COLONEL BUNKER'S GOING TO HELP ME

July 1979 - age 26 - a small residency on an American Air Base

Having lost my home and my girlfriend, then rejected the idea of going to university, I was in a pretty nihilistic frame of mind. First, though, there were a number of gig obligations to complete. One problem which we faced was the financial hangover from our ill-fated EP Yaaah! from the previous summer.

 Quite apart from the fact that in my mind at least, the NME had publicly laughed it out of town, we'd not even sold sufficient copies to recoup the money advanced to us by our now Ex-management. Being the honest country lads we were, we took account of the debt and made arrangements to start paying it back. We did this from our only real source of income, our gig money.

So, like the steady Suffolk Punches that we were, we began gigging steadily to wipe out what for us, at least, seemed a substantial debt. It was going to be a long slog. Then, in the middle of that summer, we were thrown a lifeline. We learned that an American airbase somewhere in East Anglia, wished to book us for an entire week. If we took the job it would demolish a large chunk of the debt.

Now USAF bases back in the 60s and 70s were a great source of revenue to many East Anglian bands. The only catch was that the agents who controlled the bookings for these bases always insisted on covers bands. The money was usually better than was paid for average gigs, but the types of band required for such engagements were soul bands, country bands or chart-covers outfits. If your band were trading as a covers band, standard set-lists might include playing such rocking anthems, as Tie A Yellow Ribbon, The Air That I Breathe, Blanket on the Ground and various other transatlantic delights of that sunny 70s era. At that time, such numbers were looked upon by musicians like us, as so much sonic ragwash.

As a typically uncompromising rock band who only ever played our own material, Gypp had never played an American air-base during my entire time with them. This booking however, had an unusual angle.

The airbase entertainments officer in 1979, discovered that for some strange reason, many young US airmen were utterly bored with the dull covers bands and the music with which they'd been provided since at least the cretaceous period. The top guns and their ground crews were now requesting a genuine rock band.

Obviously, they weren't quite ready for Joy Division or The Slits but it was decided, cautiously, to give the dependable Gypp a trial.

Being the Yanks, and never doing things by halves they gave us a trial for an entire week. The fact that this mammoth engagement coincided with a rare holiday from my part-time kitchen portering job, was something which I was prepared to overlook. Like the rest of the band I just wanted the debt paid off: even if the air base dates trampled all over my rare-as-rocking-horse-shit holiday time.

Anyone who knew me well at that time, might, in hindsight have raised a question mark about the wisdom of trying to introduce a keen, if slightly- unstable young Martin Newell into the well-disciplined world of the US. Air Force. There was no real trouble of course. But, not unexpectedly, the misunderstandings began on the first night.

The USAF, we found, expected a fair night's work out of us. We discovered that we would be playing three or four sets an evening. After two sets, I ran out of cigs and drink. I'd heard from other musicians many legends about how easy it was to obtain duty-free Jack Daniels and Marlboro cigarettes on US airbases. Naturally, I put out an appeal to the troops; bellowing from the stage. "If any of you guys out there know how I can get hold of a bottle of Southern Comfort and maybe some cigs, that would be fucking great. Cheers!"

Immediately after finishing the set, there was a Master Sergeant in the dressing room. He wasn't best pleased. He yelled at me. "There are one or two things you need to understand, Buddy. Rule Number One:Thou shalt not swear on the stage. Rule Number Two: Thou shalt not at any time, solicit United States Air Force personnel to procure for you duty-free liquor or cigarettes. Is that understood?" I mumbled something like "Yes Sergeant. I do apologise." I added, however, that I'd probably just settle for a beer right now and asked if there happened to be cigarette machine anywhere nearby. This seemed to animate him still further. I turned my back on him and walked out of the room in order to remove myself from the source of the shouting. The more diplomatic members of the band calmed him down, while I informed another band member. "I'm not having that fucking cunt shouting at me all night, I didn't join a rock band so I could have people yelling at me."

Later, however, after a quiet few words, I agreed with my fellow band-members, for the sake of peace and quiet (and the money) to be on my best behaviour.

As the Master Sergeant passed me in the corridor he stopped, puffed his chest out and said. "I'll be watching you, Mister. Is that understood?" I studied him. He was like something out of Sgt Bilko. Or perhaps a younger, American version of my own military dad. I stood up straight and replied quietly, "Yes, Sir." He stared at me, half in disbelief, then shouted, "Outstanding!" and marched off down the corridor.

Peace reigned. Briefly. Then, a day or two later, there was another Newell- USAF non-interface. I was walking across the courtyard towards the venue to start work one evening, when I heard a sharp female voice squeak at me, "You!" I turned round. "Me?" A dumpy, cross-looking female guard was glaring at me. She yelled, "I wanna see your ID!" I said loftily, "We don't have ID in this country. However, I'm working here all this week and I'm sure that if you follow me into the club, someone will be happy to confirm my identity for you, as I'm singing with the band." I turned my back on her and lurched on.

She yelled again, "Stop!" Realising that this situation couldn't go much further, until one or other of us had entered the building, I sashayed on towards the entrance. I heard a click. She'd flicked the catch open on her pistol holster. I was a bit irritated now. I said, "You realise there'll be terrible trouble if you shoot me, don't you?" Then I walked into the building, went to the dressing room, met the chaps and prepared to go onstage.

Suddenly, Master Sergeant Shouty was standing in the doorway, with Private Holstercatch beside him. He glared at me and said "You again!" There followed another bawling-out because I didn't stop when requested to do so by Private Holstercatch.

In the middle of the situation, a rather calmer Lieutenant appeared. He asked what was going on and, in my most respectful way, I attempted to explain that since I was British and in my own country I hadn't been issued with any ID. With what I thought was a dazzling piece of politesse, I also said, that it may well have been the guard's duty to stop me and demand my ID. I willingly acknowledged this. I added, however, that as the son of a distinguished military family myself, I felt that it was my duty to be punctual and at my place of work, to wit, the dressing room. Torn between these two duties: the recognition of USAF security and my own obligation to be at my work station, I had chosen the one which I felt I should best fulfill. The Lieutenant, nodded, appearing to understand. The Yanks don't say things like, "Fair enough, old Matey." but he seemed to accept my explanation. The Sergeant gave me another: I'll-be-watching-you-Mister look and the situation ratcheted down.

Over the course of Gypp's USAF 'residency' this was about the worst of the trouble, much of it due to the fact that, you shouldn't really put a USAF Master Sergeant in the same workplace as an English rock singer. There's probably some obscure sociological study somewhere which cautions against actually doing so. The information was not readily accessible at this time, however, so a distinct miasma of friction continued to pervade the backstage area.

The audience themselves, mainly male US ground staff and a few pilots, were cheerful and loud, often making an approving noise at the end of songs, which sounded like "Yaaw!" They also yelled out periodic requests for us to play Lynyrd Skynyrd's Freebird which obviously, we ignored.

One of the more interesting things which I observed, was that one night, after a serviceman had removed his shirt on the dance-floor, I saw a sergeant walk over to him, point at the shirt, discarded on a chair and order him to put the garment back on again. The sergeant then stood over the man while he did so. That was a bit strange.

The understanding Lieutenant, returned to our dressing room towards the end of the week with a new request. "Tonight, when you play, could you guys maybe play less..." We tried to help "Loudly?" we asked. He shook his head. "No. We have no problem with that. Don't get me wrong, guys. The men really like rock music and it's been the change that we all needed. It's just that maybe... don't play it so ...hard?"

We wanted to help. The gist of it was, he didn't want us to be playing so intensely. Some of the men had become over-excited and had been getting up and grooving to our music. As he next pointed out, almost confidentially: "Technically, it's against regulations for any two male servicemen to be seen dancing together." We nodded understandingly, agreeing to tone ourselves down a bit.

Even I had begun to understand now. Although we were geographically in Suffolk, England, we were, really, for the purpose of this exercise, anyway, in military America. There were consolations. It was now possible for me, I discovered, to obtain a discreet shot of Jack Daniels, a few tins of cold Bud and best of all, a Hoagie:a gigantic submarine-like sandwich, only half of which I was capable of demolishing at one sitting. These were bits of American culture which I was beginning to quite admire.

John Butters, Gypp's amiable drummer, later found me a copy of the airbase magazine. He thought I'd enjoy it. It fascinated me. There on the front page was a picture of the base commander. He was a grey-haired, lantern-jawed, and rather handsome man, wearing a crisp uniform and a forage cap. The photo depicted him leaning heroically out of a jeep towards the camera. If you were going to cast an actor to play him, you'd straightaway pick James Stewart. I can't give you the commander's real name but it was very American- sounding. You wouldn't believe it, anyway but it was much funnier than say, Colonel Hermes T. Bunker, which is what I'll call him here. Colonel Bunker, in his own editorial column, wrote stirringly of the importance of July 4th and the need for all serving personnel to enjoy 'the warm, deep, tingly feelings occasioned by their patriotism'.

Looking back now upon on my spending six nights of my holiday, indeed my life, helping to pay off the management loans for our unpopular record, must have done something for me. To this day I'm not exactly sure what it was but I left the band within a few weeks of the experience. In so many ways I was sorry to leave. By now, however, things had changed beyond recognition. I realised that I was actually in mourning for my recently-vanished home life. With melancholy clogging my my veins like embalming fluid, I needed to write and record some new songs. To work I went..