Andy Richardson: Never forget what brought you there

And then he’d made the classic mistake. He’d imagined that the show was about him, rather than the rest of the band, and that somehow he could meld the band more to his image, rather than he morph more towards its. So he’d asked the two frontmen to meet him so that they could talk through his issues. They’d agreed – how could they not – though those looking closely enough might have spotted gritted teeth beneath false smiles.

The meeting took less than a minute. The drummer had laid out his concerns. He was worried that the decibel level was too high, that his hearing would be affected and suggested that if the lead guitarist and singer just reign it in a bit and turn down the volume then everything would be fine.

Just for a moment, they’d put to one side the tens of millions of records that they’d sold, the awards they’d received, the vast number of arenas they’d filled during a remarkable career stretching back to a time when rock’n’roll truly was the Wild West.

They listened to his concerns, nodding politely and leaned in with empathetic body language. The drummer finished his spiel and leant back, sure he’d done a good enough job of explaining his concerns to bring about a change in his working practices; to somehow alter circumstances that had grown over decades so that his life could be, well, a little more comfortable.

And then the lead singer stood up and offered his hand. The drummer took it and they shook.

“Thanks very much for all that you’ve done,” said the singer. “It’s been a pleasure working with you.”

And that was it. Fired on the spot. The drummer shook his head, unsure what had just happened. He’d imagined they’d negotiate and he’d imagined wrong. He’d not counted on ruthlessness being so easily meted out. “You can finish the tour,” said the lead guitarist. And that was that. Career down the tubes. A life of excitement replaced by a suburban semi with 2.4 kids and nothing but a life full of memories.

Rock’n’roll is comfortingly ruthless.

While casual observers might imagine bands are all about one-for-all-and-all-for-one, they are usually anything but. Those foolish enough to think they’re anything but dispensable usually find out the hard way that they were wrong. Those who imagine themselves to be a ‘friend’, rather than associate, pay the price for their delusion.

I’ve never been the drummer in a rock’n’roll band. The lure of the stage has never appealed. The stage is powerfully seductive but I’ve always stayed in the wings, preferring to observe rather than participate.

I did, however, learn the importance of knowing my place at an early age. A decent band with plenty of profile had become pals when I was still being accurately described as a ‘cub’ writer. I’d been sufficiently naïve to believe that we were buddies when, in fact, my job was to communicate with the wider world by promoting them in print.

One meaningless Saturday, they’d told me they’d decided to sack the guitarist, trusting me with the news and imagining I’d stay schtum until the time came for a bland, vanilla statement in which their PR talked of ‘musical differences’ or some other euphemism for the fact that the guitarist was hated.

Foolishly, I’d been caught up in a conflict of interest where my duty to readers – or, more accurately, my own ambition and desire to make for myself a name – had led me to spill the beans. I thought I’d been smart in my subterfuge, adopting the nom de plume Gordon Lion to hide my betrayal of trust. And, to an extent, that had worked. And then, some weeks later, I saw the lead singer’s fiancé at a gig and we’d spent an hour or more talking. I’d offered her a lift home, standard practice, and she’d accepted.

“Did you see the story about XX?” she asked, as my VW Beetle pulled out into the night.

“They’re going to find out who did that and kill them.”

Nice.

They didn’t find out, of course. But I did learn an important lesson that day: know your place. If you forget what it was that brought you to a position in the first place, you’re dead in the water.

While the drummer from one of Britain’s biggest and best loved rock bands now spends his days wondering what might have been, my faux pas was relatively painless. I learned never to rat. No one got hurt, today’s sensational story became tomorrow’s chip wrapper and I lived to fight another day – unlike the guitarist. We learn from our mistakes. Some are more expensive than others.