asbestos destroying heat, in a crinkly brown-paper bag.

“Ock! Hits earnt my ocking cung,” says Duggie, juggling a piece of molten fried-potato with his tongue.

“Ot?” says his mate, juggling a piece of molten potato with his tongue, too and spitting a chunk out, singeing the ear of a passing dog.

The conversation is obviously going nowhere, and now, as they've both stuffed another handful of chips into their respective gobs, let's leave them eating for a moment, and return back to 1982 a little later.

See ya!
Narrator # 1

'Mirrors' by Duggie Chop - a little bit of 'Sandinista' (The Clash, 1980) thrown in.

"Cold water on the face - brings you back to this awful place..." [Duggie's quoting The Clash]

There's something about the weather turning colder that makes you wanna stay in bed. [isn't that obvious?] I'm flinching before splashing my face from the cold tap. Makes me feel crap, it really does.

"Ring, Ring, 7am".

"Cold water in the face."

"Must get up and learn those rules..."

[it's The Clash again, those lyrics, rolling round and round his head]

All I can see outside the window is a blurred blackness. And I can hear the rain on the conservatory roof - frozen peas falling on to a tin.

It's ok when I'm out the door, on the way to the train. But it's just kick-starting the body that's the issue, here.

Stuff it, I am going back to bed. [Duggie hasn't taken many sick days this year. One of his mates used to put his sick days in his diary - in advance. Therefore, Duggie's got to be owed one or two himself, hasn't he?]

Yeah. I deserve it. A lie-in. It's Tuesday, so they won't think I'm recovering from the weekend. Anyway, I had a good day yesterday, got a lot done.

Yeah. I'll call 'em.

No.

I'll email them. That way I don't have to put on a funny voice. Maybe I'll say that I've lost my voice, that's why I'm not phoning-in.

"It's no good for man to work in cages" - that bloody song again! It's called The Magnificent Seven, if you didn't already know, from 'Sandinista', The Clash's sprawling 3LP set. Can't get it out of my head on days like these.

By the way, I know some of you out there [Duggie taps an imaginary screen in front of his eyes] think I'm a nerd. Like we - that's me and me mate - are something out of a laddish novel, or a film. Typical, saddo, 40- something, past-it, whatever-else-you-want-to-add, nerdy, geeky types.

Well, you just come 'ere and say that! We're real! It's Me (that's me mate) and Duggie Chop!

We talk about music. So what! Just wait until this story really begins.

I mean, life is a story isn't it?

The only difference between your lives and ours, is that ours are kind of planned in advance.

Maybe yours are, too? I dunno, I'm no philospher. [Duggie gets under his duvet, with his lap top, ready to email work]. What I do know it this: you've gotta trust Steve Hill and you've got to believe in his set up, what's it called? 'The Mint-Tree of Words'. I mean, it's given Duggie and friend a chance (that's us, by the way). A hope for the future.

And that's more than a lot of 40-someting blokes have got, I can tell you.

[Duggie's turned away now, and he's tapping into his computer. I think we'd better leave him now].

Black Sabbath - Black Sabbath (1969)

It's peaceful, by the river. Only the dirty great dual-carriageway disturbs the silence. Oh, and the railway line – primarily freight traffic, containers, aggregates. Of course, the nearby airport doesn't help. Ok, ok, so it's noisy here!

But we live in a noisy town, so we locals are used to the constant swish of traffic, burst of train horns and accelerating jet engines.

Take all of that out of the equation and it's peaceful by the river.

I'm listening to headphones while Duggie digs for worms. 'Black Sabbath' by Black Sabbath. One of the great rock debut albums. Cancels out the background hum. The album begins with 'Black Sabbath': rainfall, like the pitter patter you get on the roof of a conservatory, then a riff and finally Ozzy, slurring, “What is this that stands before me...[then stuff about figures in black pointing, black shapes, Satan smiling, flames, you get the picture]...Oh no, no please God help me!”

The song goes into a chugging riff, the drums crash in and Tony Iommi's back with a wailing solo, kind of bending the notes off the human scale, twiddling and twirling, and the song ends in a final burst of guitar.

Second track, 'The Wizard', is a whole lot more blusey, with Ozzy playing a harmonica as well as singing. It's upbeat...rather than a black figure and Satan smiling, there's a wizard walking by, “spreading his magic”.

Me and Duggie often debate the pros and cons of 'the Sabbath'. He's coming back now, with a shovel full of worms.

“You still listening to Sabbath?” says Duggie.

“Yeah, their first album.” I say, “Great riff, that opening to 'Behind The Wall Of Sleep' [Track 3], ground breaking. They invented heavy metal,” I say.

“Shame that Ozzy is such a dickhead,” says Duggie. He can't get over the fact that the finest vocalist in rock history is now a kind of mainstream figure of fun. It's like when something you're into get's popular. It becomes annoying.

“I'm more into the Dio stuff now [Ronnie James Dio – Sabbath lead vocals from 1979 to 1982] like 'Live Evil' [1982 live album].” says Duggie.

“Get out of here! 'Live Evil' by Miles Davis, maybe!” I say. Guaranteed to wind Duggie up. He's not into Jazz.

“Miles Davis, you're winding me up! [see, told you] When did you last listen to that?” says Duggie.

“Didn't say I wanted to listen to it, just given the choice I'd rather listen to Miles Davis than Dio.” I say. That's gotta be that.

And, indeed it is. “Well, sod it,” says Duggie, “Life's too short.”

“Just like Dio [Ronnie James Dio – Height reputed to be 5' 4”]” I say. Don't know why, I've never been 'height-ist'.

And Duggie tips the shovel full of worms over my packed lunch.

Sinister interlude by Duggie C

Running and running, down the street. And I just remember...it'd be quicker if I used my bike [as if I didn't know that already].

It's dark - but only about 4pm. Just started raining. And I'm peddling hard, on my 5-speed racer with taped drop-handlebars. Looking down at the road, the car headlights flashing on the silver-grey tarmac.

I'm going to overtake the bus that's just pulled in. Shall I? And I spurt past, quick, the bus driver can see me in his mirror now, and he indicates to pull out as I reach his window - and indicates to me with a single finger. I suppose the 'Ever-Ready' bike lights are a bit crap. Maybe he couldn't see me. Plus I have to bash the red one to get it working properly.

Into town and I lock-up the bike in an alley beneath the dentist surgery. There's a motorbike bloke revving up in the alley. The two-stroke engine echoes around the brickwork, like an amplified football rattle.

I leg it down the High Street, splashing through the growing puddles. I've got more than a bootful. And I get to the door of 'Our Price' just as the guy's got his hoover out.

Flick, flick, flick, flick, flick, through the 'F' section. The Fall. Bend Sinister. £5.99.

Just made it.

On the way back the LP blows into my bike wheel and the corner of the cover's a bit mangled [to this day]. Also, one of the flimsy 'Our Price' bag handles snaps, and I have to make it back one handed, clutching the record to my chest, the rain hammering my face.

Love Duggie.

Ash - 1977 (1996)

[Written from the perspective of 'Me']

Round Duggie's house, is a little room with an orange leather sofa. It's stuffed with old pasty wrappers, bits of scrap paper, notebooks, newspapers and music.

Me and Duggie Chop sit in there sometimes to listen to records. By records I mean LPs. One of the walls is filled with a white Ikea ['Expedit'] shelving unit containing 1,000s of LPs, stacked in alphabetical order.

He's got a nice set up, Duggie: Rega turntable and Roksan [Kandy LIII] amplifier through some tiny Dali speakers [Lektor 1] placed on a shelf. "You should always overdrive your speakers," says Duggie, "first principle of setting up a hifi."

We decide to do an A-Z thing, listen to whatever turns up scanning from left to right on the shelf. Duggie hands me a Ginsters and I settle down into the sofa.

"Ash," says Duggie, "Haven't played that for ages." And he selects the black cover of '1977' from the shelf.

It's a gatefold cover with the image of a street scene and an upturned bin on the front. The image is placed sideways and printed twice. It's repeated on the back. You can tell the thing is designed for CD, the tracks are listed 1 - 12, no 'side 1', 'side 2' (luckily this is sorted in the gatefold - still numbered 1-12, but at least 'side 1' and 'side 2' are split).

Inside are shots of the band having a laugh in the studio and on tour, photographed next to signs that say things like: 'Domination - Teenage - Bi-sexual'. The band are either sticking their tongues out or holding bottles of booze.

"The LP's called '1977' cos that's when they were born, they were all about 19 when they recorded it," says Duggie, "precocious gits!"

"Didn't know you were into them," I say.

"I liked that 'Girl From Mars' track and 'Kung Fu' was pretty cool at the time, you know," says Duggie, "also it was on vinyl and dead cheap. Couldn't resist it."

On vinyl in 1996. Right in the middle of the time that record companies, shops and 'The Man' were trying to scrap vinyl in favour of an alternative new(ish) format: The CD. Or the SACD or some other nonsensical platform. Am I being cynical by imagining that this was a way to encourage music lovers to replace their entire collections with a new format - to buy the whole lot all over again? Plus invest in some pricey new equipment?

"Yeah, on vinyl," says Duggie, "it was like jumping in bed with your mates Mum, to buy LPs back them. It's kinda cool now."

Duggie takes a big chomp out of his chilli pasty and stares at the wall, thinking, "If I'd bought this record on CD, it'd be on a shelf now gathering dust, there'd be no reason to play it. It'd also seem alot more dated."

"I know what you mean," I say, "CDs are like commodities aren't they. Some crap you buy from Tescos."

And Duggie's nodding his head, no doubt just like thousands of other people who care about music are doing this very moment, as they have this same conversation.

"Ash wrote some bloody good tunes," says Duggie, "I like the way the album starts with that heavy metal thing. Side 2 is cool as well, I forgot about 'Oh Yeah' - you know, 'Oh yeah, she was taking me over, Oh yeah, it was the start of the summer.' Gets you all nostalgic for school, doesn't it?"

"Yep," I say, "that moment when, in the heat of July, the bell rings and everyone runs across the school field, seeking new adventures duirng that long, six week break."

"You mean snogging, don't you?" says Duggie.

"Yep," I say.

Duggie opens his flask of tea and hands me a cup. It's weird the way he always uses a thermos, even at home. Says he can't be bothered to get up once he starts listening. What a pro!

"Reckon I'll be spinning this one again," says Duggie, "funny how that happens with music. I mean, '1977' has been sitting up there for years."

"It's a continual renewal," I say, "record collections. Something just sparks off an urge to play an obscure record and one thing leads to another."

"You gotta play the whole record though, haven't you?" says Duggie.

"Too right, none of this Mp3 skipping around," I say.

I mean, we've both got iPods, you know. It's just that's not proper listening. It's like when you had your tape on a Walkman. Something you'd recorded from an LP. You'd play it on the Walkman when you couldn't get to the family music centre to listen to it properly.

"Reckon we're becoming old farts?" says Duggie.

I take a bite of my pasty and chew, washing it down with a slurp of tea.

Arctic Monkeys - Humbug (2009)

(Let's scroll back a little, find out some more about Me and Duggie...)

[He's sitting by the edge of a canal. The canal is through a little gate at the end of Duggie's garden. It's 1974, Duggie's managed to sneak through the little gate at the end of the garden, and he's kneeling on the gravel path that runs alongside the canal, the sharp stones pressing into his knees as he's wearing short trousers. "Duggie! Hey, Duggie, I can see it!" It's Duggie's best mate sitting by his side, cross-legged. He's also managed to sneak out of his 'little gate', next door. "Don't shout, man," says Duggie, "you'll scare him off! He's biting." A teenage couple is approaching. The boy is wearing a fur coat, purple jeans with huge bell-bottoms and really bulbous green, red and purple patent leather shoes. The girl isn't really wearing much at all. Duggie remembers seeing shoes like that in Clark's, on the 'big boy' shelf when he and his mum went to get a pair of school shoes. "Hey Duggie," his mate says, "you see that band on Top of the Pops? I was dancing about, me sister was getting annoyed, she was watching it with her mates."
"What band?" says Duggie? "The song goes: 'Only you can, oh oh, oh oh, oh only you...' and the singer looks like that teacher at school, the hippy one." "That's your sister's mate Angie, isn't it," says Duggie, pointing at the teenage couple, "walking about with that bloke." "Yeah, I'm gonna hide, she'll tell me mum about me getting through the gate!" Duggie's mate gets up and turns to run back to his garden. His leg gets twisted in the fishing line and he splashes into the filthy canal water. Duggie's almost frozen to the spot. At least he would be if he hadn't kept hold of the fishing line and been pulled in after his friend. Angie's fella throws off his fur coat and jumps straight in as Me and Duggie thrash about in the water. It's like a live enactment of the 'Charlie Says...' public information films. And, just like those films, the boyfriend can't swim, either. So Angie kneels down and leans over the canal side, "Greg, hold on to my hand! Hold on to my hand!. Oh no! Duggie and Lorna's brother! Grab hold of Greg." She over balances and they're all in the water. None of them can swim. Now they're all thinking about the Rolf Harris public information film about learning to swim. It feels like they've been in the water for hours and hours. It's been less than a minute. Duggie's swallowed loads of water. He's coughing and it makes the whole thing sound so much worse.]

Duggie coughs and places the needle on the brand spanking new piece of vinyl that he's just bought: Arctic Monkeys, Humbug. Their latest album. Memories, man, thinks Duggie. That canal. Phew.

Funny buying the Arctic Monkeys. It's the only time Duggie ever feels the generation gap. Ok, it's standard pop-rock with modern cultural references, like every other piece of rock-pop, pop-rock ever recorded. But now he, Duggie, is a different generation. Is this for me? Why am I still listening to this kind of thing. Do these guys really want to speak to me? A forty-something year-old man?

It's a good record. They're trying to get somewhere, do something different. The Arctic Monkeys. Great name and they look cool. The cover of this LP is just a random picture, kind of anti-design. [Note: why did I use 'random' in that way? It's the word usage of a younger generation, man.]

I like the way they don't conform, the Arctic Monkeys. They're turning into rockers, long hair and all. And that's out, isn't it? Or is it in, now? Dunno.

[After the thrashing around, Duggie gets a nudge in the back and looks round. His friend is hanging onto him and Angie and Greg are holding each other to keep afloat. The nudge is from a blue and orange inflatable dinghy. There's a copper on board, helmet and all. "Grab hold of the rope," says the PC, "and haul yourselves aboard." In fact, it's not him speaking, it's a man, standing on the gravel path, holding a loud hailer. They all try to do what they are told. As they scramble aboard, the weight of five people and waterlogged bell-bottom trousers has forced the dinghy down into the water, which laps over the side. The boat capsizes and they all end up in the canal. The thing that always sticks in Duggie's mind is the final image he had before falling in. Michael Crawford's face. He didn't imagine it, he was the man shouting though the loud hailer. He was wearing his Frank Spencer tank top and everything. Turns out they'd been filming some location shots for the sit-com 'Some Mother's Do 'Ave 'Em' when the director heard the commotion. Michael eventually held out a boom mic as a kind of life-line.]

Sort of passed me by, 'Humbug', on the first listen. I kept getting flashbacks to the canal thing and being 'saved' by Michael Crawford. It was great, really. He invited us all to a studio recording of 'Some Mother's Do 'Ave 'Em', the one where Frank falls through the ceiling. He really did do his own stunts.

But, got into the record, by listening to it constantly on me iPod. How did I get an LP on the iPod? Simple, they gave away free Mp3 downloads on a card inside. Great idea.

Right. off now, Kojak's on ITV3.

Duggie.

Me and Marc Almond

[It's dawn. One week later. Me and Duggie Chop are back by the river.

Our bikes are next to us, laying in the tufty grass and Duggie is attempting to light a camping stove in the wind. He fancies frying up some sausages.]

"I'm not sure about the bangers, Duggie," I say, "they'll just attract stray dogs, like that Irish Wolfhound who came over a couple of years ago, when you were trying to cook up some chicken soup, remember?"

"Yeah," says Duggie, "Janine gave me 'River Cottage Cookbook' for Christmas."

"And you spent months experimenting on the camping stove," I say.

"And that Wolfhound came over and gobbled up me fish!"

[Duggie remembers the day well, it was about the only time we'd caught any fish worth eating.]

But he gets the bangers on anyway, and as they start to fizz and pop, I notice someone with a familiar face walking by.

[And you know that feeling when you see someone who you think you know, but you're not quite sure what part of your life they come from. Well, I had that feeling, then.]

"Hi," I say, waving.

The man stops and lifts his hand and starts to walk over.

He's dressed in tight black clothing, and although he has a clear and blemish-free complexion, he could easily be 50. He's got the tattoo of a bird on his neck.

My word, it's Marc Almond!

Duggie's busy flipping his porkers and doesn't notice.

"Doing a bit of fishing, eh?" says Marc.

"Yes," I say, "I'm sorry for waving and calling out, I thought I knew you."

"I'd like to say it happens all the time but, you know, that moment passed ages ago! Ha!" says Marc, flicking his head towards the river or the distance or somewhere.

[And when I'm in this kind of situation, my brain freezes. I know Marc Almond's music pretty well.]

"In fact I was only listening to 'Jacques' the other day," I say.

[Was that a thought inside my head or did I just say it?]

"Jacques?" says Marc, "oh my, that was a labour of love. I'd been on a roll, you know with the Gene Pitney stuff and all..."

"Something's gotten hold of my heart!" I sing, badly. [loving music doesn't always mean you can sing in tune.]

"...yes," says Marc, rather politely, I think, "when you have a bit of success, they kind of believe in you. At least for 5 minutes. It doesn't last."

"I loved 'The Lockman' (L'Eclusier) and The Bulls (Les Toros), was fantastic. As good as Scott Walker did Brel to my ears."

"Thanks," says Marc. "You know, someone came up to me once and thought that 'Les Toros' was the guy who wrote it, wanted to know where to get more of his stuff. Can you believe it?"

I nod, just like a fill-in shot from a TV news interview. And it feels like that, too.

"The record came together over a period of a couple of years, and what a time that was. The '80s. Such freedom!"

Marc's shaking his head. He looks sad, all of a sudden.

"You ok?" I say.

"It's just the passing of time. Oh, you know. I'm on my way to the 'Torpid Emancipator'. I've not been there for years. Bet it's all video games and t-shirts now. Amazing it hasn't closed down."

I can't quite believe that Marc Almond is a regular at the 'Torpid Emancipator': record shop, studio and way of life.

And, he explains: "I used to record backing vocals there and I'm doing some today, for an album of George Michael covers. It's renowned for backing vocals, you know, 'the Torpid one'" says Marc.

"Yes, Me and Duggie - Duggie Chop over there frying-up some sausages - we used to go down there all the time. Then we hit our 40s and..."

"Don't go there, love, I know only too well," he says, getting up to go.

"Why don't you stay and have a banger?" I say, "Duggie will have done more than enough, eyes bigger than his belly that boy."

"Oh no," says Marc, rolling his eyes to the clouds, "I'm a vegan. Didn't you know!"

And he leaves, saying: "Look out for the new CD, it'll be ready for the summer." He disappears rapidly, enveloped in smoke and fumes from Duggie's friying bangers.

Duggie yawns and says: "The thing about this flamin' camping stove, is it takes so long to cook anything on it. Do you think they're still pink?"

"I was just talking to Marc Almond," I say, "He was just passing by on his way to record some backing vox at 'the Torpid one,'" I say.

"What are you on about?"

"Marc Almond," I say.

"I know what you said, but I don't know what you're on about," says Duggie.

He looks thoughtful and says: "All I remember about Marc Almond, apart from 'Soft Cell' and 'Tainted Love', was when we were students."

He stabs a fork in a banger, the fat spurts out, he continues: "You were running around our flat in your underpants, with the sleeve from 'The Stars We Are" on your head, like a dunce's hat."

"The Stars We Are?" I say.

"Yeah, the one with Gene Pitney on it," says Duggie and chomps on a sausage, burning his tongue in the process."

"You doing any onions to go with them?" I say.

Tubular Bells - Mike Oldfield (2009 mix version)

The twisted bell, floating in the sky.

[then Duggie notices that the bent bell, on the cover of the new CD, doesn't ring true]

Hang about...It's a little too perfect!

[he walks over to the second hand LP section, selects an original, 1973, vinyl copy]

As I thought, the bell on the old album cover is a real one, with sawn off ends. You can see the saw marks...

[anyone listening to Duggie's thoughts would wonder why he wasn't thinking about the music]

...sort of spoiled it for me, that has.

[But, Duggie does think about the significance of Tubular Bells in his life...]

Mike Oldfield called Tubular Bells 'Opus One' while he was sketching out ideas in an old notebook. When I got my first car in the mid-'80s, I called it 'Opus One' - stuck the letters at the top of the windscreen, behind a green sun-visor, where people used to put 'Kev (on one side, usually the driver's and Tracey on the other.

Spun round the streets, window wound down, Mike Oldfield's 'Opus One', Tubular Bells pouring out of the speakers...everyone else was listening to 'Living In A Box' and 'I Want Your Sex' on cassette single.

[and does think about the music, eventually]

I liked the way he played all the instruments and was only about 17 when he started writing it.

I also liked Viv Stanshall introducing all the instruments, "Grand Piano" blah, blah, blah "And, Tubular...Bells!"

And the fact that his sister Sally was on vocals in the background. Had a thing about Sally, she reminded me of one of my teachers when I was about 5. A bit of a hippy. Had that minor hit with 'Mirrors' (1978). I remember buying the single as an 'ex-jukebox' single from the newsagent on the corner after seeing it on Top of the Pops a few months earlier.

Oh yeah, of course, being a teenage boy, I liked the bit at the start that they used for the banned - and most scary horror film of the era - "The Exorcist".

Then on Side Two you've got the floaty bit with mandolins and acoustic guitars, that you'd try and play along to on your own guitar, and it'd sound alright until you turned the music down and realised that what you were playing wasn't actually making any sound - just a click on the fretboard - because you didn't actually know what to play.

Then you've got a wind instrument bit, with a bit of finger-picking in the background and the girlie chorus (it's actually called that in a real touch of 1973 terminology).

And after that, a few drum rolls and a chugging riff and the 'Piltdown Man' starts growling, and it all goes rocky and then goes spacy, like the guitars are emulating seagulls flying and a church organ comes in. It ends in the cool arrangement of the sailor's hornpipe, getting faster and faster. Another one to imagine you're playing along to, when you're not really.

I remember reading somewhere that Mike liked loads of bits of other people's music and wanted to make a whole record like that. For ages I was totally into that philosophy. I mean, back then, Mike Oldfield was a total role model for me: gazing through a rain smeared window on the cover of 'Ommadawn' with a messiah-like beard and whimsical expression, hands in his pockets standing on the beach on the cover of 'Incantations', no beard, but wearing a cool ear ring. Man, what more can I say?

[Before he knows it, Duggie's taken the triple CD to the counter - triple because it's the 'Deluxe Edition' complete with 2009 stereo mix, 5.1 surround sound mix, original 1973 mix and a DVD - and he's going to buy it, despite the bogus bell on the cover]

"£19.98, mate" says the guy behind the counter. "Oi, mate." [Duggie's still in a trance. Driving around in his Fiat 126, in the '80s, listening to Tubular Bells.]

"I'm sorry," Duggie tells the guy, shaking his head like a dog running out of the sea, "I was day dreaming, what am I doing with this?"

[Duggie examines the CD in his hand. Pauses. And takes it back to the shelf.]

Welcome! Torpid Emancipator

So, me and Duggie leave the river bank for a while. When you start talking to sticklebacks, you know it's time for a break.

"Let's go down the Torpid one," says Duggie. For years, going to the 'Torpid one' was the default setting for what you did when you'd finished your homework, or wanted to hang-out with your mates, or split up with a girlfriend - or even when you just wanted to buy a record.

The 'Torpid Emancipator', best record shop in this, or any, town. But it's more than just a record shop. It's a way of life. It's got recording studios, a cafe, a musical instrument department. And it's totally independent.

Situated in a crumbling Victorian building, as ornate as a wedding cake with pastel stucco'd facade, shedding flakes of plaster like dandruff. As semi-derelict as an occupied squat, with an 'unsavoury' crowd [so says the local rag: The Bugle'] always in attendance.

In the '70s, the shop was home to the 'Sound of Torpidity', a local (and national) prog rock movement, featuring enduring festival rockers, like 'Hair Tom', all from around the local area.

Nowadays, Me and Duggie notice the age of the kids that hang around outside, as they've done for generations. It's like the cliche about coppers getting younger, "I mean, we never looked like that when we used to slope off school to listen to the charts come out were we? We were so mature," says Duggie, as we walk past a particularly callow youth blowing a pink bubble gum bubble, which snaps - pop! - in Duggie's ear.

Inside, racks of CDs have replaced the racks of Albums of our youth, and the growing video games area is slowly encroaching on the music area, taking away valuable floorspace. But the place is full of kids twanging guitars - or looking like they intend to twang guitars, one day. There's still an anything goes, bohemian, feel about the place - not that common in our town. Let's face it, the place is a flamin' sanctuary.

Not many women though, except hanging around the studios, although I did see Nels, the female bass player from Hair Tom, browsing through some second-hand LPs a few weeks ago.

One of the highlights of a visit to the Torpid Emancipator is meeting owner - and founder - Richard, Ricky, Fleese. Fleesey is an aging hippy in every sense of the word. Yet as sharp as a tack.

Reminds me of the time I visited Glastonbury [the town not the festival] and was taken by the new-age atmosphere, but couldn't get away from the fact that the place was occupied by hippies with cash registers.

That's Fleesey - a hippy with a cash register. total entrepreneur, he created the vibe that made and still makes the crumbling glory of the Torpid one, THE place to be. And he seems to be able to float through the generations like a hippified Muhammed Ali skipping round the ring. More about him later.

"Hey," says Duggie, selecting a chunky looking CD package from the shelf, " 'Tubular Bells', Mike Oldfield. There's 3 CDs in here, 2009 remixes and that."

Me and Duggie used to listen to 'Tubular Bells' on tape in Duggie's first car, a clapped out Fiat 126. [Analogue Tapeheads Fact: 'Tubular Bells' didn't fit on one side of a C90, so there was an annoying break near the end - or you had loads of hissing 'silent' tape at the end of each side of a C60] We could hardly hear it above the din of the tiny 600cc engine clattering away.

I think I sense a Duggie 'post' coming up, he's got that nostalgic look in his eyes.

Fishy Interlude by Mr Stickleback

I've got a rather dead looking worm accosting me from the end of an obvious hook. Do they think I was born yesterday?

I'm Mr Stickleback - a stay at home father of many offspring. I know it's less common in your world, but us dads are the home makers down here, thank you very much!

In the river and in the ocean, they usually just abandon their young. The fishes. Let those little eggs fend for themselves. The very idea! Lazy blighters.

Just in case this up here geek-fisherman gets a bit too interested, I flash him me spines. He sees 'em and I clock the dismay in his face, "It's just a blooming Stickleback" I can read his lips.

Ok, we're the most common, probably the least tasty and yet we're the most versitile fishes in these here waters, you know. We even take the ocassional trip to the seaside, oh yes!

Yagger-yagger-yagger (I'm shaking me head)...and I'm free of that stoopid worm and that stoo-oo-oopid 'ook.

Righty-ho. Back to the homestead, the kids are coming back from school soon. Don't want them getting the old 'latchkey' reputation. Ho-hum.

See ya. Oh, and I hope Duggie Chop gives you a decent music anecdote soon. His taste stinks! Phew!

("Oi - Fish - I 'eard that, you...." says Duggie.)

The Albion Band - Rise Up Like The Sun (1978)

Duggie's fallen asleep. So I'll address you directly, again. But with no 'stage directions' this time.

Gives me the chance to talk about folk rock. Duggie's not into it, hippy wot nots he calls it. Blimey, wait until we get onto The Incredible String Band, then.

The Albion Band. Rise Up Like The Sun. Got my copy from a car boot sale. £1. Lovely.

I can float away on this kind of thing. Opens with a nice trad sounding couple of folk-rock sing alongs, 'Ragged Heroes' and 'Poor Old Horse' then you're thrown into a raga-style instrumenal piece mixing jazz with folk and partly played on a synthesiser. Typical of The Albion Band, mixing it up.

In fact, Ashley Hutchings, Albion Band stalwart, always pushes the boundaries. On 'Rise Up Like The Sun' he's brought a few Fairport friends with him to push those boundaries further than the Convention would go and brought a Gryphon member - an experimental folk/prog rock outfit - with him.

I'm not going to overdo it. The whole thing sounds pretty standard folk rock by today's standards. But that's only because musicians like these pushed it.

I think I'm pushing it going on like this. But, hey, we live in an age of eclecticism. Wasn't the case in 1978. Punk was on its last legs. Prog had disintegrated. Synthesisers cost as much as a car. People like 'Streetband' (featuring Paul Young) were in the charts singing about 'Toast'.

The Albion Band. A breath of fresh air. The sun rising and breaking up the fog. Of course I'm going to push it. Of course. Wow...just then...I was taken by the wonderful fiddle line in 'House In The County' on side two and drifted for a moment. 'The Primrose' follows, with a jarring - yet addictive - oompah-oompah sound, blended with a kyboard. reminds me of the theme tune to one of the 'On The Buses' films...

...and from the ridiculous to the sublime. The LP rounds out with the lengthy, opinion splitting masterpiece 'Gresford Disaster', an epic song about the death, in 1934, of 265 miners in North Wales. Stretched and jammed out into a synthesised slab of wonderfulness - despite the harrowing subject matter.

[So, he wanders back to the river, the sun's losing it's warmth, time for sustenance. He nudges Duggie, unscrewing the lid of the thermos and offers his friend a sweet tea. Duggie nods and nudges back - his float's bobbing up and down, surely he's got a bite...]

Adult Net - The Honey Tangle (1989)

Aside by me: You know, considering me and Duggie are red blooded males, we don't talk about women all that much. We don't go crazy in the stereotypical male way (if you believe the papers, anyway).

Take my stag night. Well, a stag afternoon really. We (me, Duggie, Westie and Para) met up at about 11am, had a fry-up, walked round a few record shops and started drinking - real ale - at around 1pm.

Because we could only visit CAMRA recommended pubs, there was at least a 20minute walk between drinks. I'd sobered up by the time we returned to the train station.

But I suppose, inside our heads, in that secret place, we're all fantasizing about women.

Right, I'll shut up now, but at least I've put what me and Duggie-boy are just about to say in context.

(a cloud's come over and made us both feel momentarily maudlin)

"You ever heard of Adult Net, Dug?" I say, as Duggie is rethreading a fishing hook. I'm trying to restore my good spirits.

"Mmm? Adult what?" he says, with a mouth-full of twine.

"Net. Brix Smith from The Fall, her band, " I say. And I can see her peroxide image in my mind as I speak.

"Never heard of it, but I remember her. Course I remember her. Woah! What a fantasy girl."

(Brix Smith was married to Mark E Smith, the iconoclastic front-man of art rock band The Fall. She's American, with the glitzy, jangly poppy lightness of an American. He's a dry-witted, some might say depressive and shambolic Mancunian with an interest in Krautrock. She ran off with mockney fiddle-player, Nigel Kennedy.)

"I first got into them from an EP that came free with 'Sounds," I say.

Aside by me: Some explanation required - 'EP' - a 7" single with extra tracks, 'Sounds' a music weekly newspaper that covered more 'rocky' music than NME and Melody Maker - I'll leave it there cos I'm sure me and Duggie will elaborate on this some day, soon.

"Yeah, I remember them EPs"

"I kept them all. Adult Net was like a fluffy piece of 'jangliness' compared to the serious indie stuff. But there was a little picture of Brix Smith there, in glorious black and white (or was it blue and grey and white?). Wow. That was enough, man." I say. Thinking back, she made us want her - paraphrasing Billy Bragg - a girl not good enough to sing or play guitar that well.

"She was a cracker. What was she doing knocking around with Mark E Smith?" says Duggie.

"Dunno, but she was in my dreams, for ages. Around that difficult 18 or 19 year old period." I say.

"What about the record?" says Duggie, casting off once more.

"What?" I say, caught in a dream.

"The Adult Net?"

"Oh, yeah. Album called 'The Honey Tangle'. Came out in 1989, a few years after that EP came out. I only got it because of Brix. The tunes are ok. But we're talking about 1989. There was loads of good stuff came out that year." I say.

Duggie's switched off. Concentrating on ripples in the water.

"The most interesting thing about the LP, apart from a picture of Brix on the back cover, wearing a see-through outfit and the most luscious lipstick, is the fact that it came out on the newly resurrected 'Fontana' label that last saw the light of day in the '60s."

"You're sad." says Duggie.

Interlude # 2

"Hey, Duggie. Did you see that bird?" I say.

"No," Duggie turns his head round fast and looks down the path behind us, "where is she?"

"No! A bird in the sky, you prune!" I say.

"No," says Duggie.

"Well it just dive-bombed your sarnies while you were whistling."

"Oh, err. It's dead!" says Duggie, searching through his knapsack.

"Maybe it didn't like the tune," I say.

Adam Ant - Strip (1983)

"I always thought that he was a bit disloyal to The Ants, myself," says Duggie, "He went solo, got Phil Collins to do the drums and production and put a crap poster of himself stripping off inside."

"Kept Marco on though," I say.

"Ant/Marco. They were the Lennon/McCartney of the early '80s," says Duggie, "But what about Merrick, Terry-Lee and Gary Tibbs?"

"Dunno, I think Merrick does record producing now, or something. I never appreciated how cool Marco Pirroni's guitar playing was until recently, a real Gretsch/wild west-jangly coolness," I say.

"You know Marco ditched his expensive hifi and replaced it with a 1960s Dansette record player, cos he preferred the tinny distorted sound," says Duggie.

"He could have had my Binatone clock radio off me," I say (by the way, that comment refers to an earlier post...)

Now it's me thinking back:
I remember that I bought 'Strip' in 1983, one day after school. And I was getting a lift back with my Mum so I took it into her work, where she was a recptionist and all the women in the office commented on it.

Like Duggie said, there was a weird poster of Adam stripping off in front of a pink background inside. The front cover had a 'provocative' - if you like that kind of thing - soft-focused portrait of Adam luxuriating in a bed of straw, chewing a piece as if it were a Cadbury's Flake. On the back cover he's cuddling a Nell Gwyn look-a-like as if they'd just had it off in a barn.

So, no wonder the women in my Mum's office brought a blush to the face of the 15 year-old me.

Back to reality:
"He really fancied himself by then, didn't he?" says Duggie, "Wasn't even that good looking."

"'spose he made the most of what he had," I say.

(Then I remember, we've not even mentioned the music once.)

Me speaking to you lot directly:
The record hasn't really dated that much. Probably because it wasn't in date when it came out. It was occupying an Adam Ant musical landscape, of one artist. Like Marc Almond, or Sparks or someone like that does now (and did then...).

Strip is 40-odd minutes of pop with a risque tinge. For example, from a track called 'Playboy': "What do you wear in be?
Some headphones on my head
What do you like to hold?
My breath, she said.
(He's a playboy)
(Ant/Marco 1983)

And don't forget the hits: "Puss 'n' Boots" (which you probably remember) and "Strip" (which you probably don't).

And on the river bank once more:
"I'd gone off him by Strip," says Duggie, "too soft for me. I'd discovered 'The Scorpians' LP, 'Lonesome Crow."

"But I was loyal to Adam Ant. I'd won his previous album, 'Friend or Foe' in a competition in the local newspaper. By then you'd virtually worn your copy out, Dug."

"Yeah, cos we spent the whole of summer holiday 1982 listening to it round my house, while we played snooker," says Duggie.

Me again:
And I still love him to this day, I've even got 'Ant Box' the limited edition box set that he released in 2000. I've also read his auto-biography and dream of one day taking a tribute stage show of his life out on tour...

oops!:
"Oi," says Duggie, "Stop dreaming. Start fishing. We've gotta catch our tea!

Interlude # 1

And there's a shower of rain.

And me and Duggie scramble under the huge green umbrella that we've got next to us, with the fishing stuff and sarnies underneath.

Thing is, the sun stays out, half hidden behind a whopping great grey cloud.

And there's a rainbow.

And I just can't resist gazing at rainbows. They hold me like a multi-coloured, ephemeral, hypnotist.

And Duggie's clicking his fingers in front of my eyes, "Oi, wake up, you're in a trance," says Duggie, "I was just gonna talk about Adam Ant. You remember how we were both into him. Before we got into metal back in the early '80s."

"Yeah," I say, "I remember you and me doing our paper rounds. Christmas Eve, 1981. You always said Christmas Eve was the best day to be doing a paper round. Christmas Day to look forward to and the tips coming in."

Duggie says: "I used to get about £80 tips. Less when I did the posh estate, though."

"You were really into Adam Ant's 'Prince Charming' album, with Ant Rap and Stand and Deliver on it," I say.

Duggie says: "Stand and Deliver went straight in at No.1. Great days."

"My mum bought me Prince Charming just before Christmas, a special treat. I remember her coming home from work and handing it to me. It was a gatefold album, but with only one LP. So I slipped a Smash Hits poster, that my mate's sister gave me at school, in end without a record." I say.

Then the rainbow starts to fade. The shower's over. Duggie and me emerge from the umbrella and lay some plastic sheeting over the wet grass on the river bank.

Duggie's chewing a marmite sandwich.

ACDC - If You Want Blood You've Got It

(Duggie takes over the review section and it's me in brackets)

Yeah! ACDC. Bon Scott. Live. 1978. Angus stabbing himself with a guitar on the front cover. Blood. Awright! Whole Lotta - flippin' - Rosie....what's her vital stats...too much, man. Too much.

("Hey Dug," I say.
"What? Why you stopping my flow, Man?" Says Duggie.
"Cos you sound like some adolescent drop out. You're 40-odd. You work in a bank," I say. "You're just becoming 'the man', Man. Man!" says Duggie.
He's much less whimsical, Duggie, than me.)

The crowd are screaming away, first track, side one. almost for too long. Then you can hear the hum of the speakers, like a Quo gig. And a riff leads into Riff Raff, the crowd claps in time. Cymbals crash and there's that excited cheer as the song proper starts. Too much, man. More riffage and a key change, then back to the main riff, some kick drumming and Bon's warbling screech, like an hung over vulture or something.

Used to listen to this one growing up, usually on a Sunday afternoon as me mum whisked the hoover around.

There's a special offer sheet inside this one (just like the Abba album in my posting yesterday. 2/11/09. "Hey," says Duggie, "butt out!"), totally awesome T-shirt, only £2.50. Button badge 35p. Full-colour flamin' poster 55p! All prices inclusive of p&p. Man. Take me back to '78. Now!

All tracks recorded during the 1978 world tour. Drinking. Rock n' Rolling, gigging, recording. Wow, got the album on at the moment...'Bad Boy Boogie'. Yeah, this is the way to live your life.

I like the way the pic on the front cover's totally blurry, too, with Bon chewing the mic as he sings, his arm round Angus as he plunges that Gibson through his stomach. Never before noticed how much the blood on his shirt looks like tomato sauce...

("You finished now?" I say, "Yeah, says Duggie, pass us the flask, I fancy a tea."
"I've finished all the milk," I say.
"Nuts!" says Duggie.
"Hey Duggie," I say, "If you want milk, I'll get it.")

ABBA - The Visitors

Abba's last album. 1982. The year I was into playing most of my music on a brand new (Xmas 1981) Binatone clock radio. It was stereo, but one of the speakers was really quiet and the other totally distorted. I played The Police 'Ghost In The Machine' on it until it got chewed up. I also used to tape songs from the charts, thing's I'd never agin listen to, like Culture Club's 'Church of the Poisoned Mind'.

("You were lucky", said Duggie, "I had to play my stuff on my Aunty's ancient Radiogram, it was like a sideboard with a record player inside."
"'spose so Dug," I said, "at least I could lay in bed and chill out to the fuzzy noise until the alarm went off for me paper round.")

Back to 'The Visitors'. The band members are divorced and sitting in separate parts of a gloomy room on the cover. Each looks into their own solo distance. Benny and Bjorn are grouped closely together around a pillar. Both now bearded, probably well into writing the musical 'Chess'.

And, you know, the track that I was obssessed by was 'The Visitors." Me and my cousin used to attempt to play it on the guitar. It's got loads of parts to it like a mini-opera.

Now I think about it, the whole LP is full of darkness and loss...it feels like the end. Especially when compared to something like 'Super Trouper', but, then again, that album's got 'Happy New Year' and 'The Winner Takes It All' on it (not the quiz game compered by Jimmy Tarbuck - nobody under 35 will get that reference, by the way).

Even 'Super Trouper' itself is all about loneliness (albeit the loneliness of a millionaire singer in a hotel room). Come to think of it, most Abba stuff is shading it between happiness and despair...

("Hold on man," says Duggie, "this is Abba we're talking about - what are you gonna be like when we get to someone heavy...like Donovan!")

Then you've got the Bjorn specials like 'Two For The Price Of One' a sub-Eurovision Song Contest ditty with lyrics like "If you dream of/the girl for you/then call us and get two for the price of one." You see, the guy they're singing about has a "trivial occupation" because he "cleaned the platforms of the local railway staion." Nowadays such lyrics may well cause industrial action by a large trades union, or at the very least lead to an apology by the BBC, who seem to apologise for most things these days.

My cousin was into 'When All Is Said And Done'. He read the lyrics like a poem. In '82, I was more into Iron Maiden. I disliked that kind of sentimental slush. When I hear the track now it really makes me tearful (ok, yeah, I cry - alright?)

This is the thing about record collections: like good books, they grow with you. You get different things out of the music as you stumble through your life...

("Get off this one, crikey, or I'm gonna jump in the canal!" says Duggie. "Hey man," I say "It's not a canal. It's not man made, it's a river")

For Duggie's sake, I'll skip the rest of the record. Just want to mention two things. One is the fantastic 'ABBA '82' offers on the sheet inside. Great things like an Abba bag (a cheap looking sports holdall with a bad copy of the ABBA logo written on the sides) only £7.50 - including P&P. There's an excellent T Shirt and Sweatshirt, £4.50 and £8.50 respectively. All quite pricey - I'm sure you could get a sweat-inducing 100% nylon Cagoule back then by sending off a few tokens from cornflake packets and £3.99 (also inc. P&P). No Abba logos, though.

The final thing is this - and Duggie, please excuse me once again for being overcome by emotion. ("Heaven help us..." he says). First thing that comes into my head when I think of Abba, is walking to school in 1977, playing the song Fernando in my mind, and for some reason pondering the fact that I would be 32 in the year 2000. Don't know why, but I always remember it...as the autumn leaves swirled around and it feels so poignant now it's 2009...("Yawn. That's the end!" Dug.)

Sitting by the river (if you want to call it a river)

Me and Duggie chop are sitting by the river, fishing, our bikes laid down next to us. Just like Albert Finney and Norman Rossington in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, when they discuss life, marriage and their parents.

We're talking records. that's recorded music, no matter what the format: CDs, vinyl, tapes. The lot.

It started when as a swirl of effluent splurged out of the waste pipe into the stream - it's not really a river, more like a kind of natural canal, close to the gasworks - a spit of bubbles twirling and curling around in the brown water.

"Looks like a record on a turntable," said Duggie, always the aesthete, "going round like that."

"Hmm," I said, "I wish I'd brought the ghetto-blaster. But the batteries have run out."

"Yeah, but then you gotta tape all your latest stuff," said Duggie, "it's a pain in the whatnot."

I look at Duggie and say: "don't be crazy, it's got a CD player and USB terminal for an iPod dock."

"Oh," said Duggie, "I sort of went all 1980s for a moment. I sometimes do that when I think about records. Nostalgia like."

I'm not going to lose the chance of a stimulating conversation, especially not with someone like Duggie, who usually dreams himself into a trance, "why don't we review our entire record collections."

"What, now?" said Duggie.

"Yeah, while we wait for the pike to bite."

"Ok. You're on - but we won't just review the music, lets think about what we were doing when we bought 'em. What they conjure up about our lives. I mean, records are more than just music."

And you know, he's dead right. So we begin.