Interlude - My short trip, by Duggie's mate.

[Looking through the eyes of Duggie's mate and using his mind to directly translate the experience as a piece of prose. It's a bit clumsy here and there, but that's what 'stream-of-thought' monologues are like, isn't it?]

(We - me and Duggie - are in the studio in the Torpid Emancipator with Hair Tom. It's 1982 and me and Duggie are 14 years-old again, travelling through time. Just to let you know, our role in life is to fish in the canal [“...don't remind me!” -Mr Stickleback] and tell strangers about the music we are into. At the moment we are giving you - via time travel – the full story of the great 'Hair Tom', a group at the forefront of the 'Sound Of Torpidity' prog-rock movement...So far, Matt Score - lead guitar, Hair Tom - has invited us into the studio to watch a rehearsal and Doland - rhythm, acoustic and percussion - has skinned-up a powerful looking 'funny fag'...)

First I'm passed a joint. Not really seen one in 'the flesh' before. Like a roll-up, but more kind of triangular (conical?). Sort of. It's a bit soggy, too. Doland is laughing as I put it in my mouth and suck a bit.

Sort of cool sensation of smoke and air - like sucking dry-ice through a straw. Tastes like ground up earth - an intense version of the smell of formerly bone-dry pavements, following a cloudburst.

I breathe in the smoke and try to hold it down without gagging. It's an effort. But the more I hold it, the looser I get and the release of smoke, from my lungs into the air, feels like floating down the river on a gondola made of silk.

“Take another toke, man!” I can hear Doland saying, “The first toke has laid the foundation, for exploration...”

Oh, yeah [exhales] he's right...

I hand the joint to Duggie, or somebody to my left. I'm really not too sure.

Sitting 'in' the chair now. Not on it, coveted by material that shimmers over and around me, like 'the dance of the seven veils', or something.

Bob-bob-bob-bobbing bassline...tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkly-too keyboard. I can actually see the notes coming out of the speakers, quaver by crochet by double clef and treble clef. Oh, not forgetting the bass clef too.

Some of the notes bash into each other, like when there's a distorted note, or something. Then they bow to each other and apologise before continuing. Others dance together and merge, jiggling into shape.

Words are coming out of everyone's mouth. I can see them, written up in the air, as if I was watching some film credits roll by.

The joint returns again, soggier and shorter than before and I have another bit of its cool and earthy substance, feel a little bit queasy with that one. I pass it on quick.

It's sort of dark outside now, though it's about mid-afternoon in the summer. I think. [to explain, he thinks he's looking through a window, when in fact he's staring at a blank frame that used to contain a mirror.] In fact it's totally black, no stars or nothing. Mr Moon, Mr Moon. You asleep, or something?

I've never seen it that dark before. Suddenly a white image appears, at first a little melty, then sharp as sharp. It's an owl. A kind of simple graphic design of an owl. then I recognise it. It's the picture from the label of a 'midnight mint' choc-ice [unavailable these days, by the way. They were a plain chocolate choc-ice filled with mint flavoured ice cream. A premium product]. And then the owl winks at me...

Oh, no. I've messed up my brain! I look up, and the low roof of the studio has attained cathedral dimensions, a cavernous space and I can see my thoughts echoing around.

Ok. Get up. I try. (Need to get away, bed, piss. Both) But my legs won't operate. They're as stiff and heavy as the girders they make Irn Bru out of. Girders. or Grrdrrs (as they might say in Scotland). GrrDuzz. Gurrrdezz. Grrrrrdrrrrs.

[At that point, Duggie's mate passes out. Musical notes flying from his ears like loose wax].

“Guess the kid wasn't ready for a peace pipe, man,” says Doland.

Nothing like 'Give My Regards To Broad Street' - meeting Hair Tom in 1982

Going back to the story...click here for where we got to.

[In the corner of the studio, there's a pile of six or seven broken chairs, cheap metal 'bistro' style chairs, with legs bent in impossible shapes. No one knows how they got there or who bent them. It was rumoured that a local 'sneak-sculptor' was breaking in and turning furniture into off-the-cuff artworks. But that may have been the drugs talking.]

Matt brought Duggie and his mate upstairs.

Nels played a walking bassline, booming through at ultra-low frequencies through a 50 watt amplifier: Boong, Bong, Boong, Bong, Boong, Bong [I'm sure get the idea!] Swedish keyboard player [from this 1982 period 'Hair Tom' line up – the keyboard players tended not to last long in the group] Anders Lornsvelg was accompanying Nels with impromptu trills and noodles.

Drummer, Tony Cort sat behind the drums, in half-shadow, eating an orange without removing the skin. Every now and then, a citric acid burst made him scowl.

Doland McGregory, Rhythm Guitar, Acoustic Guitar and occasional percussion, was skinning up on the cover of a Cliff Richard gospel album: 'Now You See Me...Now You Don't'.

For many fans, this early 80s line up was the definitive 'Hair Tom'. Apart from Lornsvelg, this line up recorded the astoundingly successful LP 'Illustrations of Gargoyle' (1985) [more info on this ground breaking album and the biog of the band 'Hair Tom', soon - Steve].

But the band wasn't operating like a unit. As Nels had suggested, bringing Duggie and his mate into this studio would be like taking someone to meet The Beatles during 'Let It Be'.

Like The Beatles [surely the only valid comparison between The Beatles and Hair Tom...] at this time Hair Tom was more of a loose collective of almost like-minded souls (i.e. work-shy musicians) seeking any opportunity to express themselves individually – or take more drugs, while still claiming some social security payment [“Hey, lay off, that was never proven” says Nels, “don't want those anal retentive freaks investigating me now!”]

[“Excuse me for holding up proceedings,” says Herbert Glumm, Civic Servant (retired), former Benefits Agency Administrative Officer, “but it is unlikely that your case would be re-opened after nearly 30 years. Besides, now you would be eligible for an Arts Council England Grant for doing what you're doing. Why, I remember, not too long ago, the so-called 'Arts' Council funded some layabout for setting up a cafe that never opened.
A kind of installation, commenting on the transitory nature of the fast food trade in the UK, the fact that so many cafes and kebab establishments open their doors only to close them again, with no one very much the wiser. The artist was trying to make a connection between this phenomenon and the fact that so many people are unaware if precisely what's going on in their neighbourhoods...and...” “Herbert! That's enough!” (says Steve). “Sorry Steve, it's just that it gets lonely, you know, being retired and all. I don't have many people to talk to, apart from the Blue Tits on my bird table, and a neighbour's cat ate the last one...”]

Tension also developed as each band member, sporadically, wanted to take the 'artistic' lead. Currently Matt Score, Lead Guitar, was the most forceful. He was attempting to stage a coup, taking 'Hair Tom' away from festival-style space rock, and towards the latest craze in guitar twiddling at lightning speeds (soon to be exemplified by the likes of Yngwie Malmstreem).

Others were content to hibernate between gigs, act like kids and waste time.

“It was like, we went in there,” said Duggie Chop to his mate, a little later, “and these people are just sitting around in a dim, smoke-filled room. There was some music, a plonky bass and an irritating load of organ stuff, but mainly it was like being in the school bogs on a wet dinner break. I was expecting a jam session to be in progress, you know, the band getting stuff together.”

“What, like in Paul McCartney's 'Give My Regards To Broad Street' film?” said Duggie's mate.

“Sort of, only not crap.” said Duggie. [I must say, if you're reading this, Sir Paul, that I'm a fan of yours (this is Steve Hill speaking) and take no responsibility for what these people decide to say. What do they know? I went to see your film 5 times back in 1984 at the Picturedrome in Bognor and bought the LP.]

“Things went downhill even quicker after the owner of 'the Torpid One' [he means Fleesey, also Hair Tom's Manager at the time] came in and told them they were rubbish,” said Duggie, “I mean, he was talking to Hair Tom. Hair-bloody-Tom!”

Fleesey did have a point, though. He was riding high after securing Hair Tom a gig at the first WOMAD festival in Shepton Mallet: “this'll raise your profile again,” he told them, “you'll be going on before Echo and The Bunnymen!” [Nels: “Echo and the... bloody hell, did it really get that bad!”]

But, the band was mucking about a wee bit too much. For example, a week before, Doland, after inhaling the smoke of some particularly strong hash, decided to 'defrost' an emptied out, tinned Ox Tongue by pissing on it – before being told that the tongue wasn't frozen but suspended in aspic jelly. [“Piss all over me Mam's rug 'an all,” recollected Fleesey, from his villa in LA (that's Little'ampton, by the way – local joke)].

So, Duggie and his mate, time travellers, Austin Maxi crashers, stepped into the gloom. “Hey kids,” said Doland, “Wanna turn on?”

Duggie looked at his mate and nodded. He nodded a “that's more like it” kind of nod. Nels was laughing in time with her walking bass. Matt cracked open yet another can of full sugar Coke.

Next stop WOMAD? Right on!