The Children of the summer's end
Gathered in the dampened grass
We played our songs and felt the London sky
Resting on our hands
It was God's land
It was ragged and naive
It was Heaven
D. Bowie, 1970.
There was once a time when all our tomorrows were to be ended by a ballistic threat, and not one strapped to the chest of the enemy. Then, like now, we never really knew our enemy. We looked eastwards, as we still do today, but none of us back then actually knew any Russians. They were going to annihilate us with nuclear weapons. We were going to destroy them - with nuclear weapons. That was the balance that prevented either side from pushing the button.
We all knew that we were on a map, somewhere, deep below ground in a cold concrete bunker, over which flew the Hammer & Sickle, and inside the Generals pushed pins and slid miniature model rockets over a scale model of Europe. We presented an attractive target. To our south was Portsmouth dockyard, the ancient home of the Royal Navy, itself encircled by many dry shore establishments. To our dismay, we heard that Marconi were moving the "Sting Ray Anti-Submarine" weapons research establishment north, to our very own town. We took to the street in protest. We didn’t want to be on the map. We took to the street, and then the fields. We encamped the fields where they said the weapons site was going to be. We held a free festival.
It’s August. The sun is blazing and beating down mercilessly. When asked, one day in the future, none of us will remember the year. We will each have our own private account. It might be '84, ’85, or ’86. Our long hair warms our heads – providing shade and thatch simultaneously, a damp shiny moss, with the undeniable smell of the great unwashed, worn like a badge of honour. We carefully remove the large skip placed across the entrance to this field. The combined force of the rainbow tribe effortlessly rocks the skip to clear the track. We have moved the mountain. It confirms one suspicion though. They know we are coming.
The camp takes shape quickly. Bivouacs are erected around small campfire plots. Small tins hang over the flames to provide hot water for strange brews. Other culinary delights are put together with varying degrees of skill, ranging from the palatable to the downright unorthodox. Before the site becomes anymore unrecognisable, someone shouts. "Kenny, over here a minute." Kenny looks up and sees Kevin, from Portsmouth, sizing up a ramshackle barn, which rises like a monolith from an anonymous scrape in the ground. "I’m thinking we should keep this area out of bounds. If we take photo’s we can document the condition of it. That way they can’t pin criminal damage on us." He pushes his wire-rimmed spectacles back onto his nose, a small bead of sweat dripping off the end. He rubs his neck, pulling each end of the camera strap backwards and forwards to scratch where his green army shirt is beginning to irritate under the sun. "Kenny, grab this and stand by the door." He throws a copy of that afternoons "Evening News" to Kenny, who opens it up to the front cover. "Hippies Invade Torpedo Town". Kenny smirks and turns towards the camera, holding the page to his front. Kevin aims, focuses, and shoots. He repeats the action. "Thanks, Kenny. At least we can show ‘em what it was like when we got here".
Kenny returns to the camp and finds Garry, Mike and Rick stoking a small fire with twigs. "Who else is coming?" asks Kenny, to no one in particular. Garry answers, telling him that Araan the Punk was making his way down later, and that Lucy, Kike and the Bournemouth posse were already well on their way. "What about Dampon Dampax? Has anyone seen him?" asks Kenny. Rick giggles and performs a strange ritual with his hands, weaving them like a snake in front of his eyes. "Don’t mind him", says Mike, pointing at Rick. "He’s been out of it since we got here. He’ll be back later". We grin. We know, if nothing else, we’d either be in the same state later, or, more cruelly, having fun playing "head games" with the afflicted brethren. Towards the back of the field a band tentatively strikes a couple of chords, adjusting the equipment to combat the feedback from the PA. We wince and chuckle. We wrap some potatoes in tin foil and chuck them onto the fire. We kick back, using our shirts for pillows and we chat idly, keeping half an ear out on the music. Life feels good.
The unmistakeable penetrating trill of Lucy’s Canadian accent sharply wakens those of us who have dozed off. The large weaved top she is wearing, shrinking her petite figure, smells of patchouli oil and the bright colours it once boasted are fading. "Aww, gee! I just love baked potato!" she squeals. She sweeps a dreadlock from her face and juggles the tinfoil parcel from one hand to the other. "And I just love butter!" exclaims Lucy, even louder. "Any cheese?" Araan, who arrived when we were dozing scoffs, swigging from the jug of cider he has brought along, "Ya know, Luce…being vegan kind of means you miss out the dairy part of that baked potato?" he says, questioningly. Lucy ignores him, creating a small butter mountain on the potato. A mongrel dog yaps around our feet, leaping around. Araan relieves Kike of the spliff he has been holding. "Don’t be a hog, Kike, mate." He snorts like a pig. We laugh. Mike comes over. Lucy screams, "NORB!" at him. Mike responds, "BRON!" lifting his upturned palm at the same time. "The Prophets are on in fifteen or so, if you want to get your shit together". Mike teases his goatee beard, shifting with a nervous energy from foot to foot. Our posse rises. We ease the stiffness out of our backs and ankles and slowly traipse towards the makeshift stage area. We survey the crowd, who are not looking our way. In fact, they appear to be indifferent to anyone and everything. Someone on stage nods to us. Without bothering with a sound check, a keyboard and two guitars are plugged into the communal PA. Araan and his Mohican hair looks demonic behind the drum kit, which every other band is using. Mike coughs into the microphone. "Hello. We’re the Prophets. The prophets of NORB!" We lower our palms and make a sweeping gesture to the floor, and shout "NORB!" We await the responding cry. We hear a solo, "Bron!" come back. The crowd titters. Araan counts time; "Two-three-four!" and the Prophets let go with their opening number, "Waterlooville!" They continue with the set, ignoring the hippy in the crowd who shouts, "Oh no! Not them again!" as Kenny steps up to recite one of his poems to the backdrop of the Funeral March, provided by the Prophets.
Before the pretentious man died he was sad,
Because his wife’s – aunt’s – daughters – niece
Didn’t have time to finish cooking the dog’s pizza
But did finish her hair.
What would the man who died do about it?
Blow a trumpet and catch an angel’s harp?
Call the GPO and report a faulty line
And deny him-self the pleasure of…
Before Kenny can continue he is distracted by a ripple, which begins somewhere in the back of the crowd. The ripple grows into a murmur, then a bubble of excitement. It passes throughout the crowd: "The convoy…the Peace convoy…the convoy is here…it’s the Peace Convoy". We see plumes of black diesel smoke coming towards us, then a cacophony of car horns and air horns begins to fill the field, announcing the arrival of the Peace Convoy. We all watch, slightly in awe of the sight. Double Decker buses, old trucks and decrepit camper-vans snake their way around, creating a large moving circle around each other. They are proudly painted with peace symbols and the rusting paintwork is daubed with colourful strokes. More than one vehicle displays the words, leaving us in no doubt that the PEACE CONVOY has arrived.
Alan is going around from fire to fire, talking to the revellers. He comes across to our space, and grins widely, his face as red as his wiry hair; his beard heavy, his eyes sparkling clearly. He laughs as he announces our set was, "Different. Funny. Good. No, funny and good. Might be able to get you another slot tomorrow. Er, you guys are hanging around, aren’t you? Later, I mean. The Ozrics and Poison Girls are playing. They’ll be wicked. And you’ve got to stay for…" He says a name. It means nothing to Kenny, who asks, "Who? Never heard of him." Alan grins even wider. "Oh, then you really do have to stay for him. I’m telling you. Just make sure you make the set." He bounded away, to the next fire, his arms flailing wildly. The light begins to dim as the sun sets above the crowd, and the midges that have been waiting patiently begin their descent. The lucky ones drown in mugs of tea. The unlucky ones take bites from unsuspecting necks. Kenny moves down to the stage, staying close to campfires to outwit the midges. He pushes through the crowd, without apology until he is almost at the front of the stage. He pulls a blanket around himself and pushes his hat back, to gain a clearer view. He scans the surrounding crowd, looking not at their faces, but at their feet. He smiles when he sees some hobnail boots. "You pigs always give yourselves away" he chuckles, to himself.
After some time the stage falls into relative silence and someone moves a microphone, guitar stand and a single chair on. Kenny watches with nonchalance. After another brief pause a man, who Kenny guesses to be in his forties, walks onto the stage, from the side. His hair falls onto the brown leather jacket he wears to thwart the cold air, which is coming down quickly, despite the hotness of the preceding hours. The man sits, and rubs his hands together. He blows into them, and then pulls the microphone to his face. He looks slight, on the stage. "I hope this will be Ok. Just, my hands are really cold and I can’t get the circulation going". Someone shouts back, "Play, Roy. That’ll warm them" Kenny looks on, noting the humourous interaction that starts taking place between this man, Roy, and the crowd. Roy begins speaking some more, in what Kenny understands to be the introduction to a song. After a faltering start, this man begins to strum his guitar. Kenny is taken aback for a moment. He checks at first to satisfy himself that this is one guitar, not two or three playing. The man kicks a foot pedal and the sound intensifies, pulsating out, hitting Kenny in the chest. Kenny stands, enjoying the sensation. He hears the words of the song, his ears adjusting to the new sound, which assails him, then lifts him. He doesn’t move for the next forty-five minutes. He has never heard music like this before – immediately though it makes sense. He doesn’t notice Alan at first, who has joined him at his side. "I told you he was good, didn’t I?" Kenny shakes his head. He can’t speak. Finally, he manages to find some words. "I can’t believe it. This is incredible. I can’t believe it." Alan puts a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. "Yeah man. He’s good. I just love Roy Harper."
Gathered in the dampened grass
We played our songs and felt the London sky
Resting on our hands
It was God's land
It was ragged and naive
It was Heaven
D. Bowie, 1970.
There was once a time when all our tomorrows were to be ended by a ballistic threat, and not one strapped to the chest of the enemy. Then, like now, we never really knew our enemy. We looked eastwards, as we still do today, but none of us back then actually knew any Russians. They were going to annihilate us with nuclear weapons. We were going to destroy them - with nuclear weapons. That was the balance that prevented either side from pushing the button.
We all knew that we were on a map, somewhere, deep below ground in a cold concrete bunker, over which flew the Hammer & Sickle, and inside the Generals pushed pins and slid miniature model rockets over a scale model of Europe. We presented an attractive target. To our south was Portsmouth dockyard, the ancient home of the Royal Navy, itself encircled by many dry shore establishments. To our dismay, we heard that Marconi were moving the "Sting Ray Anti-Submarine" weapons research establishment north, to our very own town. We took to the street in protest. We didn’t want to be on the map. We took to the street, and then the fields. We encamped the fields where they said the weapons site was going to be. We held a free festival.
It’s August. The sun is blazing and beating down mercilessly. When asked, one day in the future, none of us will remember the year. We will each have our own private account. It might be '84, ’85, or ’86. Our long hair warms our heads – providing shade and thatch simultaneously, a damp shiny moss, with the undeniable smell of the great unwashed, worn like a badge of honour. We carefully remove the large skip placed across the entrance to this field. The combined force of the rainbow tribe effortlessly rocks the skip to clear the track. We have moved the mountain. It confirms one suspicion though. They know we are coming.
The camp takes shape quickly. Bivouacs are erected around small campfire plots. Small tins hang over the flames to provide hot water for strange brews. Other culinary delights are put together with varying degrees of skill, ranging from the palatable to the downright unorthodox. Before the site becomes anymore unrecognisable, someone shouts. "Kenny, over here a minute." Kenny looks up and sees Kevin, from Portsmouth, sizing up a ramshackle barn, which rises like a monolith from an anonymous scrape in the ground. "I’m thinking we should keep this area out of bounds. If we take photo’s we can document the condition of it. That way they can’t pin criminal damage on us." He pushes his wire-rimmed spectacles back onto his nose, a small bead of sweat dripping off the end. He rubs his neck, pulling each end of the camera strap backwards and forwards to scratch where his green army shirt is beginning to irritate under the sun. "Kenny, grab this and stand by the door." He throws a copy of that afternoons "Evening News" to Kenny, who opens it up to the front cover. "Hippies Invade Torpedo Town". Kenny smirks and turns towards the camera, holding the page to his front. Kevin aims, focuses, and shoots. He repeats the action. "Thanks, Kenny. At least we can show ‘em what it was like when we got here".
Kenny returns to the camp and finds Garry, Mike and Rick stoking a small fire with twigs. "Who else is coming?" asks Kenny, to no one in particular. Garry answers, telling him that Araan the Punk was making his way down later, and that Lucy, Kike and the Bournemouth posse were already well on their way. "What about Dampon Dampax? Has anyone seen him?" asks Kenny. Rick giggles and performs a strange ritual with his hands, weaving them like a snake in front of his eyes. "Don’t mind him", says Mike, pointing at Rick. "He’s been out of it since we got here. He’ll be back later". We grin. We know, if nothing else, we’d either be in the same state later, or, more cruelly, having fun playing "head games" with the afflicted brethren. Towards the back of the field a band tentatively strikes a couple of chords, adjusting the equipment to combat the feedback from the PA. We wince and chuckle. We wrap some potatoes in tin foil and chuck them onto the fire. We kick back, using our shirts for pillows and we chat idly, keeping half an ear out on the music. Life feels good.
The unmistakeable penetrating trill of Lucy’s Canadian accent sharply wakens those of us who have dozed off. The large weaved top she is wearing, shrinking her petite figure, smells of patchouli oil and the bright colours it once boasted are fading. "Aww, gee! I just love baked potato!" she squeals. She sweeps a dreadlock from her face and juggles the tinfoil parcel from one hand to the other. "And I just love butter!" exclaims Lucy, even louder. "Any cheese?" Araan, who arrived when we were dozing scoffs, swigging from the jug of cider he has brought along, "Ya know, Luce…being vegan kind of means you miss out the dairy part of that baked potato?" he says, questioningly. Lucy ignores him, creating a small butter mountain on the potato. A mongrel dog yaps around our feet, leaping around. Araan relieves Kike of the spliff he has been holding. "Don’t be a hog, Kike, mate." He snorts like a pig. We laugh. Mike comes over. Lucy screams, "NORB!" at him. Mike responds, "BRON!" lifting his upturned palm at the same time. "The Prophets are on in fifteen or so, if you want to get your shit together". Mike teases his goatee beard, shifting with a nervous energy from foot to foot. Our posse rises. We ease the stiffness out of our backs and ankles and slowly traipse towards the makeshift stage area. We survey the crowd, who are not looking our way. In fact, they appear to be indifferent to anyone and everything. Someone on stage nods to us. Without bothering with a sound check, a keyboard and two guitars are plugged into the communal PA. Araan and his Mohican hair looks demonic behind the drum kit, which every other band is using. Mike coughs into the microphone. "Hello. We’re the Prophets. The prophets of NORB!" We lower our palms and make a sweeping gesture to the floor, and shout "NORB!" We await the responding cry. We hear a solo, "Bron!" come back. The crowd titters. Araan counts time; "Two-three-four!" and the Prophets let go with their opening number, "Waterlooville!" They continue with the set, ignoring the hippy in the crowd who shouts, "Oh no! Not them again!" as Kenny steps up to recite one of his poems to the backdrop of the Funeral March, provided by the Prophets.
Before the pretentious man died he was sad,
Because his wife’s – aunt’s – daughters – niece
Didn’t have time to finish cooking the dog’s pizza
But did finish her hair.
What would the man who died do about it?
Blow a trumpet and catch an angel’s harp?
Call the GPO and report a faulty line
And deny him-self the pleasure of…
Before Kenny can continue he is distracted by a ripple, which begins somewhere in the back of the crowd. The ripple grows into a murmur, then a bubble of excitement. It passes throughout the crowd: "The convoy…the Peace convoy…the convoy is here…it’s the Peace Convoy". We see plumes of black diesel smoke coming towards us, then a cacophony of car horns and air horns begins to fill the field, announcing the arrival of the Peace Convoy. We all watch, slightly in awe of the sight. Double Decker buses, old trucks and decrepit camper-vans snake their way around, creating a large moving circle around each other. They are proudly painted with peace symbols and the rusting paintwork is daubed with colourful strokes. More than one vehicle displays the words, leaving us in no doubt that the PEACE CONVOY has arrived.
Alan is going around from fire to fire, talking to the revellers. He comes across to our space, and grins widely, his face as red as his wiry hair; his beard heavy, his eyes sparkling clearly. He laughs as he announces our set was, "Different. Funny. Good. No, funny and good. Might be able to get you another slot tomorrow. Er, you guys are hanging around, aren’t you? Later, I mean. The Ozrics and Poison Girls are playing. They’ll be wicked. And you’ve got to stay for…" He says a name. It means nothing to Kenny, who asks, "Who? Never heard of him." Alan grins even wider. "Oh, then you really do have to stay for him. I’m telling you. Just make sure you make the set." He bounded away, to the next fire, his arms flailing wildly. The light begins to dim as the sun sets above the crowd, and the midges that have been waiting patiently begin their descent. The lucky ones drown in mugs of tea. The unlucky ones take bites from unsuspecting necks. Kenny moves down to the stage, staying close to campfires to outwit the midges. He pushes through the crowd, without apology until he is almost at the front of the stage. He pulls a blanket around himself and pushes his hat back, to gain a clearer view. He scans the surrounding crowd, looking not at their faces, but at their feet. He smiles when he sees some hobnail boots. "You pigs always give yourselves away" he chuckles, to himself.
After some time the stage falls into relative silence and someone moves a microphone, guitar stand and a single chair on. Kenny watches with nonchalance. After another brief pause a man, who Kenny guesses to be in his forties, walks onto the stage, from the side. His hair falls onto the brown leather jacket he wears to thwart the cold air, which is coming down quickly, despite the hotness of the preceding hours. The man sits, and rubs his hands together. He blows into them, and then pulls the microphone to his face. He looks slight, on the stage. "I hope this will be Ok. Just, my hands are really cold and I can’t get the circulation going". Someone shouts back, "Play, Roy. That’ll warm them" Kenny looks on, noting the humourous interaction that starts taking place between this man, Roy, and the crowd. Roy begins speaking some more, in what Kenny understands to be the introduction to a song. After a faltering start, this man begins to strum his guitar. Kenny is taken aback for a moment. He checks at first to satisfy himself that this is one guitar, not two or three playing. The man kicks a foot pedal and the sound intensifies, pulsating out, hitting Kenny in the chest. Kenny stands, enjoying the sensation. He hears the words of the song, his ears adjusting to the new sound, which assails him, then lifts him. He doesn’t move for the next forty-five minutes. He has never heard music like this before – immediately though it makes sense. He doesn’t notice Alan at first, who has joined him at his side. "I told you he was good, didn’t I?" Kenny shakes his head. He can’t speak. Finally, he manages to find some words. "I can’t believe it. This is incredible. I can’t believe it." Alan puts a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. "Yeah man. He’s good. I just love Roy Harper."
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