Back in the mists of time, when Wales was still young, five people dreamt the same dream. In the dream they travelled on epic journeys from horizon to horizon exploring the outer limits of ecstasy with beautiful, intelligent women of all races and creeds, pausing occasionally to play music that charmed the soul. They dreamt that they would never have to do a proper job again -- ever.Heralds were dispatched to the furthest corners of the Principality summoning the dreamers: Warriors, statesmen, foresters and poets. Men capable of evoking great feats of thrilling virtuosity; men capable of the spontaneous application of instinctive brillance; men for whom the thrill of the hunt is such an elemental force that it trancends life itself. Men of Harlech.
Weapons were honed, shields were burnished and chainsaws were oiled. Affairs of state were contemptuously thrust aside and women wept openly in the streets of the motherland. The Manband were on the road.
And that, more or less, is how it all started. And funnily enough the dream, more or less, came true. At least we didn't have to do a proper job again.
Things were pretty thin at the start, but we were too dumb to stop and soon we were doing 250 gigs a year. And when we wern't gigging, we were recording. When we weren't sleeping, we were playing music. What a life. Believe me, there's no better. If you ever hear a musician complaining about the hardships of life on the road, look him, or her, in the eye and shout, "Codswallop!" Every morning you wake up in a different town with nothing to do but stand in a spotlight in front of thousands of people and pose furiously. Then you are wined and dined by the local citizenry and, if your luck holds, you end up in bed with someone's wife. What more could you want?
The cast list is extensive and no two albums have the same line up. People came, people went, people came back again, people left again. Some people even came back a third time. The only constant presence is Mickey Jones, and that's only because he's too lazy to leave. The total roll-call is as follows: Micky Jones, Jeff Jones, Ray Williams, Clive John, Martin Ace, Terry Williams, Phil Ryan, Will Youatt, Tweke Lewis, Ken Whaley, Malcolm Morley, John Cipollina, John McKenzie, John 'Pugwash' Weathers and me. Warriors at the gates of destiny to a man.
I have no idea how many albums we made and, still less, how many copies they sold. I have no idea how many songs we wrote or how many gigs we did. It is all something of a blur. Life is what happens to you while you're doing something else.
But certain things do linger in the memory. We were thrown in jail in Belgium, suspected, unjustly, or arms smuggling. We survived a tornado in Nashville by taking refuge in a two-star brothel on Music Row. I have a feeling that the prevailing meteorological pyrotechnics might have had something to do with my sexual extravagances. I don't know for sure because I lost consciousness, but when I came round, Cookie, the hooker of the moment, was kneeling at the bottom of the bed, applauding.
One night in the Top Ten Club in Hamburg, we got into a fight with the Kinks and, but for the untimely intervention of the club's bouncers, we would have beaten their tiny, little brains out.
I foudly remember the day when Phil Ryan tried to kill me. During rehearsals, he threw his electric piano at me. Fortunately, it was still plugged in and the lead was shorter than the distance between us, otherwise I would have gone to my grave with Hohner Pianet imprinted backwards on my forehead. Come to think of it, Phil Ryan tried to kill me on a fairly regular basis. For the life of me, I can't think why.
Micky was in Berlin the night the wall came down, but I don't think that it was his fault. it is reported that he was so caught up in the emotion of the event that he actually bought somebody a drink. However, no concrete proff exists and I have serious doubts about it.
One pitch-black stormy night, returning from a tour of Germany, Martin leapt off the ferry just as it was entering Dover harbour and casually swam to the shore. Some of the crew got rather excited but, as we explained to them, for Martin, this was just another day at the office. Martin is the living embodiment of the William Blake dictum that the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. One day I'll tell you about the day that Martin met Tommy Cooper. Now there's a story and a half.
I could go on and on, and frequently do, but time, space and circumstances are against me, but before I go I should like to mention the great John Cipollina who, in 1989, died from emphysema. John is the band's only fatality and his death was shocking. He was a good friend and a true original; he is much missed and fondly remembered. Good luck, Chippo.
It has been said, by both acolytes and innocent bystanders, that the history of Man is somewhat akin to a Greek tragedy. All the great elemental themes of existence are evident: love, death, brotherhood, betrayal, jealousy, revenge, hubris, nemesis, nepotism, intrigue, unsolicited malevolence, unfettered hedonism, and an almost supernatural indifference to the consequences of our actions. There may be some substance in the assumption, but one thing is certainly true -- none of us would have missed a single minute of it.
We are all in the arms of providence and, although the future may hide it's face, I think I can say, without fear of ccontradiction, that the best is yet to come.
Well, that's about it. On behalf of the band, I would like to thank you for your kind support. Where would we be without you?
See ya soon,
Good luck,
Deke
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