If you build it, they might come....

Bangor, North Wales 1991. I had pretty much missed most of the alternative scene that had been happening in the local students' union up to this point, working on getting a head start on my alcoholism. So when the idea of doing a gig was bandied around one booze-soaked afternoon between Vaffan Coulo and myself, we had no idea where to start.

Vaffan Coulo were a punk band, not just any punk band; they were good friends and drinking buddies. But to me, and still to this day, I firmly believe they were one of the best bands to come out of the area. I saw them countless times, and they never disappointed and always entertained.

Full of naivety, cider, and young man's bravado, we secured our local drinking hole, 'The Friddoed Bar' in Bangor. We hired a PA, supplied doormen, and roped in another band—the far-too-talented-for-their-age 'Nausea'—and then set about with buckets of paste and posters and covered that town in both.

With a 50p admission fee, we might even break even.

Gig day arrived; it started badly. The bar manager decided to be as awkward as possible. At the time, I had my trusty old Atari ST and an assortment of synths and hardware which took forever to set up, but with some rough soundchecks, we were all good to go.

From the moment it started 'til the end, it was a downward spiral. They wouldn't let Nausea play as they were too young; I had too many beers in me and got mouthy. Tensions rose. I was too drunk during my set, so I blasted through some songs, unaware of what I was doing but still throwing shade at the bar staff. One of the bar manager's friends, who had a distinct steroid look, decided my card was marked.

By the time Vaffan Coulo came up, the place was pretty full, but you could feel the atmosphere. Halfway through their set, Vaffan Coulo blasted out 'Shit Student Wankers'—a banging tune—only to be met with the power being cut and us all being told to 'do one.'

The steroid man decided it was time to punch my lights out but was luckily dissuaded by our own security. Insults were made and marching orders were given; the crowd was firmly on our side. I think I may have been barred from there, or maybe on a different occasion.

So after the gear was loaded, I remember lying on the cool grass outside, surrounded by my partners in crime, unable to stop laughing and thinking, 'I have to do more of this.'

We deemed the night a success, so we had to do another. Unable to return to our favourite drinking hole, we set about persuading the Students' Union to rent us a room to play. This was no easy feat. They were not keen on local bands, especially alternative ones, but eventually they allowed us use of a back room they usually used for storage as long as we hired their PA system and sound man.

I no longer have the poster, but I'm pretty sure the lineup was the iconic three: Vaffan Coulo, Skinflick and a new band called Grot, an absolutely superb three-piece metal band. This gig went smoothly, a good turnout, and no threats of violence or shutting us down. We wanted to do more.

The Students' Union weren't keen on us doing more regularly, so we needed a home—a place we could do a show a couple of times a month. Word got back to us that a pub in lower Bangor called 'The Normandie' had a back room we could rent for £40 a night. It was a strange room, quite narrow. It had a telephone box, a cage with a giant toy monkey in it, and a second floor with seating that overlooked the tiny drum riser stage. It was perfect. We begged, borrowed and stole whatever equipment we could to create a makeshift vocal PA and started putting on gigs. Bands were coming out of the woodwork, new people were turning up, and gigs were being run weekly. We barely had time to actually write music as we were organizing shows all the time. We started pulling in some bands from farther away to keep it interesting. One night we had seven bands playing, the place was pushed way beyond its maximum capacity, people everywhere. It was so hot in there that sweat was running down the walls. There was a tiny moshpit, and someone dived off the top of the telephone box. Everyone came together as one big family; it was bliss.

As much as we loved 'The Normandie,' we did have some nights where gigs just failed and small crowds meant we had to cover the costs. We had nights there where they had made a huge amount on the bar, but if we had a quiet night, they still made us pay the £40. Eventually we had to find a new home as they were going into new ownership.

Local fanzines were popping up. We had one called 'Tapeworm Soup' with articles and news by various bands, mostly having a dig at the students' union.

The Students' Union agreed to rent us the Banana Lounge on a Tuesday night. It was a weirdly curved venue, but it did come with a stage and a PA. The costs were a lot higher, and we wanted to bring in bands from farther afield so we could gig-swap with them to get some away gigs in. A brilliant duo from Northampton who we had played with, called 'Hex,' came to play. Our guitarist was dressed as a woman for the evening; he did make for a very convincing woman, if I'm honest. The bass player from Hex, drunk, had found a pork pie under the stage which he was offering the guitarist in exchange for sexual favours.

There were some good shows there, and it culminated in the All Day Xmas Tapeworm Show. From midday to midnight, 14 or more bands playing all for a massive £5.

It took 3 months to organize. The main man, big cheese, head honcho—or as he preferred, the Entertainments Officer for the Students' Union—had made certain stipulations. We had to hire their PA and we had to hire their security. All in all, we were £450 in the red before we even started, but what a lineup!

We had all the local favourites as well as bands dragging in from all over: Genital Deformites, Unholy Row, and Excrement of War to name a few. We kicked it all off with a Bangor-based supergroup doing Lard covers called 'Colon Blow.'

The day went well. Some guy pissed on the stage during someone's set. The bass player from Unholy Row was so drunk he had to be carried on stage, but that didn't matter because they played the greatest song ever written, 'Bollocks to Xmas.' Some bands didn't show, so some were drafted in last minute. People drifted in and out all day, and for the headline act, we threw on a brand new band called 'Plastic' playing their first ever gig. At the end, we were tired and broken, but everyone wanted to get paid. So once all debts were settled and all of that work and planning, we ended up with £15. It didn't matter; we were in the black and we had pulled it off.

We were offered a new venue, a very shady and dank one called Trax, a basement of ill repute. It was perfect. We set up a regular Friday, and I also did some extra work there compering Stripper nights, bad techno nights, even worse single nights and whatever money-making scheme the owners thought up. Apart from the stripper nights, the gig nights were the most popular. We kept a slot at the beginning for whoever turned up and wanted to play and then two or three booked bands after. We had also started to tour around the UK and Ireland more, so others stepped in to run the nights. But the writing was on the wall—probably in excrement. The final night came when we had brought a band down to play; the turnout was extremely poor. We asked the owners that since we had made them so much money, could they sub us £20 to help cover the band's cost. 'No' was met with further negative comments and threats. We never returned. The place eventually changed hands and became known as 'The Crypt,' but we never did a gig there again.

People were moving on with their lives, and the whole scene just fizzled out. We had started doing short tours around the UK, trying to spread our wings a bit. The odd gig would happen and would be well-supported, but it didn't have the same buzz the previous ones did, and I think it would have been impossible to recapture that.

For those brief two years, though, it was a hell of a blast. We made new friends, enemies, and got to see some amazing talent and some truly great music. It was a great community; we helped record demos for bands where we could. We were still quite naive, though. We had a firm belief that there was an honour amongst us, and while usually true, I do remember one occasion that flew in the face of that. We had been approached by a band from down south called 'Watch You Drown,' who wanted to tour North Wales. In exchange, they would set dates up for us down there.

We did what we could; five nights in North Wales wasn't easy to secure. So, there was a show in Bangor; a sailing club a few miles away for the following night; a railway platform in Colwyn Bay (it was actually a bar); and the final show in 'The Mermaid' in Rhyl. There could have been another. They turned up in an old Sherpa van, booked themselves into a holiday park near Rhyl, and pretty much treated it like a holiday while we ran around organizing everything. They weren't particularly great to watch, mainly concerned about payment, and by the end of the five days, I just wanted them gone. My only small sense of satisfaction was that our shitty vocal PA and cheap microphone would give the singer electric shocks into his gums. I smiled at every snap, crackle, and pop of that. They fucked off at the end and never organized a gig for us in return. After that, we were way more cautious.

I'll always think fondly of it. Promoted on purely word of mouth and dodgy posters, an entire little scene came together of mutually weird folks who wanted to get drunk and fling themselves into the world's smallest mosh pit. Some nights, I can still smell the sweat running down the walls.