“Have a yabba-dabba-doo time, a dabba-doo time. We’ll have a gay old time.” (William Hanna, Joseph Barbera & Hoyt Curtin: Meet The Flintstones, 1960)

Technology baffles me.

I remember, during rehearsals for the Mick Ronson gig, Joe Elliott and Phil Collen tried to explain how they’d send ideas to each other via the internet. They would end up with a new Def Leppard song: Vocals, guitars, drums, everything while they were on different continents. My experience of writing and recording involved sitting in a room with someone of likeminded intentions and coming up with a finished product, sometimes good, other times not. Kenny Cobain, my teenage stalwart of Phase back in the day, understood this shit only too well. So much so that he’d built a digital studio in his garage. We’d recorded together off and on during this time.
Then came a twist.

Old friend and drum tech/bass tech/guitar tech John O’Leary got in touch with an idea for a band. It involved sending drum/bass/guitar patterns via the internet and letting me not understand what the fuck was going on. And then contribute. Initial contact was sketchy. John would send a basic digital backing track to Kenny’s garage and we’d improvise using basic analogue techniques, i.e. play something. Eventually, contact became clearer and Rigor Mortice set in. This was the band name we agreed on and was probably the best to describe the music: Stiff and Lifeless. Don’t get me wrong, we all put our hearts and souls into what we were doing, but there’s something to be said for just creating music together by plugging in and hitting stuff. Initially, John came up to Glasgow and stayed at the Crowwood Hotel near Kenny’s house and we got to work.

An aside: There should be one of those plaques on the outside wall of The Crowwood saying something like, “Musician Billy Rankin did stuff here.”
For starters, I played every Friday and sometimes Saturdays for years to a full house at The Crowwood, did my interview with Martin Kielty’s Big Noise publication, wrote and recorded Tony Rocker’s demos while he stayed there and, most importantly, witnessed Jock Barnson’s ‘Barnstorms’ of an evening. Jock, or The Mad Jock as he refers to himself, is the stereotypical Scottish psychopath who hates The English, loves his mother (but would gladly kill her if she loved The English) and could become extremely unstable and violent when drunk. Case in point: During one of my highly successful gigs at The Crowwood, Jock got chatting with a girl who eventually threw him a dizzy. A knockback. The Mad Jock was not happy about the situation so quite naturally wanted to punch someone in the face. Anyone. Later, in the car park, Jock watched as his potential partner for the night hailed a cab and hightailed it out of there, pronto like. Enraged to breaking point, Jock approached the first guy he saw and gave him an ultimatum:

“Hey, you! Call me a Poof!”
“What?”
“You heard. Call me a Poof!”
“No, I won’t call you a Poof.”
“How no?”
“Cos you’ll batter me if I call you a Poof, that’s how no!”
“Ah’ll batter you if you don’t call me a Poof!”
“Okay. You’re a Poof.”
“Ah’m a What?”
“A Poof! You told me to call you a Poof!”
“Nobody calls Me a Poof!”
BANG!
The poor guy didn’t stand a chance so, after we rescued him by man-handling Jock into my car, he managed to get away, unlike yours truly. All the way home, The Mad Jock demanded I call him a Poof.
“No, Jock,” I reassured him.
“You are not a Poof. You’re an Arsehole!”
“No argument there, Bill. Thanks for the lift,” he replied as I dropped him off at his house.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in for a coffee, Big Boy?” I proffered and sped off before he could react.

Anyhoo, aside over, back to the story. John O’Leary came up to be the lead singer, but it became obvious early on that he, in fact, wasn’t one. After a brief discussion, the job was handed to me. Also relevant here is that John’s ideas were often restricted to grooves and a song title, nothing more. Hence when he returned home to England, his songs would come through to Kenny and me as just that, digitally.
“Son Of Sam?” I’d ask the Kenster.
“What are we meant to write about that title?”
“Dunno. Just make something up that sounds good.”
And so we did and this became the Rigor Mortis album.
The one song title I suggested which both John and Kenny instantly rejected really hurt me.
“We’ve got Son Of Sam, Mayhem and Purgatory,” I  pointed out, reasonably offensive titles I thought, “But you won’t go for mine?”
“No Bill, ‘Call Me A Poof!’ is a tad too far.”

The Mad Jock would’ve battered them both.

Son Of Sam

Road Fever

Forever

“Sorry, Jane. If I was Pete, I’d tell this guy that I’d just paid his wages like he told a guy at the Edinburgh Odeon in 1981, but he’d just kick the shit outa me.”
“That’s okay, Billy. What happened that night in 1981?”
“The guy kicked the shit outa Pete.” (Conversation between Billy and Jane Agnew outside The Garage, Glasgow, March 21^st 2001)

On the 21^st of March 2001, my former bandmates were playing The Garage in Glasgow as part of a double bill alongside my old friends Uriah Heep. I’m wary of calling Nazareth my old friends at this point cos we hadn’t spoken to each other since my ousting back in 1994 apart from when we’d all attended Darrell’s funeral in 1999. However, me and The Heeps, in particular, Trevor Bolder and Mick Box were still bestest buddies, so I was invited by them to attend the show. Before the gig and armed with my backstage pass, I made my way to the dressing room area making sure to avoid the Naz one and was soon having a beer and reminiscing wildly with Trev & Co:
“Ave you seen Dan & Pete yet?” asked Mick Box.
“Nope. I’m not sure I’d be welcomed warmly Michael,” I replied.
“I think you would mate, go see ’em now. They’re expecting you.”
“They know I’m here?”
“Yeah, I told them we’d put you on the guest list. Now go see ’em, Bill. Go now!”
“Billy Boy!” yelled Pete as I stuck my head around the door. When I say yelled, it was more of a croak, likewise from Dan. Turns out the entire band, Jimmy and Lee too were suffering from the dreaded lurgy or something and were barely able to speak, let alone sing.
“We need your help,” Pete whispered as loud as he could, cos he literally had no voice left.
“Can you sing backing vocals for us tonight?”
“I haven’t even seen the setlist, Pete.”
“Here ye go,” Pete said, handing me the setlist. “You know most of it and just sing anything on the ones you don’t recognise cos it’ll still be better than I can manage.”
“You’re fuckin’ serious, aren’t you?”
“As a heart attack!”
“I’m not standing up there at a microphone guys. What would I do when I’m not singing? Do a fuckin’ dance?”
“Now that’s a great idea!” joked Dan.
“Aye, we could get ye a wee tight dress to wear an’ all,” quipped Lee Agnew. (Lee was always quick with the quips.)
By this time Mick and Trev had joined us, no doubt interested in what possible outcome would come of this.

“Ow abaht givin’ you a guitar to play?” suggested Mr Box.
“What?”
“Ow abaht givin’ you a guitar to play?” he repeated though I’d understood him the first time.
“What?” I said again, this time with more emphasis on a look of disbelief.
“That way you’d ave summit to do wit yer ’ands.”
“Ooh Aye!” said Trev. “That’s brilliant that is.”
“No, I’m not playing a guitar. Jimmy’s the guitarist now.”
A sideways glance from Jimmy let me know I’d called it right.
“But you’ve gotta help us,” croaked Uncle Pete. “Ah canny sing, for fuck’s sake!”
“Oh, I’ll do it guys, but not onstage.”
“You’ll sing from the dressing room?” quipped Lee Agnew, again quickly.
“Ow abaht you set up a mic at the side of the stage, the dark side of the stage?”
This time Mick was on to something.
“Aye,” said I, this time with less emphasis on a look of disbelief.
“Stick me somewhere below at the side of the stage where I can see the band, but the audience can’t see me.”
The audience would’ve been none the wiser if Dan hadn’t blown my cover early into the set.
“Ladies and gentlemen. You may have noticed Pete isn’t singing tonight and yet his voice is still being heard.”
The first few rows knew what was coming cos they’d already seen me singing and clutching the makeshift setlist with notes made between Lee, Pete and I beforehand.
“For one night only, please welcome the return of Mr Billy Rankin!”
As the crowd cheered, I tried to dodge the spotlight aimed in my direction and, at the same time, flipped Dan the bird cos he’d promised not to do that. Never trust a Fifer! Regardless, the gig went well and I popped outside for a cigarette at the back door while my sweaty and now old and friendly bandmates got cleaned up. It was here that the altercation occurred quoted at the top of this piece. Pete’s wife Jane whom I hadn’t seen since Darrell’s funeral accompanied me outside cos she didn’t want to see Pete’s bare arse any more than I did but, when we tried to go back inside, we realised neither of us had our backstage passes and the guy on the door was having none of it.
“I just sang backing vocals with Nazareth,” probably wasn’t my best opening line but Jane’s, “My husband just played bass with Nazareth,” wasn’t much better.
“Aye doll, they all say that, but don’t usually reference the bass player.”
Good point, well made.
“And as for you, Sonny Jim. I watched the show tonight and didnae see you on that stage. Beat it!”
He had me there and explaining the situation wouldn’t have influenced his decision.
“Don’t worry about it, Bill,” said Jane as we had a goodbye hug.
“Someone will be out for a smoke soon and get me back in.”

A few weeks later I got a cheque in the mail for £100 and a note from Pete.
“I can’t cash this,” I said to Mary.
“Sure you can darling,” she countered.

“Look on it as an advance on unpaid royalties.”

“Don’t be nervous you can hold me tight, someone turned the light out on the stairs.” (Nazareth: May The Sunshine, 1978)

Sticking with Nazareth for a moment, the band’s road crew have always been worthy of a special mention. Take Willie McQuillan for instance. He was with them from the beginning, from the outset if you like then, after an altercation involving something which I’m not fully aware of, he was dispensed with by Mountain Management in the mid-’70s, but here’s the thing: He remained friends with and retained a loyalty to and from the band. Willie was one of the first guys I met when I first joined Naz for that TV show on STV which marked my live debut with them and he was instantly my mate. By the time I’d rejoined for my second stint in the early ’90s, Willie was back too. He’d do the front of house sound. He was the monitors’ operator, tour manager, wake-up guy, immigration passport organiser, soldering expert when a cable broke, the lot. The one thing Willie wouldn’t do was punch someone’s lights out. He had Ronnie Dalrymple for that.

Ronnie shared a similar loyalty and passion for the band so, aside from being an outstanding drummer in his own right, he’d been Darrell’s drum tech, our lighting guy and thought nothing of wielding a hammer and using it on anyone who’d threaten any aspect of his band’s safety or reputation. Both guys had one thing in common: They cared not only for Nazareth, but also their fans. When, in October 2001, a gig at Glasgow’s Garage was announced as Nazareth: The Homecoming, I got a call from Willie and Ronnie:
“Fans are coming from all over Europe and beyond,” they informed me.
“That’s great, wish them all the best.”
“We’ve organised an evening in Dunfermline the night before at Sinky’s (owned and run by Naz guitar tech Tam Sinclair’s brother Ian) and want you to play.”
“With Naz?”
“Nah, it’ll be a night of Naz music, we’ve got a DJ and disco playing only Nazareth songs, but we’d love you to do a live set, as a surprise. You in?”
“Will Dan, Pete, Jimmy or Lee be there?”
“No. They don’t even know about it.”
“I’m in.”
So me and my small entourage set up our equipment on 19^th October 2001 at Sinky’s amid much secrecy, then alighted to a bar across the street where Willie and Ronnie enlightened me further.
“The element of surprise is upmost here. You have to walk on unannounced and just start playing.”
“Okay, but won’t they recognise me?”
“Nah,” said Willie, “We’ll have the lights around you turned off and besides, you’ve had a haircut and become a bit of a fatty.”
“Well! So much for my cocaine addiction recovery,” I didn’t say, but should have.

I had two stipulations: First, Ronnie would lookout for any potentially hostile Scandinavians in the audience who’d perhaps be harbouring a grudge cos I’d replaced Manny a decade before and were wielding hammers. This turned out not to be an issue, but better to be safe than sorry. Secondly, Willie would be in control of the sound. This also turned out not to be an issue as anyone who’s heard recordings of our unplugged gigs in 1993 can testify. Within seconds of my opening song, May The Sunshine, Willie simply turned everything up and sat down again. What followed could be best described as ‘a good night was had by all.’ Nothing was off-limits. If someone shouted out a request, I’d do it, even if it was beyond my actual memory or required me to hit notes only Dan McCafferty could’ve attained. Members of the audience were encouraged to come and join me for renditions of songs they’d asked for with predictably hilarious results. Summing up the night reminds me of an old musicians joke about the piano player in a bar who’d been caught short and had to visit the bathroom only to discover there was no toilet paper so had to use his hands instead. On returning to the piano, the barman says, “Hey! Do you know your hands are covered in shit?”

“Know it?” he replies. “I fuckin’ wrote it!”

“I look around and what I had is gone. Now I’ve finally found what I’ve been missing.” (Rod Stewart covering Frankie Miller song: You’re The Star, 1995)

The first time I met the greatest singer in the world was a day he doesn’t remember, but I do. It was August 26^th 1984 at an outdoor festival in Calderglen Park, East Kilbride, Scotland. I was there at the invitation of my mentor and Friend to the Stars, Eddie Tobin and, because Nazareth were headlining, Eddie thought it appropriate for me to show up and gloat. After all, I’d just gotten back from my successful solo tour of the US, I’d had an American hit single and my face was on heavy rotation on MTV. I was more keen to show Manny my new BMW 635csi, which I did. “Nice,” he nodded in approval before adding, “But not as nice as my classic BMW CSL, is it?”

The bastard had a point, so I joined Eddie for a walk backstage amongst the various Artists caravans and came across one saying ‘Frankie Miller’s Full House.’
“Frankie Miller’s here? Do you know him, Eddie?”
“Pumped him twice,” he replied with his usual smirk which told me he did indeed know Frankie, but also may have actually pumped him, twice.
“Wanna say hello?”
“Hell Yeah, Eddie!”
We approached the caravan where, suddenly and without warning, Eddie slammed his fist on the door and yelled, “Drugs Squad!”
Seconds later the emergency exit back window of the caravan got kicked out and a lone figure wearing a long coat, a top hat and a Fender Telecaster went running through the fields in a wild panic.
“Fucks Sake, Eddie!” I politely enquired. “What did ye do that for?”
Eddie couldn’t reply cos he was on his knees, in fits of laughter.
10 minutes later we were back in the, now insurance claim-rated, caravan.
“Fucks Sake, Eddie! What did ye do that for?” enquired a very irate Frankie Miller.

Fast forward to the year 2002 when Alec Downie, all-round Good Guy and agent for SAHB at the time was organising an album to raise much-needed funds for Frankie. By this time Frankie had suffered a massive brain haemorrhage in New York back in 1994 while writing songs with Joe Walsh for a new band they were putting together. In a coma for over 5 months, his substantial medical bills were paid for by none other than famous ‘Tight Arse’ Rod Stewart who’d always regarded Frankie Miller as not only a friend, but also, and I quote: “The finest white soul singer in the World, apart from me.” Rod, along with others, flew him back to the UK when he was well enough to travel and paid for his accommodation in a posh flat in London’s Little Venice. Chrissie Hynde was his neighbour. I went down to visit him with a tape I’d made. It was a cover of his song, Drunken Nights In The City, which I’d asked Alec to be considered for inclusion on the Tribute album he had planned. “Every track has to be approved by Frankie himself,” Eck had cautioned. The approval or non-approval was easy to get cos Frankie was limited to only a few words: Aye or Naw.
“Need a pish, Frankie?”
“Want a drink, Frankie?”
“Did Eddie Tobin pump you twice, Frankie?”
Everything was easily answered with Aye or Naw.
My recording was accepted with a resounding Aye, but only after he’d had a pish and a drink. He never responded to the Eddie Tobin bit.

Drunken Nights In The City

Then Davie arrived. Davie was Rod Stewart’s personal roadie and had brought a modified guitar to help Frankie play music again. He let me try it and, as I strummed a chord, Frankie suddenly broke into the intro of my recording which featured the old Lead Belly song, Irene Goodnight. It was rough, but it was unmistakably Frankie Fuckin’ Miller! His wife Annette and Davie both leapt to their feet. Frankie had never sung a note since his stroke. We all joined in to encourage him. Davie also made a phone call.
To Rod Stewart.
As Frankie got more vocal, Davie held the phone up to let Rod hear before announcing:
“He’s singing, Man! He’s actually singing!”
“Who’s that with him?” Rod asked.
“It’s Billy. But Frankie! He’s actually singing, Man!”
“Put Billy ON.”
And so he did.
“Hey, Rod. Did you hear that? Frankie’s actually singing!” I said.
“God bless you, Billy. God Fuckin’ Bless you, Man! That’s wonderful. Can you put Davie back on please?”
And so I did.
After refilling our drinks in celebration, I turned to Davie and jokingly said, “Not only is Frankie singing, I got to speak to Rod Fuckin’ Stewart!”
“That you did, Billy. That you did,” he replied before adding, “I didn’t wanna spoil the moment, but Rod thought he was speaking to Billy Connolly. Has anyone ever told you ye sound just like him.”
We all laughed, but none more than Frankie Miller himself.

As someone wise once said, “You couldn’t make this Shit up!”

“Have you told McCafferty I’m here?” (Jake McQuillan: Just A Boys’ Game, 1979)

The next time me and Rod Stewart’s pal met was at Ca-Va Studios in Glasgow. Frankie and Annette had flown up to witness an historic moment where a guy he’d never met was recording a version of a song he didn’t write which featured a guitar player he didn’t particularly like.
What fun!
The artist was none other than my old friend Derek Dick aka Fish. The song was Caledonia, which, along with Darlin’, was Frankie’s greatest hit, (he hadn’t written Darlin’ either.) The guitarist was a guy who’d previously, and single-handedly, caused the cancellation of his band, Thin Lizzy’s first major tour of the States by getting into a fight the night before with someone who’d upset Frankie at London’s Speakeasy and got his hand slashed by a bottle.
Brian ‘Robbo’ Robertson.
Let’s start with Robbo.

Despite being a brilliant guitar player, he’s always been a bit of a knob. Always quick to remind us that he’s from Glasgow and therefore hard as fuck, Brian is actually from Clarkston, an upper-class area of the city where having his hand ‘glassed’ would not have been the norm, never mind in the streets of London. He’d played in Frankie’s band where I’d been in attendance at the Garage, Glasgow when he was so drunk, he fell off the stage. To be fair, Frankie had also been adequately pished that night. He walked into a plate glass door, but I digress. For the occasion, I brought along my daughter, Greer, who’d always loved Frankie’s voice and just wanted to meet him and Barry, who was a big Frankie/Thin Lizzy/Fish fan. The recording itself went well: Robbo, sporting bright purple hair and pink wool leggings broke a string during the first take of his solo. I sniggered which I probably shouldn’t have, but Greer was bemused when he turned to her very own Dad and said, “Shut it, Rankin! I could take you!”
“Dad? Why is that girl threatening you?”
“It’s okay Peanuts. She’s from Clarkston.”
Big Derek Fish was, to be fair, going through a bit of a hard time personally which led to poor Barry being his Agony Aunt in the rec room, but Frankie remained jovial throughout. He’d learned to say some new words, for example, “Arse!” It was used almost exclusively towards Robbo, but sometimes just to express his frustration. For example, when I’d gotten him a Mars Bar from the vending machine and he’d wanted two.
“Arse!”
“You don’t want it, Frankie?”
“Aye!”
“You wanted two, right?”
“Aye. Arse!”
“What?” Robbo would reply.

In the end, the session went well and we all alighted to the City Inn where the real fun began. Someone produced a guitar and I did what Barry and Greer were oh-so-familiar with. “Right! Who wants a song?” SAHB’s version of Delilah was followed by God knows what til, eventually, I offered to play a few songs I’d gotten access to from Annette during my earlier visit to Little Venice. Home demos by Frankie which had never seen the light of day. The first was entitled Kiss Her For Me and a member of the ‘audience’ that night Peter MacDougall, a playwright whose work Just A Boys’ Game had featured Frankie himself in the starring role was impressed.
“You’re alright ya wee prick,” was fitting enough, but I wasn’t done.
“Wait til ye you hear this then,” I said, after checking with Frankie who nodded his approval before adding, “Aye! Naw! Arse!”
“What?” said Robbo.
I then proceeded to try and do justice to what has to be the most perfectly crafted and well-sung home demo ever. It would return as a gold star for me and Frankie in the future, but that night everyone, including Frankie, Annette, Robbo, that big bastard MacDougall et al were suitably impressed with Frankie’s ditty: A Bottle Of Whisky.
“God bless you, Billy. God Fuckin’ Bless you, Man!” said Peter MacDougall afterwards.

“Who do you think you are, Walrus Face?” I replied. “Rod Fuckin’ Stewart?”

Frankie Miller – A Bottle Of Whisky

“And I thought of all the men who couldn’t take a telling what to do and I saw myself standing on The Rock.” (Frankie Miller, 1975)

“Hey, Billy Boy, I need your help.”
It was Alec Downie, Frankie’s then-manager and the guy who’d put the whole ‘A Tribute To Frankie Miller’ CD together.
“Sure thing, Eck. What can I do for you?”
“We’re putting a gig on for the Drake Foundation and Frankie wants you involved.”
“Did Frankie actually say he wants me involved?”
“Sure he did. I ran some names past him and he said ‘Aye’ when I said yours.”
“Did he say ‘Naw’ to any of the names you ran past him?”
“Oh yes, plenty, but he only said ‘Arse’ when I mentioned Robbo. Seems he really dislikes the guy, but Robbo’s agreed to do it, probably cos he’s just trying to upset Frankie.”
Made sense.
“So who else is on board?”
“Claire Grogan, Cosmic Rough Riders, BMX Bandits, Ray Wilson (Ex Stiltskin and Genesis), Horse, oh and your old bandmates Nazareth are tentative, but yet to confirm.”
“So where is it happening? The Star & Garter, Maryhill?”
“Naw. The Barras.”

For those of you unfamiliar with The Barras as it’s more commonly known, the Barrowland Ballroom is a Glasgow institution, not unlike the Star & Garter, Maryhill, but much more historically relevant and less prone to a riot kicking off if the entertainment isn’t to the audience’s liking.
“Count me in,” I replied. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just one song. One of Frankie’s. Your choice.”
“The Rock.”
“Good choice, William. Oh, I’m also in negotiations with Joe.”
“Joe Elliott?”
“Naw, Walsh, but that’s a good shout. Do you know him?”
“Naw,” I lied. “Bit of a knob or so I’ve heard.”
(If you’re reading this, Joseph, I was only joking.) The usual pleasantries followed and then five minutes later I got another call:

“Hey, Billy Boy, we need your help.”
“Hey, Ted (McKenna), what’s up?”
“Alec Downie just called and wants SAHB to headline The Barras in September for this Frankie Miller Tribute gig. Would you be up for singing?”
Long story short, I was double booked, but in a good way.
Nazareth did eventually confirm, meaning I would be both the support and follow-up to my ex-band.
Rehearsals took place during which me and Barry snuck in to Joe Walsh’s run-through of Life’s Been Good featuring none other than Ted McKenna on drums: A story I’ll leave to Barry on his Webmaster’s Tales.

A highlight from said rehearsals which Barry may not mention was meeting Dean Ford, originally of Dean Ford and the Gaylords, later the lead singer with Marmalade. He had teamed up with SAHB to record a version of Frankie’s Dancing In The Rain for the tribute album. Dean was to perform this at The Barras as part of our headlining set. During a break, I found myself in his company with an acoustic guitar. At my insistence, we proceeded to sing a duet together of Marmalade’s Reflections Of My Life, a hit single for them in the 60’s written by Dean, and it was glorious. So glorious we attracted a crowd of admirers including Mary Kiani. Mary was in charge of the backing vocalists for the concert and had also been present at Ca-Va during Fish’s Caledonia recording. She’d even gotten my daughter Greer into the choir she had assembled that day after realising Greer could sing, so was clearly a spotter of talent. The talent she’d taken under her wing this day, however, was a young, good looking guy with dreadlocks whom Mary reckoned could improve on my and Dean’s rendition of the song. After hearing him and, as Barry would remind us here, beer was involved, I wasn’t so sure. Undoubtedly talented, the kid was getting on my nerves.

“Stop going all Mariah Carey on us!.”
“Huh? What does that even mean?” Mary asked, cos the kid wasn’t going to.
“You know, why sing one note when a hundred will do?”
Dean got it, but stayed silent.
“Well I think he’s taking the original and making it his own,” Mary protested.
I responded by leading the crowd into a singalong of Alex Harvey’s version of a Tom Jones classic.
Mary and her protégé made a hasty exit.
“That took some balls,” Dean said to me afterwards. “I couldn’t have crushed them like that, but I have to admit you were right. He’d lost the essence of the melody. Kinda cheapened it I thought.”
“Don’t gimme that, Gaylord! Your version of Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da was a pure brass neck!”
“Well, in my defence Bill, because of that, I’ve had a number one hit single.”
“So has Benny Hill,” ended the argument.

After completing my first job of the night, singing The Rock with Frankie’s Full House band, I joined Frankie at the out-front mixing desk. Joe Walsh was tearing the room up with Rocky Mountain Way, Life’s Been Good and several other of his hits before returning backstage to get changed and prepared for the main event: Being Alex.
Things were pretty busy by this time. Apart from Fergus darting to and fro amongst the stars and flashing his pass, Nazareth had arrived. Pete was quick to note my expanding girth which I brushed aside as, “Nae drugs Pete. I’ve discovered food.”
Then I spotted Hamish Stewart from the Average White Band to whom I introduced myself and my wife as being massive fans. “Feel No Fret is our favourite album of all time,” we assured him. Not unaccustomed to compliments as he was, Hamish was nonetheless taken aback and replied, “Well, thanks. That’s a First!” Most admirers cite Pick Up The Pieces as their highlight of Dundonian Hamish’s career, a song he didn’t even sing on, but nobody had ever mentioned his bands obscure 1979 album to him before. That was a nice moment.
Naz did their thing and, for the first time, my new band were following my ex-band as headliners. I wasn’t sure how to approach this, but I kept thinking about not trying to be Alex, nor becoming a heavy rock singer version of Alex like my predecessor, Stevie Wah as my bandmates had somewhat cruelly named him. I’d just sing. As it happens I had nothing to worry about cos when you’re with a band of SAHB’s calibre, it’s impossible to fuck up, even when you do. Faith Healer, Midnight Moses and Delilah were a breeze and Dean Ford joining me on Boston Tea Party was an added bonus. Afterwards, back in the dressing-room, everyone was chuffed, even Frankie himself, who kept trying to get a Delilah singalong started. Eddie Tobin took the band and Alec Downie aside and said, “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” then with his usual understatement:

“Keep it going guys. I think this band could be Big!”

The Sensational Alex Harvey Band – Barrowland Ballroom, Glasgow 7th September 2002

“Cos he’s Schizo, Hugh gets two welfare cheques by signing on twice.” (Bassist Chris Glen on keyboardist Hugh McKenna, 2003)

As Eddie Tobin is usually right, his advice after the Frankie gig was taken to heart and SAHB once again hit the tarmac albeit infrequently with yours truly as lead vocalist.

One such gig occurred in Frankfurt, Germany, early 2003 and was an offer we couldn’t refuse. Good money, all expenses paid with 1^st class flights, 5-star hotel accommodation and a big, enthusiastic, sell-out crowd. For one night only, the Big Time was back and it was so memorable I can’t remember any of it. Well, technically, I can, but I try not to. After flying in, we had a dilemma. It had been sorted out, without either my knowledge or input, by my longtime bandmates. “There are three luxury suites booked for us at the hotel,” they informed me on the way from the airport:

“I’m sharing with Zal,” said Ted with a confident confirmation echoed by everyone else in the minibus.
“And you’re with Hugh,” Chris gestured to me with Ted’s contagious confirmation. “We drew straws.”
“What? When?” I asked, slightly bemused.
“While you were in duty-free,” Zal replied, a tad quickly, I noted.
“So who are you sharing with Chris?”
“She hasn’t met me yet,” he winked.
“What he means is,” Ted interjected, “Anyone but Hugh.”
“Why? What’s wrong with Hugh?” I said, which got a bigger laugh than expected.
“Hey! I’m right here!” protested Hugh.

Before we continue, let me remind you of our shared history: Thanks to Eddie Tobin, I got my first break into the Big Time in 1977 when I joined The Zal Band. I became lifelong friends with Zal, he played on two of my three solo albums, I replaced him in Nazareth 1980, and we are still in regular touch. Ted McKenna and I were equally close: He played on my first and only successful solo album. We stayed connected during his Rory Gallagher/MSG years, did a Bill and Ted guitar & drums clinic with Rock Radio and were due to meet to help write his autobiography weeks before his untimely death.

Then there’s Chris Glen.
Big Chris got me into doing drugs, smoking cigarettes, drinking for Scotland and, crucially, held me while I cried after he’d informed me of my Dad’s death.

Hugh McKenna, on the other hand, I had a limited connection with.
I knew he’d had serious addiction and mental health issues, but Hugh was, if anyone could lay claim to it, the main songwriter in SAHB along with Alex himself so deserved more respect than was being given on the Frankfurt minibus.

The gig itself went brilliantly. Everyone was in high spirits as we got to our luxury hotel in the early hours and met in the bar for a nightcap, or in Hugh’s case a fruit juice.
As we headed for bed, Ted took me aside and offered some advice.
“When he asks if you need to take a dump, just nod and go to the bathroom for five minutes.”
To cut an already long story short, after readying ourselves for bed, Hugh and I had a brief, polite conversation before he hit me with it:
“Yes! They’ve got a porn channel!”
“Naw, Hugh! I don’t watch porn,” which was, and still is, true. “Can’t we just go to sleep?”
“Sure, no problem,” he replied and we put the light out.
A minute passed, then a voice from the void whispered, “Hey Bill?”
“Yes, Hugh.”
“Do you need to take a dump?”

As the room was in darkness, I dispensed with the nod and went to the bathroom for five minutes.

Various other one-offs occurred during the year, but the highlights for me were the four gigs we played in Scotland, August 2003.

Let me redefine ‘Highlights.’

The Twa Tams, Perth was so hot I nearly passed out trying to grab enough air to sing and led to Zal refusing to do the Delilah dance.

Glasgow’s King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut where my Mum having been hospitalised earlier in the week led to me having a panic attack prior to going on stage. Zal was caught out by his day-job bosses after telling them he was sick when they then saw pictures and read a full review of the gig in the following morning’s Daily Record.

Café Drummond, Aberdeen where, after getting a bit drunk due to the previous few gigs highlights, Barry had to force a haggis supper down my neck to soak up enough booze to allow me to do the show and then watch as Hugh recalled his broken relationships to us all in a torrent of fruit juice.

Finally and most importantly:

Kilmarnock Town Hall where, despite his compliment of, “When did you become a frontman?” even Barry had to cut me some slack when I had to meet and greet the parents of my first grandson’s mother’s parents with an apology. Believe me, I’d tried to alter the setlist, but the band insisted that I would still have to sing about my ‘First taste of gonorrhoea’ and the fact that there was indeed ‘Nothing like a Gang Bang.’
That was a tough night.
But a good one.
And that’s my point, I guess.
All the tension, the bravado, the insecurities, the danger, the uncertainties all added to the SAHB experience and I’m thankful for being a part of it, albeit briefly.

“Hey, Bill. Do you need to take a dump?”

Next – King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, Glasgow 21st August 2003

Amos Moses – King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, Glasgow 21st August 2003

Midnight Moses – King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, Glasgow 21st August 2003

Framed – King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, Glasgow 21st August 2003

Vambo – King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, Glasgow 21st August 2003

Gang Bang – King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, Glasgow 21st August 2003