Touring Bands

V2 - The Harp Bar, Belfast Friday 24th & Saturday 25th August 1979.
V2 Hit Belfast. Belfast Hits Back! - by Mark Standley: Founder Member, Song Writer, and Guitarist
Welcome dear reader, and thank you for taking the time to at least start reading what is likely to be my somewhat disjointed memories of the band I formed, V2's trip to Belfast to perform two concerts at the now legendary Harp Bar.
Sean asked me to write this quite some time ago. I found myself struggling to put it into a coherent order while attempting to be at least slightly entertaining. A couple of days ago, I thought 'why not just write it as I remember it?' which is a jumble of snapshot incidents, experienced at the time, through a haze of sleep deprivation, marijuana, drunkenness, and a dawning realisation that 1970s Belfast could be a pretty scary place. Especially for a bunch of totally naive Brits wandering round in last night's makeup, satin trousers and green hair.
Right then, let's give it a go. A quick potted history of the band up until then. I formed V2 with my best friend from school Dave Wilks at the same time as Joy Division and the Fall were getting themselves together (they of course went on to great success, which I thought was a bit rude but never mind).Without realising it at the time, we very quickly became quite popular locally and within about 9 months of first stepping nervously on stage had our first record (Speed Freak EP) in the alternative charts. By the time we travelled to Belfast, we had, according to Paul Morley in the NME, become, after Buzzcocks, the second most popular band in the North West. We had developed a decent following, began getting fan mail from all over the World due to repeated plays on the John Peel show, and our second single (Man in the Box) had sold a hell of a lot, putting us at number one in the Alternative Charts.
The idea of going to Ireland was very exciting to us. I don't think any of us had ever been abroad before, I know I hadn't, so getting on a ferry and sailing to a different country was a big deal.There were five band members, and a school friend who was going to be the driver and roadie. As it transpired, we were told we wouldn't need a van, but we didn't want to disappoint him so took him anyway.In preparation for our big adventure, we clubbed together and procured an ounce of Moroccan hash, which we cut up and secreted in our socks. We sailed overnight from Liverpool (I think?) and of course got stoned and drunk on the boat. As dawn broke, we were already feeling a bit 'iffy' As we were queueing to get off the boat, we spotted a lot of soldiers with guns and bloody big dogs watching everyone as they stepped onto dry land. That sobered us up a bit. Next minute, we were being frisked by hard looking soldiers with those high cheek bones a lot of soldiers seem to have? Their serious looking dogs snaffling around. We were quite obviously a bit of a novelty for these protectors of freedom, and we all instinctively went into misdirection mode, making jokes and generally arsing about, desperately hoping they wouldn't find the hash in our socks which now felt to me as if it was as big and obvious as Mount Everest. It must have worked as we were all allowed through the check point.
By now, we were all starting to grasp that things were a bit different here than we were used to. I didn't really have any idea at the time what 'the troubles' were all about. I think that euphemistic term 'Troubles' had not conveyed to people on the mainland the gravity of the situation, which is of course why it was used. If they had said on the news 'the protracted civil war.' we might have been somewhat more aware of what we were walking into.It had been arranged that we meet Terri Hooley outside his 'Good Vibrations' record shop at 9am. We were there far too early. We then realised that the shop was right across the road from the Europa hotel, the most bombed hotel in the World! There were armoured cars and.. (Leave it!) driving by. Soldiers giving us 'funny looks. Anyway, I was starving and tired by now. Terri was late, and the paranoia about standing about looking 'unusual' near the Europa hotel was creeping up on us all. At last Terri arrived. He was very nice and apologetic. He took us somewhere to get something to eat and it seemed things were looking up.After breakfast, Terri got us a taxi to the Harp Bar. As we arrived outside, we noticed that the front of the building was covered with a thick wire barrier. 'Strange aesthetic round here?' we thought! We went in and were given a very warm welcome and shown to the dressing room to drop off our gear. Steve, the school friend/driver was already starting to show signs of paranoia. As it transpired, he spent most of our time there hiding in the dressing room with his parka pulled up over his head.
We more hardy souls, after a couple of joints, and some liquid courage courtesy of the Harp bar decided to go for a stroll round Belfast.We wandered aimlessly about for a bit, inducing extremely puzzled looks from 'the man in the street' (I think his wife was there too?) Until we chanced upon a pub/club. It was decided that more drinks were in order, so in we went.The pub/club was called 'The Pound' I subsequently discovered that The Pound was a Catholic stronghold with connections to you know who. The 'you made me miss my dart' scene in the film 'American Werewolf in London' comes to mind at the reaction we caused as we entered. I strolled up to the bar with Dave and ordered for everyone. The bar tender served me OK, but rather than giving me the change, threw it on the bar so it fell on the floor. I didn't tip him. Having experienced straight people's reactions to young pale boys in make up for the previous 3 or 4 years, I just thought he was one of those knob heads. I picked up my change with as much dignity as I could muster and we took the drinks to the others who had found seats at a long wooden table.The others were oblivious to what had just happened, but it had put me on edge. While they were all blahing away giddily, I scanned the room. Dour looking blokes were staring at us. I smiled at one. It wasn't returned. Then I heard 'Let's take their fucking hats off.' None of us were wearing a hat, and like a punch on the nipple, I realised it was a whimsical Irish euphemism for knee caps. Having been brought up in Manchester, and constantly risking the late night bus to Denton dressed in my Glam Rock finery, my 'There could be some trouble' antenna was quite refined. My next problem was how to communicate this building tension to my inebriated comrades with out looking like I was aware of it. After nudging Stan harder and harder, I got his attention and said something like 'it's going to kick off here if we don't get out. Tell the others quickly.' He understood from my tone of voice that I meant it. The message was passed along. I said 'Grab a bottle just in case, and let's walk very calmly to the door.' We all got up, and smiling rather sickly smiles, nonchalantly strolled to the door. Many bellicose eyes watched our departure. Once outside, we strolled round the corner then ran like fuck back to the Harp bar.
We are all in what I now classify as 'Tour head' A strange surreal mental state where all normal concerns are forgotten, and all that matters is the here and now. Getting ready to do the first concert in a cramped dressing room. Elbows and eye shadow everywhere. We can hear the audience arriving, and after our earlier experiences, wonder how they will take to a group of Brits in make up! As we were announced, a massive cheer went up. We ran on stage pretending we were confident and it went ballistic! Thank God! The wave of excitement and enthusiasm hit us and carried us away with it. A great night. Afterwards, it seemed that the entire audience and us crammed into the dressing room. The aromas of sweat, dope, cigarettes and booze mingled with the sights and sounds of young people celebrating a moment's liberation from the age old animosities meant to keep us apart. Fab!
This is where the tale is going to get a bit disjointed. I can't remember where we slept on the first two nights. I know where we stayed on the last night. If anyone reading this put us up on one or more of the other nights, thanks.
'Oh Christ, I feel bilious!' or something similar said everyone as they awoke and remembered where they were. Very disjointed memories of this day. Wandering round Belfast. Coming upon an Orange men's parade. Wondering if it was a 'Sons of the Desert' Laurel and Hardy fan club event? Finding it hard not to giggle as they marched passed us, nearly snapping their optic nerves trying to look sideways at us without turning their heads. An oompah band, banners flying, and hundreds of Laurel and Hardys. And me at least, having no idea what it was all about! Walking down a terraced street with our guitars and bags. Some very young children throwing bits of barbed wire at us. Stan shouting at the to Fuck off, me shouting at Stan that their dad was probably in an upstairs window pointing a gun at us. Our friend Steve running back to the Harp bar, going in the dressing room, pulling his parka hood over his head and staying like that until after the gig. Another enthusiastic reception from the audience. One thing I do remember is a fight kicking off at the back of the room and someone pulling a gun. There were some nice pictures taken of this concert, now unfortunately lost. But the two I recall the most are one just before the fight, with us all posing like mad. Then one 20 seconds later after seeing the gun, all of us stood very still, as far to the back of the stage as possible!
We were invited to a party after the gig. Sounded good to us. We jumped in a taxi and off we went. It transpired the party was on the Falls Road. Even we had heard of that road. The taxi dropped us off at the end of the road and we scuttled in a zig zag fashion to the house. When we had been there for about an hour, I suddenly realised I had left my flying V guitar in the boot of the taxi. By then we had been informed that all the taxis in Belfast belonged to one side or the other. I was a bit concerned that if we contacted them, they might think we were implying that they stole it (not paranoid at all by this point!) Anyway, someone called the taxi company and they returned the guitar there and then.
We had the next day off. I really can't remember what we did during the day, if anything. Later we were taken to a film studio in Hollywood (Obviously not!) It was the home of John T Davis. A film director who was just putting the finishing touches to 'Shellshock Rock' A documentary about the early days of the Northern Irish Punk Scene. It was a very nice house. By the seaside. There had been a bit of a do arranged. Maybe in our honour, or maybe they had lots of do's, and we just happened to bumble into this one? We were greeted by some older people (Probably late 20s/early 30s!) Who seemed to find our, by now rag-arsed little band fascinating. I was really out of it by now. So far out of it, I was scared to stop. So I grabbed a free drink and went to mingle. Everyone was very nice to us. I liked the way the sophisticated looking women eyed me up as they chatted to me, and a couple of times I noticed, about me. I was wearing mostly my stage gear. Everything else I had with me was damp, as beer had been spilled on my case at some point. So I was sporting very tight satin trousers with nothing underneath. Normally my guitar hid that bit, but not tonight. I remember being a bit embarrassed about the fact that I hadn't had a proper wash in days, especially around such 'posh' people. I was attempting to converse with Mr Davis about the complexity of getting a film made, when I felt a hand run over my bottom. I turned to see two delectable ladies sat behind me, one with her hand on my bottom. She smiled up at me. 'I hope you don't mind? We were just saying what a rather peachy bum you have.' To be honest, I was a bit flustered at this sudden attention. I turned towards them to speak. Her eyes went down to my groin. She smiled and rubbed the back of her hand along my protuberance. 'Not much left to the imagination is there?'The two delectables laughed. All I could think is 'Bloody hell, I probably smell like a particularly torpid tramp.' I lingered for another moment. The less socially aware part of me enjoying the sensation. I then walked off, ostensibly in search of another drink, and the bathroom for a quick wash with dreams of an erotic adventure to come. Of course, nothing came of it, and we all ended up sleeping wherever we could. I think I eventually ended up on the settee with two of the others with a towel over me.
The next day dawned, and it was time to get the boat home. I've no idea how we got to the boat, but remember lots of soldiers every where. It turned out Lord Mountbatten had been blown up on a boat that day! My only other memory of the boat trip home is Ian Nance and some of the others sleeping. I was idly crushing some spilled sugar on the table with a plastic spoon. Dave and myself suddenly realised it looked exactly like speed! Being the wags that we were, we told Ian that we had procured some speed from a crew member and would he like some? Being the abstemious chap he was, he said 'Bloody right I do!' We stifled our giggles as he snorted it. Then were blown away as it worked! He went from being completely somnolent, to an instant bundle of energy. We were considering giving it a go ourselves, but think we all fell asleep before our addled minds could make such a complex decision.
So dear reader, there you have it. My jumbled recollections of a trip taken in a different World than today's. When everything was in front of us, new and exciting. if you have got this far, I thank you for your perseverance. Dragging these memories up kicking and screaming, has reminded me what a unique period in musical and social history we blundered blindly through. I wish I had taken more notice, and at least a vague idea of how quickly it would pass. It was experiences like this that gave me the confidence to break out of what life seemed to have planned for me and people like me. I hope those days did something similar for you xx
Mark Standley, Berlin, 2021
ps After Sean asked me to write about our Belfast trip, I reconnected with Ian Nance, the other guitarist in V2 after many years. I asked him would he like to write his recollections too. Typically enough, his and mine are at odds on certain things. Which, of course is perfect! x

The Belfast Papers (V2 and a Journey into the Heart of Darkness) By Ian Nance
DAY ONE
‘GREAT,’ we said, when our manager, Tony, told us we were to play two nights at the Harp Bar in Belfast, though we had no real idea what we were letting ourselves in for, being rock ‘n’ roll creatures we were almost moronically ignorant of the political landscape of 1979, an inadequacy at that time in Ireland which could easily have cost us the ultimate price. No matter, we prepared for the trip by scoring an ounce of Moroccan hash (sadly, this fine product seems to have disappeared down the memory hole, along with much else), and got on the cross channel ferry too stoned to deal with anything remotely resembling authority. This was a great pity, since we were about to dock in a place that had cornered the World Market in the petty bureaucracy of Fascism. Our sole concession to this tyrannical machine was to cut the hash into four quarters and stuff them down our socks. Sorted, we thought, no problem for a quintet of hammered teenagers in satin pants sporting green and orange hair. This was our first – but not our last – elemental blunder.
Before we go any further I should probably explain the band, if an explanation is even an option when talking about the ten-legged catastrophe that was V2. Formed in early 1977 by old school friends Dave Wilks and Mark Standley, the band made an initial splash with the Speed Freak EP, on Dave Bentley’s Bent Records. The vocal chores were gamely shouldered by Dave Wilks, Mark strapped on an electric guitar. Aided and abetted by Gary “Stan the Man” Mathews on pummelling bass, the line-up was completed by drummer and one-man bullshit silo, Steve “I played on School’s Out, straight up” B’Dale. That was about where I came in. My band, The Panik, having crash landed in the hinterlands of entropy, I was at a loose end musically, and when an offer came through from Mark I took it. Soon after we were taken up by the legendary (some would say notorious) Tony T.J. Davidson, the Andrew Loog Oldham of Bowker Vale, and this in turn led to the release of a 12-inch single, Man in the Box, which at that time was dancing about like a drunk on top of the indie charts.
Anyway, enough back-story...On with the show...
The crossing was rough, uneven and choppy, as only the Irish Sea can be. Being stoned is one thing, but when you add seasickness into the mix, you’ve got trouble. Strangely, I was the only one unaffected, but then I had been across several times as a kid with my “Uncle” Shay, visiting the wilder South of the Emerald Isle.
As soon as we tumbled down the gangplank the shit hit the proverbial. Checkpoint Charlie on every street corner, carrying guns (?)...We got some very weird looks from the squaddies and then they patted us down, fortunately missing the contraband in our socks, but it made for some monumental paranoia attacks. Once the boys in camouflage bid us farewell, there was only one course of action, the pub, for a quick comedown cure. The first boozer we saw was completely enveloped in wire mesh (we didn’t know it then but it was to stop the petrol bombs being thrown through the windows), and so we frowned at this quaint Irish custom and went inside. As in every cheapo cowboy film you ever saw, the jukebox died and every head turned to regard the incomers, in their effete silks and make-up, carrying guitars, if you please! A raggedy little bloke in shiny suit detached himself from a clot of hardened drinkers he was with and sidled over, eyeing us with ill-disguised hatred. ‘Youse Brits?’ he said. Again we frowned at one another and turned back to the leprechaun. ‘Yeah,’ Stan the Man replied through a mouthful of beer, thinking we’d been asked if we were British. The raggedy bloke shook his head solemnly. ‘Off with your caps,’ he said, walking away. More frowning ensued, this was because none of us were actually wearing caps, although we often did. What could he mean, we thought. Off with our caps. I knew the Irish were the undisputed Kings of the non-sequitur, but this was taking the art to ridiculous extremes. Never have five English musicians exited a public house with several hours’ drinking time in hand so readily.
We found the Harp Bar nearby which was just as well, and since our first gig there wasn’t till the next evening we had arranged to bed down there for the night, where they locked us in and we smoked ourselves into oblivion, strangers in a strange land, indeed...Due to a managerial fuck-up – ho hum – we arrived way too early the next morning to meet Terri Hooley outside his record shop, Good Vibrations, premises right across the street from the Europa Hotel; the most bombed building in Europe of that era. Yes, that’s right. So while we stand shivering on the pavement to wait for the man who discovered the Undertones, I’ll tell you a little bit about how we got here. It’s good. You’ll like it.
Staggering out of the Harp Bar at sparrow-fart we rubbed our eyes and noted the eeriness of our surroundings, the lack of people, the roads twinkling with broken glass, the heaviness in the pewter sky, the ominous silence. After studying the piece of paper with the address of our destination, and consulting a conspicuously lone copper, we found that Terri’s shop was some distance away. This was not news we were in any way prepared to hear. In a stroke of madness Stan flagged a passing black cab, the driver a ringer for the actor Milo O’Shea. ‘Can you take us here, mate?’ Stan asked, thrusting the address at him. Milo nodded and smiled. Stan licked his lips. ‘What, all seven of us?’ ‘Sure, jump in,’ Milo said and turned on the meter. To say his driving was erratic was to understate it, our cabbie was a one-man demolition derby, and as we turned a corner a rush hour instantaneously formed around us, trucks and cars jockeying for position on the potholed road, but Milo was more than equal to the game, and out manoeuvred his fellow motorists with unconcerned brevity and native guile, happily grinning at the blaring horns and screams, oblivious.
Soon enough we found ourselves in the notoriously unstable Shankhill Road area, slipping onto that dangerous thoroughfare as in a gondola. The traffic came to a standstill. Scrunched together and loaded up with guitars, we did some more frowning (we were starting to get quite good at it by now), while our driver’s demeanour remained commendably impassive. We heard a loud crack, then another, until it dawned on us we were stuck in the middle of a shootout between the Provo’s and the army, a pitched battle at half past eight in the morning. ‘Fucking hell, they’re firing at us,’ Dave said, ‘shouldn’t we get out of here?’ Milo arched an eyebrow and took a copy of the Racing Post from under the sun visor. ‘Ah, but won’t it over just as soon as you like,’ he said, settling down over the form pages, as the bullets whanged and echoed all around us. We hunkered down as best we could considering the circumstances, not easy, seven people in a space designed for four, but fear and the lust for self-preservation are strong motivators. And then, just like the sun coming out, it ceased, and miraculously the traffic began to move as if it had only been a minor infraction, nothing to worry about, just a teensy-weenie difference of opinion between two basically benignly avuncular military forces.
And then came Terri Hooley, full of apologies and bonhomie, out of breath but every inch the gentleman. ‘Sorry fellas,’ he said, ‘but I did tell your manager my alarm clock has a bad case of amnesia. Have you been here long?’ He took us for breakfast at a greasy spoon four doors down from Good Vibrations, there for the universal fry up and brickies’ tea, and afterward pumped with stodge and cholesterol and other 1970s unknowns, we waddled to his shop, where we were treated to various new sounds by Irish punk and New Wave bands, including a white label of the yet-to-be-released Teenage Kicks.**Terri was a very able raconteur, and during that few hours we heard a great many compromising tales of Phil Lynott, Van Morrison, et al, most unrepeatable for reasons that will be apparent.
The tension began building inside the Harp Bar, even the drums and backline borrowed for the occasion were behaving prettily. Now even copious amounts of smoke couldn’t quell the jitters, that rising tide of adrenaline that every performer – big or small – instinctively knows in their bones. The bar staff were pretending to polish glasses but having the banter, clearly expecting something exceptional tonight. No pressure, then. All thoughts of gunplay in the streets have vanished now, there is only the night and the music and the human beings who will, hopefully, join with us in helping make this experience a transcendent one. When they open the doors we retreat into the dressing rooms (though “dressing room” in the Neolithic argot is not a concept Beyonce would recognise), and from the caretaker’s den we occupy we can hear the “kids” as they file in. Hair is nervously backcombed, guitars are distractedly tuned, all the while the hum and thrum of excited teens builds to a crescendo of lovely Irish chatter. While Dave fusses with the hair lacquer, Mark and I grin stupidly at each other, we both know this is somehow momentous. In a few minutes time – all too few – we will have to go out there and pull something extraordinary out of the hat, so that these kids from this strange and backward country will have something to remember, to cherish, dine out on for a few short weeks, to alleviate the grind of the everyday round of armoured cars, ski masks and Orange marches. It seems so little that we have to give.
And now the beautifully mangled vowels of the compère come to us through the partition wall, the audience whooping with glee as only the Irish can do it, and he builds us up as if we are the invading army of Hannibal crossed with the Holy Roman Empire, and the kids go ape as you would expect. Mark puffs out his cheeks and punches Dave in the shoulder; I notice the safety pin holding Mark’s A-string together; it has lasted five weeks like that. I vaguely wonder if it will get him through this gig. We hit the makeshift stage, and Stan starts hammering out the bass line of Nothing to Do, the children of this strangely noble country bouncing off the walls as if their lives depended on it, as possibly they might. The guitars and drums kick in and pandemonium ensues, with the young colleens crowding up front to check out Dave’s moves, guys in the rear pogoing like broken pistons. Smiles all around the band; this is going far better than any of us could have anticipated. As the song ends we get a blast of 747 afterburner, that’s what it sounds like, a jumbo jet coming in to land, the kids are going totally mental, and it’s only the end of the first number. It occurs they have probably never seen a real live band from overseas, an artefact of the Great Out There. By the time we’re into our fourth tune there’s sweat running down the walls, the bar staff looking nervous less this turn into a riot, the last thing they need is the RUC crashing the joint, it could very well become a major incident. Four more songs pile-driven through and it’s time to wrap it up. I stand in my prearranged “feedback” position as Mark starts the arpeggios that begin Man in a Box. As soon as the first snare beat hits there is an almighty rush, I feel as if I’ve mistakenly stumbled into a wind tunnel operating at full pelt, and we get through it (speeding up ludicrously, natch) burning off chorus after chorus until KABLOOM! Thank you and goodnight, Belfast...We are V2, and we’ll be here again tomorrow night at the same time and on the same channel...keep it tuned to this station. We love you, g’night...
We beat a hasty to the dressing rooms, looking like men just fished out of the Atlantic, our drummer Martin actually steaming in his own heat, smoke rising from his stringy wet hair like ghosts. We were towelling down when the door juddered open and waves of grinning kids begin pouring in, wanting autographs, or to talk to these peculiar Englishmen in funny garb. Soon enough the joints were lit and going round, these kids had never so much as seen a drug before, let alone sampled one. As it will, hilarity began to ensue, as the boys and girls started taking the piss out of those they had grown up with in thick County Antrim accents, I could only sit and goggle in my stupor. Someway or other we got invited to a party (mam an’ dad are away visiting me auntie Vi and the house is empty) out in the sticks. On the ride up there I gave an involuntary shudder, there on the gable end of an old pub were painted the words NO SURRENDER, a terrifying reminder of the precariousness of life on the Auld Sod. The house was pebbledash suburban semi, pretty much walled off behind mature conifers and Scots pines. It took less than a minute for Stan and Martin to locate the drinks cabinet, a black leather affair with gold plastic trim. Things became somewhat blurred after that, all I know is that I woke in the morning next to a girl to whom I hadn’t been formerly introduced.

DAY TWO
Hangover is a word too lightly bandied about in my opinion; but that is what we were. Hung. Over. Seriously. To compound matters it was cold and rainy, so we spent as much of the day as we could in the cafe next to Terri Hooley’s Good Vibrations shop. But here is an eternal truth. There is only so long one can make egg and chips and a cup of tea, last. After two and a half hours the proprietor’s cheery demeanour changed from accommodating to downright hostile, so that in the end we were forced to brave the rain. Oddly, and unfortunately, Good Vibrations was closed and shuttered, so that we were forced to trudge back through the city and hole up at the Harp Bar until Showtime.
To pass the dead hours, and since the gear was set up as we’d left it, we started to have a knock through a few new tunes. Presently, a stooped man in a green velvet waistcoat rolled in waving a hand. ‘Dere’s no music in der daytime, boys,’ he said, ‘I haven’t the licence, see. But if you’d like to come on through I can fix youse a nice glass of porter.’ It was a pleasant enough way to spend an hour or three, supping treacly beer and talking to the locals about this and that. None of them seemed arsed that we looked like the cast of Rocky Horror Picture Show, taking everything in their stride as they beguiled us with tales of Murphy’s donkey and O’ Hanrahan’s pet Komodo dragon, as the minutes pirouetted off the end of the clock’s fingers with a grace and ease that made listening a pure pleasure. Martin the drummer and Stan gazed on like small boys as they watched an old timer do his neatest trick, flicking a domino up from the tabletop and catching it between his dentures, making him do it again and again, much to the amusement of the regulars, who had probably seen him perform this feat since the Great Potato Famine. However, it passed a rainy afternoon, and for that one can only be grateful. By the time they opened the doors at seven we’d gotten over our hangovers, courtesy of hair of the dog, if fact, we were pissed, in some cases hopelessly so.
We stumbled about the dressing room vainly trying to tune up and other practices of the seasoned professional, all to no avail; it was going to be an interesting show. I was just glad Martin the drummer would be able to sit down through it all. A pity Stan couldn’t, too. There’s just one thing to do when you’ve started drinking too early; keep drinking, if you don’t you start to sober up and that is the kiss of death for a performer.
The place was fairly thrumming by a quarter to eight, packed to the rafters, as they say, it would be fair to say the turnout was even better than the previous night when we had been relatively straight. Well, there was nothing for it but to enter the bear garden and hope for the best. A roar went up as we came out, and we could see many of the same kids from the night before. Perversely, from the very first note we seemed to do no wrong, everything locked in place as if by numbers, even Martin the drummer managed not to speed up ridiculously, as was his usual habit. Without pausing for breath we tore through Speed Freak, Morning of Your Life, Nothing to Do, City Creatures and finally...Mark began the three-note figures that introduce Man in the Box, and all hell broke loose. As I went into the solo, Mark peeled off one of his trademark “moose calls” on his Flying V, as if running a finger up the fattest string were a call to arms. The floor shook with kids bouncing up and down on it, the optics rattled behind the bar, staff busying themselves hiding the empty pint pots just in case, and still the kids bounced on, Dave out front rallying them on, whipping the microphone cord for his life. Stan kept the bottom end down as if he were hammering in a nail, swaying on his six inch platforms drunkenly, and laughing at Martin the drummer’s attempts at performing an exciting fill, a dismal failure no one seemed to notice. It ended in a blizzard of feedback and battered bass strings, Martin putting a stick through the borrowed snare, chaos, cacophony, and the children of Belfast City lapped it up.
In the dressing room it seemed no different than the concert room, so many people in so small a space, shoehorned in, shoulder to tight shoulder, steamed-up glasses, sweat-tangled hair, and everywhere the stench of the pot we had brought with us. Somehow Terri Hooley managed to squeeze through the mob, grinning from ear to ear. ‘That was fucking absolute, boys,’ he bellowed across the din. ‘By the way, sorry I wasn’t here for last night. Had a spot of trouble I had to take care of. Anyway, if you’re interested, there’s a party later at the gaff of a mate, should be good gas.’ I’m not certain, but I’m pretty sure a couple of the Undertones were milling about, looking about nine years old and nervous – the following year they would support us at Eric’s club in Liverpool, but only because they had another gig the same night – but by now there were so many kids puffing joints it could’ve been just me. We were asked so many questions that my head hurt, but I kept smiling and giving the answers out of politeness, just a tiny little taste of what Rotten and Strummer had to go through on a nightly basis.
The stooped bar manager in the green velvet waistcoat came in, barely visible through the smoke, he had to stand on one of the tables to make himself heard. ‘Can we please clear the room now ladies and gentlemen,’ he shouted, ‘it’s after the last bell and contrary to popular opinion, some of us do have mothers waiting at home for them. Thank you.’ You could see the kids didn’t want to leave, but having long run out of beer there seemed little else to do but shuffle back to the anonymity of their lives. I felt sorry for them, that all they could look forward to was the odd night out like this, an evening in the company of five musos who had their own problems, truth be told, but that’s rock ‘n’ roll for you... I remember little of the drive up the coast to – of all places – Hollywood* not the glamour capital of California, of course, but the coastal town way up in the north of Ireland. It was an enormous house practically on the beach, protected by a low sea wall, and for a moment I stood staring out over the water and counting the myriad stars, until the sounds of revelry and loud music drew me away. Inside, they seemed to have cornered the market in freakdom, every bohemian within a hundred miles seemed to be gathered in those fabulously painted walls. Captain Beefheart’s Trout Mask Replica was on the stereo, as I recall, a detail I remember as Mark made his face of disapproval whenever he disliked anything. The girls here were not girls as we had seen them in the Harp Bar, but women, sophisticates...people who had “done” India and been to Morocco, they may have had Irish accents, but they were as worldly as any Mayfair hostess, and talked of Klee and Patty Hearst and Germaine Greer. I noticed Dave disappearing with a fine example, a redhead with a flapper bob and skirt slit to the hip. Stan talked to Martin the drummer about the intricacies of being part of a rhythm section, more muso talk rendered incoherent by homebrew and North African dope; Martin looked grey and about to fall into unconsciousness, Stan still perky as a Duracell bunny with a new set up its ass.
I know at some point we were shown a rough cut of Belfast Rocks*** (the film about the Irish punk and new wave scene by Terri Hooley), but I recollect none of it. I’m sure it was brilliant and featured the likes of Stiff Little Fingers, The Undertones, etc...But I was not in the groove, as the tennis pros like to say, since by this point I was engaged in a conversation with a rather stunning thirty-year old with the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. She spoke with a soft Limerick accent while stroking my freshly cropped head (a bone of contention within the V2 Gestapo) and flattered me I was handsome. But I wasn’t stupid enough to think I had a chance with a beauty of this calibre, clearly she was out of my league, besides being married to the loaded hippy who owned the house we were flirting in. As far as memory allows, sleep and dawn arrived at pretty much the same time, all I now recall are feet sticking out of every available aperture, feet hanging off the ends of settees, feet under tables, feet half in and half out of doorways, even a pair of hairy feet sticking out of the cupboard under the stairs. It had been a great adventure, but now it was over, all that remained was to pack up our belongings and scurry home.
Being seriously disadvantaged, it was late afternoon before we managed to make a crossing, boarding the low-slung ferry with all the enthusiasm of an extreme sportsman who finds he has been bivouacked with a career civil servant. There were some delicate heads among our crew, exacerbated no doubt by the pitch-and-roll of the heavy swell. I kept smelling vomit – underneath the cheap disinfectant – but that could have been exhaustion co-mingled with a lively and overactive imagination. Leaving the rest of the band begging for liver salts, I took a look on deck, where I found a lone watcher of the tides. Her name was Nula, and she was as gentle as she was lovely. We traded life stories and held hands, watching the grim heaving of the waves, both of us seemingly immune to seasickness. She liked me, I could tell, but she refused to let me kiss her, a longstanding boyfriend back in Rugby, apparently. I left her out there, staring into the plunging grey ocean; I desperately needed to lay my head down for a couple of hours. It seemed I’d only just got comfortable on one of the hard wooden benches when I was woken by Stan and Martin the drummer. I sat up, forcing my eyes open, trying to take in what they were saying. ‘We’ve scored some great coke,’ Stan grinned, Martin the drummer nodding furiously beside him. ‘Come up to the canteen and have a line.’ Had I been more rested I might’ve smelled a rat, you do not score cocaine from someone who comes from a country where they’ve never even heard of pot. Dead on my feet, I entered the canteen for find the band sat at a table. Dave lifted an Irish newspaper to reveal six indecently fat lines of white powder. ‘Go for it,’ he said, ‘we’ve done ours already.’ I put a drinking straw in my nostril and honked it up, waiting for a fizz and sizzle that never came, my colleagues by now hooting with glee at their sophomoric hi jinks. I didn’t care one jot. I was so incredibly tired. I lay down on one of the banquettes and was asleep in seconds. For days after my nose extruded some weird kind of candyfloss; the “so-called” cocaine I’d snorted had been white sugar courtesy of the P&O Line. Cheers lads! Nice one. (Second best highpoint of the trip; Martin the drummer delightedly discovering an open can full of Heineken, only to find it was cold piss garnished with dog ends.)
Three things I subsequently learned from V2’s jaunt to the Emerald Isle. First: the only band of any import other than us to have played in Northern Ireland in the seventies (1974), were Led Zeppelin, no dilettantes they, this despite death threats to Jimmy Page, give that band a gold star and put them in the rock ‘n’ roll Hall of Fame. They deserve every accolade. I know. I was there. Secondly: take your music to a people, oppressed or not, and they will respond, I saw this in action in real time in the faces of the kids we played to, in their body language, and in the way their faces glowed when they asked us what our favourite colour was. Lastly, the third thing I learnt in retrospect was that a few miles down the coast and several hours later, the yacht on which Lord Mountbatten dandled was blown to smithereens by a homemade IRA bomb, according to the media they found only a foot clad in a white sailing shoe. So, our trip wasn’t entirely wasted, then.

© Ian Nance 2021

** Teenage Kicks had been released 11 months previously, in September 1978 and Terri never did a test pressing for this release. Perhaps Moroccan hash with breakfast!
*** The film was entitled Shellshock Rock and was made by John T Davis, who’s house they were in. The Movie had already been completed and was due to premier at Cork Film Festival, before getting banned in June 1979.