Three men and a coat

Dear Sheddists,

readers of my earlier blog (the faintly implausible, 'Chronicles of Electrofried') may harbour hazy recollections of a visit to the backstreets of Birmingham some seven years ago by an intrepid band of international music lovers.

If you want to catch up on the back story then click here for ..

the pictures

and the words

and yet more pictures

So it's time to welcome back two stalwarts of that epic event, our very own Brummie Zen-master, 'Usedtabe' and his imperial rock'n'rollerness, the legend of Chicago, the one and only 'Ipecucci'.

You have mail ...

Much to my delight, a message clicks into my email box a month or two ago from Usedtabe bringing news of an imminent return to the shores of Blighty by our State-side friend, Ipecucci. His itinerary is to encompass visits to Birmingham, Glasgow and Manchester, the first-named being the scene of an awesome encounter all those years ago with several pints of Stella Artois and the finest curry this side of Madhya Pradesh. Sadly, neither remained long with Ipecucci.

And so it is that Usedtabe unveils his ingenious plan for a tour of sites associated with dead Midlands' rock-stars. In a click of the mouse I'm signed up and on board.

Diverting company

The day arrives and dear mrs electrofried and I fire up the charabanc to head out to the appointed rendez-vous deep in the heart of the Black Country.  'The Trumpet' is a legendary jazz-pub nestled on the High Street of Bilston.

En route we receive an incoming call from Usedtabe. He breaks news that the lights are off at our chosen destination, so it's a short diversion to the Wetherspoon's on the opposite side of the road.

Usedtabe and Ipecucci have already taken up station, the latter having just flown in from the States clad in jet-black shades and a leather jacket the likes of which the Fonz would die for. Sadly, the bar-coded luggage label stuck accidentally to the back of his sleeve somewhat dents the otherwise impenetrable image of cool.

Stellas are ordered (consumed, re-assuringly, at a somewhat slower pace than during our former encounter) and before long the conversation flows as smoothly as the amber nectar.  There's a short intermission as Usedtabe and Ipeccuci venture out onto the mean streets of Bilston for a smoke-break and on their return we're delighted to learn 'The Trumpet' is now open for business.

I pause to pee and…

glasses drained, we venture out.

A trip back in time

Nondescript from the outside, the heavy wooden-door guarding the entrance to 'The Trumpet' opens to a scene from the 60s.  The walls are peppered with posters, tickets and photos, the shelves lined with music-related flotsam and jetsam and at the far end lies the playing area inhabited by a drum-kit, a set of congas, a keyboard and miscellaneous micro-phones.

Ipeccuci runs a finger lovingly across the varnished face of a Slade ticket above the bar as fresh lager appears.  We strike up a conversation with the owner of 'The Trumpet', a slim Frenchman who moved in some little while ago with his wife. He jettisoned her, but kept the pub.

There's live music every evening and the spritely Dutch Lewis, who is clearly no stranger to the years, straps on his saxophone and casually reels off a riff that leaves us speechless. How we wish we had more time to spare, but the main act for the night awaits so it's off once more, this time to 'The Robin', just five minute drive away.

Ever fallen in love …

A few weeks ago a fleeting visit to the lofted archives of the House of electrofried uncovers a dusty file containing dog-eared newspaper cuttings and sundry tickets to gigs of my mis-spent youth. To my great delight, I discover amongst them this ...

… and now, some thirty years later, I clutch in my hand its modern-day equivalent - a computer generated bar-code e-ticket for the self-same band. Two of its founding members, Pete Shelley and Steve Diggle remain in place, accompanied by the slightly less creased Danny Farrant and Chris Remington.  Yes siree, the mighty Buzzcocks are back in town ...

… and they turn the volume up LOUD!!!!

I make my way, camera in hand, through the bobbing, balding heads and spreading mid-rifts of a clearly delighted audience to secure a place front stage.  A few badly-taken snap-shots and it's back to the side of dear mrs electrofried as the music transports us, beaming and deafened, to our salad days of yore.

Four sticks

It's a day off work and, miracle of miracles, the sun is shining!  Leaving my dearest to man the House I make my way to Usedtabe's. Our man, Ipeccucci, is still clad in his cool, cool shades and even cooler leather coat despite the uncommonly warm climes.

We clamber aboard the charabanc and it's off for our first grave of the day. John Bonham, the legendary drummer with Led Zeppelin, was clearly a troubled man. He beat his way through thirty two brief years of life before choking on vomit. His ashes are interred at Rushock, a hill-top Parish churchyard in Worcestershire which is a strangely silent and moving place.  

The epitaph on his grave-stone says it all.

'Cherished memories of a loving husband and father John Henry Bonham who died September 25th 1980 aged 32 years. He will always be remembered in our hearts. Goodnight my Love, God Bless.'

We leave and the birds chirp an eerie spring-morning solace.

She's a rainbow

Cheltenham lies but half an hour away and we talk of times past. Memories of flickering TV screens, 'The Tube', 'Happy Days' and 'The Avengers' - the first records we bought, sweet innocence linked in a thousand vinyl memories.

The cemetery is full. Fittingly, we make way for a funeral cortege before venturing across to the well-kept resting place of Brian Jones.  Tributes have been left, including a sleeve to possibly one of the weakest Rolling Stones albums ever, the inexorable, 'Dirty Work'.

We open the tupperware box of dreams by Brian's grave and scribble  a few words of remembrance.

And so to lunch

The sat-nav aboard the electrofried charabanc guides us to Northleach, a small but picturesque village in the heart of the Cotswolds.

We park up in search of food, but regrettably the Guardian-listed, 'Wheatsheaf' offers us little more than devilled kidneys and a yuppie Maitre D on work-placement. Hardly rock'n'roll.

We pass on by and walk further up the village to 'The Sherbourne Arms'. It harks back to earlier times, slow service, real ale and fish and chips. Ipeccuci opts for something involving pesto … shame on the man!

The world is a stage

Suitably refreshed, we hit the road to Stratford-upon-Avon, arriving just in time for the end of school rush hour.  The sun continues to shine as we seek out the last resting place of the great Bard and all is but a dream…

 And we are everywhere

The last stop on our tour in the fading spring day is fittingly toTanworth-in-Arden.  A young man whose music rings down the years.

Thank you so much, Usedtabe and Ipeccuci for such a brilliant, brilliant day.