Monocled Alchemist

JOHN OPPOSITION sympathises with RED ALERT, the unluckiest band in the world

Article published in NME, 16th October, 1982

Red Alert | In The Red | MIDDAY Kings Cross to Sunderland. Three and a half hours to gaze into space, study the faces, queue for sandwiches of finest stale wombat or make improper suggestions to the impregnable-looking lady sitting opposite. Me, I get a cup of dubious British Rail coffee and gaze out of the window. You can learn a lot looking out of the window.

As we head north, the scenery begins to change; the earth gets browner, the bricks get redder and the Yorkshire moors look beautiful under the grey mid-afternoon sky. The towns, however, tell a different story; derelict pits and factory shells bear stark witness to the havoc created by the blue rinse charmer’s scorched earth policies. As North Yorkshire turns into Co. Durham and reality begins to bite, I take in every mile: Darlington, Stockton, Newcastle. Change at Newcastle for Sunderland.

Arrive in Sunderland

By the time we get to Sunderland I’m feeling depressed and angry — and it’s raining. Talk about creating a mood . . .

First stop is a local no-star bed and breakfast dive; it looks and smells like a cross between a doss-house and a mental hospital, and later we find out that to all intents and purposes it is.

So far so haunting; now it’s down to business. Phillips and I are here for Red Alert, and Red Alert are playing tonight, at the Old Twenty-Nine pub. Easy to find, they say, and so it is. So we pass an hour in the Londonderry across the road; it’s cavernous but friendly, and this disorientated Southerner begins to get his bearings. Then we head for the Old Twenty-Nine.

Suddenly were in a different world; a tiny pub seemingly lost in a deserted street expands Tardis-like on entry to reveal a large and heterogeneous crowd and a marvellously welcoming and hassle-free atmosphere. My journalistic policy of always meeting bands on their own ground is, on this occasion, totally vindicated.

Red Alert | In The Red

After a real cruncher of a set from Red Alert (and some bonus eye-openers from stunning support Red London) I feel easily confident with all concerned, not at all worried about their impenetrable Geordie accents and eagerly ready for the interview, pub hours, next day.

SO ELEVEN-THIRTY the following morning finds Red Alert at home to John Opposition in The Fort (another Sunderland pub) to the accompaniment of a few bottles of the notorious but nice Newcastle Brown Ale. The journalist is actually rather the worse for wear as the result of a late-night encounter with an exceedingly dodgy Chinese takeaway — what goes down, must come up — but a below par performance is out of the question with this lot, as I soon find out . . .

They’re four in number, comprising hideously ugly motor-mouth Steve, friendly, articulate guitarist and songwriter Tony, cropped and youthful-looking bass player Gaz and beergut-handed drummer Nobby (no K, by special request).

Screaming At The Nation

The band first came to my attention last year when the melodic ‘Screaming At The Nation’ had me humming the tune and waiting to hear more. What many of you probably don’t know is that previous to ‘Screaming’ (the other side of ‘In Britain’) and ‘SPG’ on ‘Carry On Oi’ the band had released a self financed four track EP which only ran to 250 copies due to lack of greenbacks. These releases, plus their recent ‘ladle chart effort ‘Take No Prisoners’ (good but not as good as it might have been) constitute a reasonable vinyl track record.

So things are going well, are they lads? Gigs a plenty, new album on the way, cash rolling in? No chance. That’s not how it works.

Steve: “Everyone round here seems to think we’re pop stars ‘cos we’ve had a couple of records out and a bit of publicity, people come up to us and say ‘You’re in the money now, your round’ and that sort of thing. But were still on the dole, and the only money we’ve had is £750 for 7,000 sales of ‘In Britain’ – and all that went on new equipment.

“As for gigs, we usually end up getting ripped off and losing money. People round here don’t want to believe that though they think we’re rich, and as a result there’s a certain amount of resentment towards us in some quarters. We just ignore that now, people can think what they like. What more can we do to convince them?”

Red Alert | In The Red

Red Alert are not only saddled with a publishing deal which apparently they didn’t even read (“we just signed it and sent it back”) but gigs are very difficult to come by, partly at least because of their isolated location.

Nobby: “I’ve had quite a few phone calls offering us gigs, but what many promoters don’t seem to realise is that a band who are on the dole, live in Sunderland and have no rich benefactors, need money up front for van hire, petrol etc. If we’re going to play somewhere like London. We just haven’t the resources to pay out for these things in advance, and as a result we miss out on a lot of gigs.”

AND AS I’VE already mentioned, many of the gigs the band have done have been financial disasters, often due to grasping promoters who pay the band a pittance.

Worst in a bad series is the band’s tale of an apparently successful and well-attended gig in Manchester after which the band were paid ten pounds, plus another fiver to get home — and the promoter wanted them to send the fiver back!

Red Alert | In The Red

Red Alert are understandably fed up. “We must be the unluckiest band in the world, I mean, our single was Oi 13!”

But at least you’ve got a reasonable sounding record deal, I say, and an album on the way. This is agreed, although precisely when the album will be recorded is a matter for conjecture, and the band definitely feel that they take second place to some of the other No Future acts when it comes to gig packages, recording etc.

Then we tire of such serious and involved subjects and move on to lighter ones; Sunderland FC (Nobby’s a regular follower, the others more passive) and experiences at gigs.

Of course, most Alert gigs (like the Old Twenty-Nine show the previous night) are trouble-free, exuberant affairs and, humour apart, its always a tragedy when football violence disrupts an evening’s entertainment. But I’ll tell you one thing; I’d rather be a Sunderland fan in a room full of Newcastle supporters than travel to a gig in the van with Red Alert! Try this for size . . .

“When we do a gig some distance away, we take it in turns to drive. None of us has got a licence or anything, and we’re always pissed, so no-one wants to do it for too long. One of us has a go, and when he’s tired he stops the van, opens the back door, shouts ‘Who wants a go at driving?’ and someone else takes over.

Van goings-on

“We’ve never been stopped, although sometimes the van goes all over the road, and once a whole convoy of police cars came past, lights flashing, and we thought we’d had it. But they were on their way to a pile-up somewhere, and we got off scot-free.”

They then recount some truly disgusting stories concerning what happens in the back (and front) of the van while these exceedingly hazardous trips are taking place. Really, I don’t know what to say. Whether or not these stories are true (and I’m inclined to believe they are, ‘cos Alert are an honest bunch) I don’t need to tell you that Steve and Co. have a very irresponsible attitude towards themselves and other road users, and I know for a fact that if I saw an incompetently driven van full of paralytic herberts I would be, to say the least, rather perturbed.

Red Alert | In The Red

I move to less controversial topics. What’s it like living?

“None of us would like to live anywhere else, we’re Sunderland born and bred and It’s not a bad thing to be. We’re on the dole, but we make the best of it; once you get used to the money it’s not too bad. All our friends are on the dole too; we hardly know anyone of our age who’s working, and we all meet up and have a laugh . . .’

Thus Red Alert make the best of what is nothing short of a bloody human tragedy, this crew have got spirit, and are determined to overcome the many obstacles in their path well aware of the fact that they’re got a lot more going for them than many of their contemporaries.

And I fully endorse their opinion of Sunderland; it may seem bleak at first sight but it’s a marvellously friendly place and from their accounts of trips to London a Southerner in Sunderland has a far more hospitable reception than a Geordie in the capital.