With thanks to Paul Greatrix, Registrar at the University of Nottingham and a contemporary at UEA, for his blog on wonkhe.com , for a reminder of many nights at the magical Nick Rayns’ LCR at the University of East Anglia. For the uninitiated Nick was the extraordinary booker and maestro who picked talent and persuaded acts to the far-flung Norwich university campus.
Sadly departed but never forgotten Nick’s genius was a lifeline for thousands who enjoyed bands that, under normal circumstances, would have thought Norfolk’s capital was an outpost too far. Even after the A11 became a dual-carriageway it probably still is for everyone but Jools Holland who, apparently, likes to travel by bus and whose aunt lives in Norwich.
There are many who knew Nick better than I and are better-placed to pay tribute. The best I can think of to thank him is to write of three gigs he put on which provided memories to last a lifetime. There are lessons about community, channelling anger, and finding out unexpected things about people but mostly it’s about the glory of being at a live concert.
Elvis Costello is, in my view, one of the great songwriters of his generation and I have seen him once. It was at the LCR (which stood for Lower Common Room – very university) on 25 May 2005. I know the date because I was missing watching the Champions League Final, between Liverpool and AC Milan, to watch the gig. As I am a Manchester United fan it was little contest to trade seeing the arch enemy in a final for a concert featuring what was reputedly one of the finest bands in the world.
On that night, and the story is famous enough to be reported on Wikipedia, Elvis and the band were warming up while watching the first half (which is more warming up than Liverpool did as they went into half-time 3-0 down). But Liverpool scored three times in six minutes of the second half to make the score 3-3 at the end of normal time. Elvis and the band were transfixed by the game and were an hour late on stage.
What Wikipedia doesn’t tell us is that the LCR had become increasingly fractious. The town has a strong relationship with its own team and recognises partisan loyalty. But in the absence of an explanation for the band’s absence people realised what was happening backstage. The tension began to rise and the cursing about lack of professionalism increased.
When Elvis came on stage the match had gone to extra time. I think it is fair to say that the band was not at its best. They had either peaked early in their preparation, imbibed to thoroughly before appearing or remained nervous about the outcome of the game. Maybe all three but as I recall they were poor and out of sorts.
As a guitar nerd I had been impressed to see about 16 guitars on a rack before the gig but became increasingly irritated as Elvis switched from one the other and fiddled with tuning. The sound was harsh and the band was about as tight as well worn slipper. It is reasonable to add that Elvis is not a shrinking violet and in the face of the crowd’s dissatisfaction he gave as good as he got. Things were thrown, words were said – it was ugly and had every chance of getting uglier.
Then came one of those moments that make attending live gigs remind us how benevolent and uplifting the human spirit can be. A roadie scampered onto stage, crouched directly under Elvis and put his thumbs up. Liverpool had won the penalty shoot-out and were champions of Europe.
My memory of what happened next is that Elvis stopped the gig. He’s not the sort of guy that apologises but he reached out in the way that great communicators can. He knew that we knew what had happened and said something like – ‘we’ve never done this before but we are going to try it.’
The band broke into a version of the Liverpool FC hymn ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. The crowd, with extraordinary generosity and showing their shared love of the beautiful game, joined in. Even as a die-hard United supporter I joined in – there are moments when participating is the point, and the price, of being in the moment. Whatever the fire regulations of the time, lighters were lit and the audience swayed in a reasonable replica of the Kop on a Saturday afternoon. Just a wonderful moment of community and shared emotion.
Next on my list is Primal Scream in November 2006. I didn’t really know very much about the band and what I had heard made me think of the lead singer as a Mick Jagger wannabee who had delusions of grandeur. But the gig turned me around and that’s a good reason to be grateful because they can be interesting and spiky and challenging.
This time, in my research, I find that the Eastern Daily Press of 27 November has reinforced my recollection of the gig and its pivotal moment. The band had begun reasonably well but I didn’t find myself particularly moved by the standard overbearing rock noise that I was hearing. But then it all kicked off.
One of the crowd had been pretty vocal and hectoring of Bobby and ended up throwing the best part of a pint of beer over him. The singer exited the stage and his band continued playing for a minute or so but gradually shut down as it became clear he wasn’t reappearing anytime soon. I think the crowd was mixed – the beer thrower had been hustled out and we thought that an ex-Jesus and Mary Chain drummer from the mean city of Glasgow should be made of sterner stuff.
What happened next was that Bobby came back like a man on a mission. It was as if the affrontery of being forced to retreat had made him into the Terminator. And he was back with a vengeance. It became one of those rock, roll, acid-house, punk nights that live long in the memory. The sheer visceral thrill of being in a hall when the band and the audience become a single organism is one of the best reasons that live music is worth supporting.
There are a number of other LCR nights that spring to mind – I have reasonable story about Robert Plant – but the last for this blog shows that we might not know other people quite as well as we think. It was around 2001 and Joe Strummer was arriving with the Mescaleros. I am a totally unreconstructed fan of The Clash and had only seen them perform once so the chance to see Joe’s second coming was unmissable.
Standing at the back of the hall before the band came on I bumped into David Richardson, now Vice-Chancellor of the University and at the time a highly regarded academic in the School of Biological Sciences. I was, frankly, gob-smacked to learn that he had taken an extended leave of absence (the equivalent of dropping out) of university to follow The Clash on tour in earlier days. My hope is that all Vice-Chancellor’s have had those moments and allow them to influence their decisions about the lives of young people.
As the lights went down and the band came on stage we were both drawn, like fireflies to a flame, to the front of the hall. Joe came on stage and decided to make his way into the audience. There was a strange but wholly affirmative moment when dozens of adults were in the presence of someone who had touched their teenage lives with a positivity and a message that still burned bright.
Hands reached out to touch the writer, singer and polemicist who had told us it was a good thing to have a ‘bullshit detector’ and not to care or hear about ‘what the rich are doing’. As Julien Temple’s film reminds us, he encouraged us to accept that the future is unwritten and that our destiny is in our hands. I pogoed with the best that night and remain sad that Joe died so early. But I am grateful to have been there to show my regard and respect.
My other abiding memory of the night is the wonderful glee on the faces of the young musicians who made up the Mescaleros and were living the dream on stage with an icon. Music is live, it is about people and it is important. A good reminder to me that next Thursday I must go to the local Open Mic and applaud anyone who has the nerve to stand up and perform. I might even take my guitar…