Notes Towards a Venn Diagram of Music Concert Attendees

In which The Author tries a scientific exercise

I've been going to Jacs Music Venue in Aberdare for about a year now, and to gigs for a lot longer than that. I've been able to spot several types of concert goers, but there are overlaps between the different groups. The idea was to try and draw up a proper classification scheme, but it's turned into more of a Venn diagram. I'll outline the ones I've identified here, and invite you to contribute any other subspecies you might have discovered during your own research.

1. The Hardcore Fan. This doesn't really apply to Jacs, but we all know someone who is completely devoted to a band. He/she has all the LPs, all the singles, every book ever written, scrapbooks full of newspaper interviews and cuttings from the music press (remember them?), framed posters on the living room wall, ticket stubs from every concert he/she has ever attended … If he/she was challenged to karaoke, there's no doubt that the first choice would be something from their back catalogue. I didn't quite go to this extent with Pink Floyd as I never saw them live, but I suppose that's the nearest I'll ever get to hardcore fandom.
   
   
2. I Know What I Like. This is the person whose musical taste was set in stone, probably during his/her early teens, and who never explores anything outside the narrow confines of the genre. And those confines can be extremely narrow indeed.
   For instance, a good friend of mine claims to 'love' Country & Western. But her favourites are restricted to the safe, anodyne C&W records that used to feature on the Radio 2 playlist when we were growing up: Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, Dr Hook, Tammy Wynette … Neil Diamond might sometimes get a mention, but that's the furthest Susanne ventures from her comfy trailer. You'll never find her listening to Jimmy Buffett, Alan Jackson, Garth Brooks, or the Country Pop artists who routinely sell out stadiums across the English-speaking world. The Country Rock bands who flourished during the hippy era are off limits as well. Her ideal home is Hicksville, Tennessee, where the local FM station plays this drivel 24/7 and nothing else gets a look in. Not even Taylor Swift. The only time you'll see her in the music room is when she's on her way to the ladies'.
   I've got another pal who loves Heavy Rock/Heavy Metal. And that's it. Dai pops into the music room every Friday, buys a beer, checks out the band, and then buggers off into town. If it's a decent rock band, he'll buy another beer and stay for a bit longer. Like using the Mohs Scale to measure the hardness of minerals, you can use the Dai Scale to measure the heaviness of the music. Three bottles of Bud means the band is pretty much to his taste. Four bottles indicates that he's well and truly impressed. The recent Young Promoters Network showcase hit an unprecedented five on the Dai Scale, which must augur well for the bands in question.
   Dai doesn't even look like a rocker, which is the oddest aspect of the whole thing. In his open-necked shirt, smart jeans, comfy shoes, and with his hair neatly trimmed in the same style for the last twenty years, he looks as though he's just wandered in for a beer and accidentally found himself at a gig. Still waters and all that.
   
3. The Nostalgia Crowd. This largely female subgroup also had their musical tastes imprinted during their schooldays or early teens. It's because of them that the likes of the Bay City Rollers and Showaddywaddy are still able to pull respectable crowds in the Coliseum and elsewhere. Of course, they didn't know during their adolescent crushes that Derek Longmuir, the Rollers' 24-year-old drummer, was pretending to be only 21. Nor were they aware that the band and their manager would later be involved in 'accusations of involvement in murders, child rapes and arson attacks, bankruptcies, corruption, prison sentences, breakdowns, pub fights, drug dealing, addiction and arrests, alcoholism, organised child abuse circles, child pornography …' (the words of music journalist Simon Spence).
   Not all the Nostalgia Crowd are my age or thereabouts, of course. There are plenty of women in their early forties who'll be wetting themselves at the thought of a Take That tour next year.
   Every so often St David's Hall in Cardiff hosts a nostalgia package, with (say) the Four Tops headlining a Motown evening. The only original member of the Four Tops is Abdul Fakir, who's been performing with the band since 1953. My mother was ten years old when they got together, in other words. I missed King Crimson at St David's Hall earlier this year, and 10cc were there last year. It would have great to see either of them, regardless of their numerous personnel changes over the decades. There are undoubtedly people who say that 'it's not the same line-up' and refuse to go on that basis. But has anyone ever turned down a season ticket for Old Trafford because they won't be seeing the original Newton Heath Y&L FC? Time moves on and so do musicians. It's hard to believe that 'Love Me Do' and 'The Long and Winding Road' were even written by the same people. Gary Barlow, of the aforementioned Take That, is one of the UK's leading songwriters on the scene today. But if Take That were still doing their teen pop songs at the age they are now, you'd be straight on the phone to social services.
   The Nostalgia Crowd is, of course, the ideal audience for the growing number of tribute acts. I think the whole industry started in the USA, with a plethora of Elvis tribute acts (or ETAs, as they're known in the business) springing up even before the King was dead. There's an apocryphal story that Mr Presley himself entered an Elvis lookalike contest and came second. They definitely have their place in the nostalgia market. I thoroughly enjoyed Think Floyd in the Coliseum some years ago. I'd have liked to have seen the Bootleg Beatles in Caerphilly, but public transport made it impossible. I'm never going to see the real things, so tribute acts like these are the next best option.
   However, there are tribute acts and tribute acts. A few months ago I went to Caerphilly with my pals the Spectrums, who were supporting an excellent Talking Heads tribute in the town's Workmen's Hall. Their singer really looked the part in his Big Suit and David Byrne haircut. Not long before that we'd had a Jam tribute band in Jacs for the second time. They took to the stage in the same jeans and T-shirts that they'd worn on the drive up from Weston-super-Mare. Hang on a minute, though – wasn't the whole Mod scene as much about the fashion as it was about the music? If Colin and the lads had worn smart blazers and button-down shirts, or even Fred Perry shirts and Staprest trousers, I'd consider them more of a tribute act and less a band that's just learned to play all the best Jam songs.
   Can you imagine an ETA taking to the stage in ordinary street clothes? Or a Bowie tribute act setting up without any thought to the costume changes. Think Floyd didn't need to look like the real Pink Floyd. After 1971 the band's photos didn't appear on their LPs, so nobody knew (or cared) what they looked like. But Inner City looked less at home in Jacs than half of the audience, who had at least dressed for the occasion.
   I admit to having mixed feelings about tribute acts. In the absence of the real thing through retirement or death, they definitely fill a gap in the market. I never saw the Sex Pistols live, so the Sex Pistols Experience were the next best thing for me.
   But when the Coliseum hosts a Little Mix tribute (as they did last year), the situation is verging on farce. Aren't Little Mix (at best) a cut-price version of the Pussycat Dolls, who themselves were America's answer to British acts like the Spice Girls and Sugababes. It's a tribute act to a tribute act. It's a throwback to the ludicrous situation when the British synthpop duo Erasure released an EP of ABBA covers, and the ABBA tribute act Björn Again retaliated with a single of Erasure covers. Pop really is starting to eat itself.
   
   
4. The Gig Whore. While I was drafting this entry I was reading Stuart Maconie's entertaining and incisive social history-cum-travelogue Hope and Glory (Ebury Press, 2011). In his chapter on Band Aid/Live Aid, he hit the nail on the head when he described the throng charging into Wembley Stadium on 13 July 1985. They were well-dressed, well-scrubbed, well-fed teenagers and adults, piling in to see well-dressed, well-scrubbed, well-fed pop stars (drawn from a fairly shallow pool of talent). Mr Maconie rightly points out that they weren't your typical rock festival crowd.
   With the possible exception of Download (formerly the Monsters of Rock all-dayer), your typical rock festival crowd has changed beyond recognition in the past couple of decades. Back in the day, the highlight of the year was a weekend's camping in a muddy field outside Midsomer Norton, Ashby de la Zouch or Reading, watching the Groundhogs and Caravan on Saturday afternoon while stoned off your chops. Now it seems that every weekend from Easter to the end of August – and a bit further on – offers something: the (revived) Isle of Wight Festival, BoomTown, Bestival, RiZE, Beautiful Days, Green Man, Latitude, Boardmasters, Great Escape, TRNSMT, Rebellion, Wilderness, Wireless, Summer's End, Festival No. 6 … I'll freely admit that I've found most of these on a website listing the Top 20 UK Festivals for 2018. With a couple of exceptions, I'm none the wiser. There's even our very own festival in and around Cwmaman. Oddly enough, the biggest band to come out of Cwmaman have yet to grace the stage, over ten years after the inaugural Cwmfest. You could have caught them at TRNSMT, though, so all is not lost.
   Going to one of these weekends has become a rite of passage for today's teenagers. My honorary niece Emma was posting pictures of her adventures at Creamfields on Facebook on Wednesday. The funny thing is that I thought Emma was a rock chick, like her sister Rebecca. Creamfields is a dance event. I wasn't surprised to learn that my honorary nephew Dylan was going to celebrate his A level results at Reading. That's more where I'd have imagined Emma, to be honest. As I pointed out in Pick 'n' (Re)mix, you can't tell what style of music most youngsters are into these days. I don't think they themselves really know.
   I've only ever been to two festivals: Cropredy, the Fairport Convention get-together a few miles from Banbury, in 1997; and Ashton Court in Bristol, in about 1990. But I know people who seem to notch up festivals in the way that pilots recorded 'kills' on the fuselages of their Spitfires. It seems that simply being at a festival is more important than who's actually playing. They've literally been there, done that, and got the T-shirt.
   And there are some people I know who turn up regularly at the Tramshed or the Globe in Cardiff for much the same reason: they can't miss a gig, because it'll mean a gap in their collection. It's become the 21st Century equivalent of trainspotting, or going to every league match in a football season. We get a few people like that in Jacs, but when we start charging for every gig that'll sort the sheep from the goats.
   
   
5. Ffrindiau'r Band. Back in 1986 the Rex Cinema in Aberdare was the focal point of a Welsh-language comedy film called Rhosyn a Rhith (Coming Up Roses). It's a rather charming piece of nonsense set in a disused Valleys cinema, and we had the perfect location. As a matter of fact, most Valleys towns had a location that would have worked okay. However, Stephen Bayly, the director, must have decided that the Rex (complete with the poster for an Indiana Jones film) was ideal. And if you're wondering where the Rex is, well, that's easy. Stand in front of Thereisnospoon and look directly at the car park. You've got it …
   I mention this because two friends of mine featured in the film. Debbie and Mandy were the punkiest of all the punkettes in Aberdare at the time. And there's at least one scene where they are hanging around with a bad rock band. I can't remember if either of them had to deliver a line, but that's by the by. The point is that they were credited in the closing titles as Ffrindiau'r band. (I'm not going to translate that for non-Welsh speakers. It isn't too hard to work it out for yourselves, is it?)
   The friends of the band are the worst sort of punters, in my opinion. They really really love live music – but only if their mates are involved. Otherwise you won't see them. I know one person who's a perfect example of this. She thinks Jacs is the best thing that's happened to Aberdare in two decades. (So do I, as it happens.) To hear her raving about the place, you'd think she'd be there every weekend. But no – she only turns up when Skacasm are playing, because she and Gavin (the singer) are friends.
   There's nothing wrong with that, of course. Every band starts out playing to their mates. It might be in the church hall, or the scout hut, or the youth club, or in the local pub (until the regulars complain). And most bands don't progress much further than that. But relying purely on your mates for support isn't a great career path. On a typically wet and windy winter Friday night over twenty years ago, I cadged a lift to Ebbw Vale – in the back of the drummer's van, along with his kit and half a PA – to see three mates who were playing over there. If I hadn't gone, I don't think the crowd would have made it into double figures. The lads played a great set to a virtually empty pub. Not long after that they signed to Richard Branson's new record label and the rest, as they say, is history.
   Where would Stereophonics be now if they'd relied solely on their mates for support? (Answer: in the beer garden of the Globe on Bank Holiday Sunday – just like they were nearly three decades ago.) Conversely, what is my friend missing because she only comes to Jacs when Skacasm are playing? (Answer: John Otway, Space, Electric Six …)
   
   
6. The Chicken Tikka Masala Eater. A Bangladeshi Facebook friend of mine named Shah Lalon Amin is about to open a new 'Indian' restaurant in South Shields. A couple of weeks ago he posted the Delhi 6 menu. I'm not a connoisseur of South Asian food, so there are many dishes I've never heard of: Shahi Lamb Handi; Bhel Puri; Chandni Chowk; Aloo Tuk Tuk … I don't doubt that Shanara the Dippy Bint would be able to guide me through the mysteries. I'm fairly sure that we could have a good evening out if we were to find ourselves on Tyneside for some unexplained reason. Similarly, there are many restaurants in London (especially around Brick Lane) where curry addicts would find themselves more than adequately catered for.
   But I bet you I could take a decent gang of friends from Aberdare – all of whom profess to 'love' Indian food – to Delhi 6, or Preem, or Eastern Eye, or Shampan, and at least one of them would order chicken tikka masala. Even if I told them that I'd pay for anything they fancied off the menu, and that they were missing out on some fantastic taste experiences, they'd choose to play it safe.
   I knew a bloke named Paul, a couple of years older than me, who used to call into the Glosters every Sunday lunchtime, to have a pint and put money in the jukebox. And this is where the story gets weird. He'd put a quid in the slot, select the same two songs every time, and leave the remaining credit(s) for someone who knew music (usually me or Rebecca).
   It's not as though the Glosters' jukebox is the old unpredictable singles-only machine that we used to play fuck with when we started drinking there thirty-odd years ago. It's a digital job, with a couple of hundred thousand songs available on request. I don't know if it's connected to the internet, like the ones in the Cambrian and the Prince of Wales. If it is, then we can increase the menu by an order of magnitude. If you gave me £50 in readies this afternoon, I could go to Jacs and spend the lot in their jukebox without duplicating anything. And still Paul would only know two songs.
   But if you asked him, he'd tell you that he really loves music.
   The aforementioned female friend arguably fits into this category as well. I've lost count of the times I've seen her stand at a jukebox with (apparently) two million songs available, and play the same pound's worth of music every time. Some jukeboxes offer five songs for a pound, others four, and some a measly three, but as long as my friend gets her quid's worth she's happy: 'The Sound of the Suburbs' by the Members; 'My Way' by Sid Vicious; 'Pretty Vacant' and/or 'God Save the Queen' by You Know Who. So, I hear you say, surely she loved the Sex Pistols Experience when they played in Jacs. Yeah, she almost certainly would have. If only Gavin from Skacasm had been their lead singer, eh?
   
   
7. The Casual Observer. This is an odd sort of gig goer, because (like Dai) he/she gives the impression of just having wandered in off the street. There's no discernible subculture, so you can't tell whether you're dealing with an ageing rocker, an ex-punk, a superannuated Mod revivalist (or a retired first-time Mod), a dance kid, or someone who just sticks Heart FM from habit and happily drifts through their limited playlist all day. There'll be little or no interaction with the band, the other punters, or the bar staff. He/she might stick around for the whole gig, or wander off halfway through. In fact, if music venues had Mystery Customers, this sort of person would be the perfect candidate.
    
8. The Show Lover. This is the worst sort of person to have in a music venue. They don't really care about music at all, in fact. The fact that there's a band on is simply an excuse for them to get pissed. They don't even know the correct terminology. It isn't a gig – it's a show. That gives the game away. They'd be equally happy with an Elvis tribute act or a Vic Damone impersonator at the end of the 'function room' in the local workmen's institute, with a game of bingo during the interval.
   And this, of course, is the ideal audience for the host of cover bands who churn endlessly around the pubs and clubs of South Wales, working their way slavishly through the current edition of The Great Valleys Songbook. One such band messaged Jacs last week, asking if we had any dates available. Then they added their set list. Here it is, in all its manifold versatility:
   
   'Brown Sugar' by the Rolling Stones; 'Superstition' by Stevie Wonder; 'Livin' on a Prayer' by Bon Jovi; 'Town Called Malice' by the Jam; 'Free Falling' by Tom Petty; 'She Sells Sanctuary' by the Cult; 'Plug in Baby' by Muse; 'Come Up And See Me' by Steve Harley; 'Have a Nice Day' by Stereophonics; 'Don't You Forget About Me' by Simple Minds; 'Sex On Fire' by Kings Of Leon; 'Shake Your Tailfeather' by Blues Bros [sic]; 'Hard to Handle' by Black Crowes [sic]; 'With or Without You' by U2; 'Stir it up' by Bob Marley; 'Crossroads' by Cream; 'Rock and Roll' by Led Zeppelin; 'Wishing Well' by Free; 'Summer of 69' by Bryan Adams; 'Dakota' by Stereophonics; 'Mr Brightside' by the Killers; 'Too Much, Too Young' by the Specials; 'Mustang Sally' by Wilson Pickett; 'You're All I Have' by Snow Patrol; 'Creep' by Radiohead; 'Rebel Rebel' by David Bowie; 'Sweet Home Alabama' by Lynyrd Skynyrd; 'Gangsters' by the Specials; 'Valerie' by the Zutons; 'Delilah' by Tom Jones; 'Further on up the Road' by Gary Moore; 'Heroes' by David Bowie; 'Feels Like Heaven' by Fiction Factory; 'Roadhouse Blues' by the Doors; 'Moondance' by Van Morrison; 'Tush' by ZZ Top; 'Johnny B Goode' by Chuck Berry; 'I Saw Her Standing There' by the Beatles; 'Brown Eyed Girl' by Van Morrison; 'I'm A Believer' by the Monkees; 'Gimme Some Lovin'' by the Spencer Davis Group'; 'Rockin' in the Free World' by Neil Young; 'Hollywood Nights' by Bob Seger; 'Get Ready' by Slade; 'Stuck in the Middle' by Stealers Wheel; 'Can't Get Enough' by Bad Company; '20th Century Boy' by T Rex; 'River Deep' by Ike & Tina Turner.
   
   So, in short, with the exception of a couple of wildcards (Fiction Factory, ZZ Top), they're not playing anything that we wouldn't have heard on a Sunday afternoon in the White Lion about ten years ago. To adapt a great line from The Prestige: they're complacent, they're predictable, they're boring!
   Which is fine, because the sort of people who go to see bands in the White Lion don't really give a fuck about who's playing, or what they're playing. What they're getting is simply background noise to their conversations. If we were to borrow some mannequins from Burton, dress them in scruffy jeans and band logo T-shirts, sling toy guitars around their necks, and stand them on the stage while we played the above songs on the jukebox, nobody would notice the difference. Let me explain:
   A few weeks ago Dave Riley and Route 66 played a storming set of old-school rock'n'roll on a Sunday afternoon. There were about a dozen people in the music room. I posted a live video on Facebook, concentrating entirely on Darren's incredible guitar playing during one song. A dozen or so people watched my feed, including three whom I know for a fact would have been in the White Lion at the time. I was expecting the whole gang to up sticks and charge down to town to catch the rest of the set. No such luck.
   On the bus home from town, I saw one of the gang. The ensuing conversation went like this:
   'All right, Steve? Where've you been?'
   'In Jacs – you missed a great band this evening.'
   'I was in the White, mun.'
   'Oh, right. Who was up there then?'
   'No one.'
   * faceplant *
   I'm not making this up! Even when there's nothing happening in the other pub, making their way to town to see real musicians doing their stuff is too much effort. Maybe if Dave and the lads had stopped for bingo halfway through the gig they'd have been on a winner.

I think that's a fairly comprehensive list, but you might know some other types I've forgotten. Please feel free to add them.

Do you Know Who I Am?

In which The Author (and his friends) are the victims of mistaken identity

Yesterday afternoon, to mark the successful completion of another book by Christian Cameron (the third historical novel of his which I've copy-edited), I popped into the Glosters for a pint. Wayne L., the guvnor, was behind the bar, and we were chatting when a young woman walked in. She said hello to us both, and I said hello back – even though I had no idea who the hell she was. I recognised her, certainly, but placing her was a different matter entirely.

Anyway, she and Wayne were talking just out of sight when I heard her mention 'Sensodyne' and 'bleach' and 'teeth', and the penny dropped. She's one of the nurses in the dental surgery next door to the pub.

The dental surgery I attend regularly.

As a rule I only see her when she's wearing her work uniform. Seeing her in jeans and a jacket over a black top meant that she was completely out of context.

After she'd gone, Wayne said, 'I felt a bit embarrassed then, because I couldn't remember her bloody name.'

I said, 'You're one up on me, mate. I didn't even recognise her with her clothes on.'

We went on to talk about similar experiences we've had over the years. I told Wayne about the time I was walking through Queen's Arcade in Cardiff, on a Saturday lunchtime a couple of weeks before Xmas. A chap in his fifties (probably), walking through the arcade with his family, said hello as we passed each other. I said hello back, and spent the rest of my day racking my brains to try and remember where I knew him from. Was he someone who called into the bookshop regularly? Or someone I knew from the pub? Or even a former teacher whom I hadn't seen since my A levels? Maybe he'd been in the Cynon Valley Quiz League, or some other social group I'd been involved with in my younger days.

The mystery was solved on the Monday morning, when I boarded the X7 to Cardiff and he was sitting behind the wheel. Trevor had taken us to Cardiff every weekday (barring holidays) for at least the previous year. Out of his Shamrock uniform and outside his cab, his face just didn't register in my mind. Odd, isn't it?

I was thinking about similar episodes last night. A couple of weeks ago, I was in Jac's Music Venue in Aberdare, chatting to Barrie and Amanda (the managers) over a pint. My phone beeped to signal the arrival of a text message. Since only about half a dozen people have my current number, I was a bit surprised to see only a number instead of a name in the 'Sender' field.

I was even more surprised when I opened the message. It said something like 'Hi Hayley, sorry but Josh won't be able to come to Molly's party tomorrow, he's a bit under the weather.'

I read it out to Barrie and Amanda, and then said, 'There literally is no answer to that.'

I expect this accidental mis-delivery has caused poor Josh to be friendzoned by an angry Molly. (Get used to it, mate. Bitches be crazy!)

I was having a pint in Kitty Flynn's in Cardiff, on a Saturday afternoon about halfway through my second first year at university. A chap I'd never seen before came over to me, told me how much he liked my guitar playing, and offered to buy the next drink. I thanked him and told him I was only killing time between trains (which was true). I couldn't accept a drink on false pretences, could I?

I don't know who this mysterious guitarist actually is, but I was walking through Aberdare a few months ago and someone came up to me out of the blue. He'd obviously had a few (or maybe something stronger and less legally available), but he started ranting on at me about a gig I'd played in Swansea where I'd apparently pissed him off. I told him I hadn't picked up a guitar in public for well over twenty years, but he wouldn't have it. Eventually, I think I said, 'Fuck off, you stupid wanker!' (or words to that effect) and walked away rather quickly.

One of the reps who used to call into the bookshop was a very nice guy called Julian Cooper. He and his partner Glynis lived in South Devon (Newton Abbot, if memory serves), and would come to Cardiff a couple of times a year. Between them they carried an eclectic set of lists, both books and stationery. Julian would visit the bookshops, Glynis would do the stationers', and between them they could do a city centre in a day's visit. We became great friends, and we'd always have a good chat before getting down to the serious business of buying books.

Julian was born in the very early 1950s, and was a bit of a hippy in his younger days. (I think he still was, at heart.) He'd always be very smartly dressed in a suit, but with an open-necked shirt. His wavy hair was greying, but still long enough to identify him as slightly bohemian. He's also about my height and build.

One of his visits was a couple of days after our annual stocktake. We'd always take on a large group of students to help out on the day (and night), and some would stay on for a few days afterwards. Two such were named Ruth and Rebecca, and they were helping to make the shop shipshape (try saying that after a few pints) when Julian walked up the stairs. I was behind the counter, so he strolled over, shook my hand, and we started chatting as usual. As we went to find a quiet corner, we noticed that the girls were whispering to each other and glancing over at us. We didn't think anything of it at the time.

After Julian had gone, Rebecca walked over to me and said, 'Was that your father you were talking to?'

I don't think the possible resemblance had ever crossed my mind (or Julian's) before, but now that she'd mentioned it, it wouldn't have been too hard to imagine.

That night, I rang Julian at home and told him what the girls had thought. He found it hilarious, and it became a running joke of ours ever after.

He'd walk into the shop and say, 'How are you, son?'

I'd reply, 'Hello, Dad, good to see you. How's stepmother?'

I'm sure at least one of the younger members of staff thought we were on the level, too.

This next case of mistaken identity also involves my father. (My real father, not the one from South Devon). As Dad got older, his eyesight started to seriously deteriorate, and he didn't make things any easier for himself by not wearing his glasses.

Phil (my brother) has worn glasses since school. He used to have fairly long hair, a bit of a beard, and wore faded denims in an old-school rock style. But at the time I'm talking about, that was quite a common look around the Valleys.

Dad called into the Cambrian for an afternoon pint one day. He knew most of our gang, and they knew him. Nobody was especially surprised when Dad approached Leighton L., who was reading the paper by the bar. Leighton was wearing faded denims, had long hair, and a bit of a beard. He was also wearing his reading glasses.

The way Leighton recounted the story, Dad apparently offered to stand him a pint (which Leighton declined). Dad then asked him about his work situation (hit and miss, the odd 'hobble' here and there), his love life (disastrous), his baby daughter (estranged because of the disastrous love life), and various other topics.

After five minutes or so, the penny dropped. Phil's life and Leighton's were running on exactly parallel lines, so every time Dad asked 'my brother' a question, Leighton was able to give an entirely appropriate answer. I don't know if Leighton ever told Dad that he wasn't actually talking to his younger son, or just decided to keep it until he'd seen us.

Years ago, I was in a pub – possibly the Cambrian, but it might have been the Glandover or the Mount Pleasant, when they still had a live music scene – when a chap I knew by sight came over to me. We chatted for a few minutes about the bands, work, girlfriends, people we both knew, life in general, blah blah blah …

'How's your brother doing these days?' he asked.

I told him Phil was doing OK, and then he completely flummoxed me.

'I like your brother. He's one of the best bass players I've ever seen around here. Tell him I was asking about him.'

And he said goodbye and walked away.

Now, I doubt if Phil knows one end of a bass guitar from the other, let alone how to play the damned thing. To this day, I have no idea who this guy thought I was, or who this very talented sibling is. Maybe Leighton is a closet bass player. Who knows? Maybe we should get him together with my guitarist lookalike and form an O'Gorman Brothers tribute act. Answers on a postcard, please …

And, on Guest Vocals ...

In which The Author doesn't join a rock band

I was round at my brother's house this morning when Radio 2 played 'Walking on Sunshine' by Katrina and the Waves. Instant flashback to the summer of 1985, when three of my mates from school, and a young lad they'd found en route, formed one of Aberdare's legendary bands – Trevor and the Sprouts.

There's a story behind the name, which I won't bore you with. Suffice to say that Takka Tim (bass and vocals), his younger brother Deke (guitar and vocals), Doctor Paul (guitar and vocals), and Gerwyn (drums), occasionally augmented by Kinky Steve (I know – there's another one) spent much of the summer holidays in the Scout Hut in Trecynon, rehearsing and refining their set for their first big gig.

When I say 'their first big gig', I'm not talking about Reading, or Donington, or even Brecon Jazz. I mean an all-day piss-up outside the Michael Sobell Sports Centre in Aberdare. Our pal Stuart Turville had organised the whole thing, which was a fair achievement for a guy in his late teens. He and our mate Darren Broome had been in a band, and Stuart had networked most of the Aberdare music scene to pull together a fairly impressive line-up. Trevor and the Sprouts were pretty much guaranteed to draw a crowd, if only because by the time all their friends and relatives turned up there'd be about a hundred people there.

Every weekday, from mid-morning to late afternoon, the boys lugged their gear to the Scout Hut and worked through their set list. I was there most days, too. My job was to man the stopwatch, to make sure that if Paul shaved a few seconds off the solo in 'Lady Eleanor' we'd get to the end without Stuart pulling the plugs.

Anyway, one day we convened to find ourselves a man down. Paul was on holiday. Even though Kinky Steve was able to fill in on lead guitar, it still meant that 'Walking on Sunshine' was a non-runner. Paul took the lead vocal on that song, so the boys dropped it for the afternoon. It buggered up the timing. Steps needed to be taken.

But I was already networking, even at that early stage.

The following morning I rang Darren to ask if he could pop up to Trecynon and fill in while the rest of the boys refined the set. Fair play to him, he came up as soon as he could.

Paul was (and is) a very fine guitarist, whose biggest influence at the time was Steve Howe of Yes. Darren was (and is) also a very fine guitarist.

Unfortunately for a band whose major influences were the Beatles, the Kinks, Lindisfarne, Man, Fairport Convention, Bill Oddie, and the Rutles, his biggest influences were Lou Reed, Robert Fripp, Steve McGeogh and Bill Nelson.

And I'd never sung at all, apart from doing the usual teenage girl singing into a hairbrush in the bedroom mirror nonsense.

But I knew the words.

Thus it was, for one afternoon only, that three quarters of Trevor and the Sprouts played 'Walking on Sunshine'. I sang the lead vocal in Mark E. Smith fashion. Darren played the most bizarre snatch-and-grab chorused and flanged lead solo since Mr Fripp himself guested on Brian Eno's first solo LP. With no malice aforethought, we murdered one of the best British pop songs of the year.

The only people we knew at the time who could have afforded a video camera were Paul's parents. Luckily for us, they were on holiday as well. These days, such a debacle would have been live on Facebook within seconds. Like many of the key moments in rock history, if you weren't there, you won't be able to experience it ever again.

This afternoon, after telling my brother about the whole shambolic session, I logged onto Facebook. My pal Louis M. (who's been playing guitar since his very early teens) was raving about King Crimson. I shared a couple of YouTube clips which only die hard fans would know about. And then I heard 'Walking on Sunshine' again. It's funny how memories interconnect at times, isn't it?