The bass drum was a bastard. Picking it up was one thing. Walking with it was another. But carrying it the 1/2 a mile up the steep hill to Chris’s house was an undertaking that required about 6 stops, huge lungs, bulging biceps and a clear head from the night before. I could manage the 6 stops but, this sunny, Saturday morning, none of the rest.

Saturday morning meant band practice. Chris’s parents would always go out, until mid-afternoon, so their large front room was our rehearsal space. We ( my younger brother and I ) lived at the bottom of a quiet cul-de-sac, in a leafy, Surrey town. Chris’s house was at the very top of said cul-de-sac. This meant that guitar amp, guitar and drum kit had to be carried, bit by bit, piece by piece, up the hill.

Set-up took forever. Bloody ages. I could set up the kit in 20 minutes. Quick? Clever? Naah! Tiny kit. But the rest took for-bleeding ever. Amps wouldn’t work, guitars wouldn’t tune, mics wouldn’t work. I had no knowledge of how any of them worked anyway. Phil, my 14 year old brother, knew how stuff was wired, how stuff » Continue Reading.