Are we crazy to dream?

How we get hooked into being musicians, singers, songwriters, performers, creatives and artists all varies, and there are a million reasons we choose to enter the creative industries. Creativity itself comes in many forms. This post refers mainly to my industry: music.

Growing up in the era I did, there were far fewer distractions. No mobile phones, no internet, only one or two channels on the TV. Cinema was a rare treat. Time passed slowly, and on weekends everything closed with the exception of the odd corner shop for essentials like milk and bread. Kids played outside all day and we all ran around like lunatics until sundown, usually starving hungry and with a thirst to die for, which we usually quenched by drinking straight from the tap! Once satisfied, we would let out a large gasp of contentment as we finished gulping. Face, hands and knees filthy with the grime, sweat and dirt from playing games and rolling around for hours. Don’t even get me started on how we shared bath water!

Aside from all the antics, there was school, but most other times we seemed to have far more opportunity for procrastination and boredom. It was in those moments the magic happened. When your mate Phill couldn’t come out to play and you were alone kicking a can down the road. Alone with your thoughts, daydreaming, imagination sparking ideas about a million scenarios — from being the Bionic Man to winning a large cash prize and wondering what you would do with all your newfound wealth. “This time next year, Rodney?”

My first guitar was actually my sister’s first guitar, upon my mum’s suggestion that she take up an instrument. A £15 classical guitar she bought from my Spanish friend Pascual. I remember strumming away on it all the times it was left lying around, and my sister and I — though not exactly Billie & Finneas Eilish — getting excited about writing our first song, an instrumental, that I still remember to this day. Fumbling away at the nylon strings, frayed at the ends as they held on for dear life. Praying not to break one, as we had no spares and no clue how to change them if they did break.

My sister soon lost interest, but I kept an insatiable appetite for guitar and, after fumbling around for a while, my mum — seeing how keen I was — suggested guitar lessons. I went to school with that thought in my head and knew there was a guitar teacher there.

Patrick Moore, a calm and confident man in his seventies, Mr Moore was one of those people in your life that made a difference. A mixed-race Cockney, down-to-earth, took no nonsense but a kind soul. Waiting outside the music room to ask him if I could have lessons, I was that annoying child that drummed all day long on the table at dinner time.

“Who’s making that racket?” Mr Moore proclaimed as he burst through the class door with a scowl on his face. “Get away from my classroom!” he ushered me away. “Well, that’s that then,” I thought, having blown my chance. I was far too embarrassed to ask at that point, but after a while I plucked up the courage to ask my Head Teacher to speak to Mr Moore for me. He agreed to give me lessons.

Within a month I performed a classical piece for the school assembly. Terrified but confident, I managed to play a song from A Tune a Day, a classic piece of guitar-teaching literature and a staple for any decent guitar teacher. Within six months I was one of the best players in my class. A sponge, lapping up any nugget of guitar knowledge like sweets to a sugar addict.

It took about a year to get to the point where I could say I was a guitarist of sorts, and whilst quite crap at that stage, I maintain a year is roughly the amount of time it takes to get over the hurdle and be far less likely to give it up. Self-taught from that point on, I listened along to cassette tapes. Play, pause, rewind, repeat — over and over again — learning guitar parts by ear and improving my listening skills until the wow and flutter of the tape was such that it sounded like I had a chorus pedal on the deck. Putting in the hours as time improved me bit by bit.

“Let’s start a band!” Sitting there in Physics, I was chatting to my best mate Alan, who always sang in school and loved the attention that came from it. A lovely tone to his voice and, to this day, like a brother to me and best friend — although we don’t see each other very much these days, I’m sad to say.

“Why don’t we start a band?” I mentioned to him under my breath, trying not to get caught chatting in class. Seeing his reaction to this epiphany, and the excitement that followed, was a real moment for us as Alan’s face lit up. “Sure. Bagsy I’m the singer!” he proclaimed. I was more than happy with that, as I wanted to be the guitarist anyway.

Armed with intent and the idea of starting a band, Alan and I started floating the idea around school and very soon we had bass, keys, sax, guitar and vocals. A drummer was slightly more tricky, but I knew one from around my estate that I had already jammed with in the local church hall. Once we had a band it was a case of learning songs. We decided to learn covers at first — Dire Straits, Springsteen, The Stones, U2, Bowie to name a few. I managed to get use of our local church hall on weekends, and we also used the school music room.

Community matters. I was also lucky enough to grow up at a time when, whilst kids still got up to no good and perhaps there weren’t enough youth clubs in the world, it was still far better than now. I had access to three clubs in my area. We had local social workers working in the communities, trying to engage kids with fun and activities.

The club I settled on was the Camden Catholic Youth Club in Bloomsbury, Holborn — five minutes’ walk away from my house. Open from 6pm till 10pm, 15p to enter. I lived in that place. A great cross-section of local society: good kids, naughty kids, drug dealers, local MPs’ kids and more — all under one roof.

The club was an equaliser. No nonsense went on, and good or bad, once you walked through that door it was a safe haven for fun and activities. If you messed around you got barred. And since we all loved the place, we behaved — within reason.

Full-size snooker table, darts, ping pong, pool, a trampoline, arcade machines, TV, a weights room, boxing equipment and two indoor football pitches. How did this utopia of equality and sanctity exist? Because of one man: the second human that made a difference in my life — Joe Cahill (God rest his soul).

Joe was another no-nonsense, kind individual. He was a mentor, community leader, football coach. An Irishman with a calm demeanour. He loved a pint of Guinness at the end of the day and we had to be out by 10pm so he could grab one before closing. Consistent in his manner, calm, commanding of fifty-odd kids in one evening. Whistle around his neck if we stepped out of line — the same whistle he used during five-a-side. Respected by all.

A human that is hard to come by these days, though they exist. He spoke to us like people, not children, and equally, if we stepped out of line, he dealt with it in a confident but fair way. He protected the younger kids from the older, more criminally minded, and we felt safe under his watch. Joe was more of a friend than just a community leader and we could talk to him without judgement. A great man.

“You play guitar, don’t you?” Joe was aware, as I would sometimes bring my classical into the club and serenade.

“Follow me,” he said. Curious to know what he was proposing, I followed Joe into the main club room. Just past the pool table there was a store cupboard, about five metres square. He opened the door to reveal a whole load of junk.

“If you help me clear this lot, you can use this room as a practice space for your band.”

It’s a bit of a blur how we cleared it, but clear it we did, and fast! I was so excited to have a music space. This was what we needed as a band. Moreover, Joe — being the man he was — placed his trust in me and gave me a set of keys to the club, setting some ground rules for the times we could use it. Although, in truth, we basically had all-day access up to around 10pm, and later if we wished.

Having his trust meant a lot, and I never abused it in the five or six years I had use of that room.

Now we’re cooking! Our rehearsal space meant we rehearsed a lot as a band, cutting our teeth and perfecting our craft. In a very short space of time we started gigging.

Our first gig, however, was in my secondary school — we put on a school concert. Rock Bottom — a name our music teacher, Mr Bevan, chose for us. All proceeds went to Help the Aged.

We had never had anything like this at my school, as it was a charity-funded Catholic school and we hardly had any facilities at all. The few classical guitars we did have were built by none other than Patrick Moore, who was also our woodwork teacher and a guitar luthier. I know! What a dude. He also used to take me and Alan to the local café at lunchtime and buy us a tea and cheese roll, telling us stories of gigs he had performed back in the day.

Anyway, back to the school show. We printed posters and spread the word around the school, along with an announcement in assembly. Sold out!

I remember the gig to this day. Performing loads of classics mentioned before — we went down a storm. Up until that point, I would describe myself as beige: a good kid that struggled in class and never quite fit in, awkward but normal enough and safe enough to get along without too much incident. I would have been forgotten in the pages of history as “of no significant importance”.

Not that anything has changed since — however, I remember the feeling of walking into school the next day and all the attention we got from the cool kids.

“I didn’t know you played guitar so well!”

“That was amazing.”

Yes, it went to my head. I felt acknowledged. The time I’d put in, pacing up and down in my kitchen playing guitar and singing along as I daydreamed about performing at Wembley Stadium, the hours we put in as a band — it had all meant something. And I guess the recognition was the fruit of our labour. I’m not a proud person but we felt, proud, our band, a little gang, we did something cool! TBC…