By the time I was fourteen, The Friday Rock Show, as presented by the late lamented Tommy Vance, was a regular part of my listening. In rural Warwickshire it provided a precious introduction to lots of new sounds, some of which I was excited to hear, some of which less so, but nearly all of which meant I was learning new ideas and which meant that my horizons were broadening.
In September/October that year, Tommy Vance played one of the regular session tapes which he could put on for anything from twenty minutes to an hour, and go for a shit/pint/cig, and thus take it easy. Sometimes these might be abject shit e.g. anything associated with Saxon, sometimes a bit predictable and average, a band looking to cling on to the last vestiges of the NWOBHM, and occasionally, a gem. Tommy by then was having to juggle the record company demands of plugging the latest Iron Maiden slab, and the desire of the moustachioed old skool rockers still to listen to Ritchie Blackmore wankathons, against the increasing tide of anger that was coming from the US in the shape of thrash metal - Metallica were already a big rumble on the underground and were about to make it massive, with the likes of Slayer, Megadeth and Anthrax hot on their heels.
But this session was something different - and it changed my life, and listening, utterly. It was by a band who had been making records for a long time already, contemporaries of Black Sabbath, and who had been gigging for longer still, knocking around with the likes of Pink Floyd. But I didn't know any of that... yet.
I sometimes talk to my Mum about the excitement her generation felt when as teenagers they binned their David Whitfield and Perry Como records and replaced them for ever with Elvis and Buddy Holly. It must have been electrifying. This experience must have been as near as I will ever get.
I didn't really expect to like it - I knew just that they were a bunch of old giffer hippies, and I wanted something fierce... and within three minutes of the beginning of the set, I was scrambling round for a cassette to record as much as I could. I still have that precious, worn tape. It took over twenty years to get hold of a cd; one was published, I missed it, and spent a long time looking to get hold of one.
So who is it? Hawkwind, at Reading Festival, 1986. The barrage of noise, the mix of Huw Lloyd Langton's constant guitar invention and the widdly-whooshes, the complete novelty of such a sound to me, it triggered a life-long addiction to the Bird. Even when I come out of particularly shit gig feeling betrayed, I know that sooner or later I'm going to fall off the wagon and play a Hawkwind album, probably, but not certainly, a live one.
Anyway, Tommy Vance, thanks for that. Rock On!
