THE VANDIKE CLUB
From the prefabs
on Tamar Way
to the Vandike Club
on Exmouth Road
where I saw Led Zeppelin
before they became norse gods.
In this small club
perched above the railway line
that runs from Shakey Bridge to town
I saw John Paul Jones, John Bonham,
Robert Plant and Jimmy Page.
I was seventeen years old.
Six months out
of Honicknowle Secondary.
I was six foot two,
wearing Cuban heels
and a shit-brown suit.
That night I caught the bus
into town and bumped into
a trio of old school friends
midway between the Barley Sheaf
and Pete Russell's Hot Record Store
on the corner of Market Avenue.
A couple of beers under
our Wild West Park belts
we board the bus
to the Vandike Club
for a night of rock and roll
while behind us the juke box
belted out hits from the pop charts.
On the way out to Exmouth Road
I stare into the future of the night
see my friends hugging the bar
while I stand alone
tapping my left foot
on the edge of the dance floor.
I was within walking distance
of Robert Plant.
I was a teenager in exile
from Two Way Family Favourites.
a stranger in a polyester shirt
the night I chucked Bing Crosby
for rock and roll.
Overdressed
and conspicuous like a mod
on the streets of Modbury
I return the next weekend
in jeans and ripped jumper
mixing with working class
and middle class kids from Mannamead
and the People’s Republic of Whitleigh.
Hanging out in The Vandike
I saw the Third Ear Band,
but not the Camels Head Bangers
the Eurovision Snog Contest
Donald's Metaphysical Greenhouse
Safe As Toast or Punk Yoga.
One night I scored a quid deal
wrapped in silver paper
and got stoned
with Steve and Adrian
in old railway tunnels
under Kings Road.
The tunnels were an ideal
rehearsal space
for an underground band
so we strapped on our guitars
and started jamming
with Dead Rock Stars
in the Afterlife
and the Sons and Daughters
of the Baby Boom.
Back at Exmouth Road
I fell asleep in the cloakroom,
got kicked out by Pete Vandike
and spent the rest of the evening
tapping my left foot to King Crimson
throwing up to the twang
of Twenty First Century Schizoid Man
on the edge of Devonport Park.
Smoked more pot
with Derek the Disc Jockey
Milky Bar Kid lookalike
and other chocolate themed friends
the night Fairport Convention played
and two coachloads of police raided
and found nothing but dust in my pockets.
The Vandike was hot
and crowded that night
so I moved outside to get some air.
Some twenty folk-rock minutes later
when the police cruised
down Exmouth Road
the Dansette in my head
was playing Sandy Denny
singing Richard Thompson’s
Meet on the Ledge
from Fairport's
What We Did On Our Holidays.
When I saw uniforms
moving towards the Vandike
through the dodgy lenses
of my stoned haze
I thought it was a bunch
of brass band players
on a Salvation Army outing.
That night we had great fun
taunting the massed band
of the Old Bill as they moved
us slowly down the street
towards the Devonport Road.
In the aftermath
the police were slated
in the media for sending
teenagers home in the cold
without hats and coats
which were left hanging overnight
in the psychedelic quiet
of the Vandike’s cloakroom.
One night
I was reading poetry there
probably the Cow Poem
when someone dropped
a glockenspiel on stage
a subtle counterpoint.
This was the night Frank Charm
dressed as Father Christmas
handed out joints
to all the badly behaved children.
At the Vandike I saw Family
and Free and an American band
called Daddy Longlegs.
I saw Keith Emerson of the Nice
stick knives into his keyboards,
distorting Leonard Bernstein
and America.
I saw Adrian Henri’s band
the Liverpool Scene.
Ten shillings to get in the door
and take a ride
on A Tramcar to Frankenstein.
The night after I missed
the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band
a crew of urban spacemen
waved to me while driving
through Stoke Village
the following morning.
Shortly after Led Zeppelin and me
had made our debuts at the Vandike
I bumped into a blues harp player
by the zebra crossing outside Dingles.
The harp player who’d jammed
with Champion Jack Dupree
introduced me to the works
of Aldous Huxley and J.R.R. Tolkien.
The harp player blew smoke rings
and talked about smoking grass
in Anns Place.
At first I thought Ann was a friend of his,
but she turned out to be the name of a street.
In Anns Place
I met Albert Fischer
better known as the Bishop.
The night I met Albert he read extracts
from Alfred Noyes' The Highwayman
while drunk on rough cider.
Around this time I rode the bus
from Honicknowle to Exmouth Road
humming Steve Miller’s Quicksilver Girl
and Melanie’s Bo Bo’s Party.
I had a pocket full of joss sticks
and a season ticket
for the Aquarian Age.
I was rocking and rolling up
on Exmouth Road.
I was forty years away
from becoming a household name
like Pink Floyd and fish fingers.
Some nights
I’d catch the last bus home
to watch Monty Python’s Flying Circus.
Laughing my socks off while my mum
sat across the sofa from me and frowned.
My mum was keen on Val Doonican
and Jimmy Tarbuck while my dad liked
Sandie Shaw and bagpipe music
and read Robert Louis Stevenson
and James Fennimore Cooper.
I read the Desiderata,
The Narrow Road to the Deep North
and Other Travel Sketches and
By Grand Central Station
I Sat Down and Wept.
I was the only member of my family
who ever went to the Vandike
and later the Roundhouse and Ronnies.
The weekend Jethro Tull appeared
they played virtually everything
from This Was.
Up on the Vandike’s small stage
Mick Abrahams, Clive Bunker, Glenn Cornick
and Ian Anderson standing on one leg
left foot balanced above the right knee
playing the pirate, playing the flute
a little bit of showmanship
for the council estate crowd
which was almost as good
as that Top of the Pops clip
of Bill Wyman’s bass
sticking up in the air
like a big finger.
That night while the fanfare
in my head played Copland
The Buckingham Shed Collective
drove up to the club in a Ford Zodiac.
Falling under the influence
of rock and roll after a long day
potato picking in the South Hams.
When The Buckingham Shed Collective
walked down Exmouth Road
they looked more like tractor drivers
than rock stars.
When they walked into the Vandike
I was standing on the steps
above the dance floor
tapping my left foot
as Anderson’s flute paid homage
to Roland Kirk’s Serenade to a Cuckoo.
I was a teenager with a bad haircut
when I first went to the Vandike Club.
After I saw Led Zeppelin
I grew my hair down to my shoulders,
but it didn’t improve my guitar playing
so I switched to drums and progressed
from there to progressive rock
to tripping across the landscapes of town
turning up rolling a joint and zonking out
to Canned Heat, Country Joe and the Fish
and Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Playing acid rock on psychedelic Dansettes
tapping my left foot to the Grateful Dead,
Quicksilver Messenger Service
and Big Brother and the Holding Company
or stopping off at Jack's Joint
at the bottom of Albert Road
for one last cup of coffee
before heading down to Shakey Bridge
a caravan of teenagers
passing through Camels Head
edging closer to Abercrombie Lane
and another wild weekend
on the sofas of the housing estate
with Marianne and Nancy.
From the prefabs
on Tamar Way
to the Vandike Club
on Exmouth Road
where I saw Led Zeppelin
before they became norse gods.
In this small club
perched above the railway line
that runs from Shakey Bridge to town
I saw John Paul Jones, John Bonham,
Robert Plant and Jimmy Page.
I was seventeen years old.
Six months out
of Honicknowle Secondary.
I was six foot two,
wearing Cuban heels
and a shit-brown suit.
That night I caught the bus
into town and bumped into
a trio of old school friends
midway between the Barley Sheaf
and Pete Russell's Hot Record Store
on the corner of Market Avenue.
A couple of beers under
our Wild West Park belts
we board the bus
to the Vandike Club
for a night of rock and roll
while behind us the juke box
belted out hits from the pop charts.
On the way out to Exmouth Road
I stare into the future of the night
see my friends hugging the bar
while I stand alone
tapping my left foot
on the edge of the dance floor.
I was within walking distance
of Robert Plant.
I was a teenager in exile
from Two Way Family Favourites.
a stranger in a polyester shirt
the night I chucked Bing Crosby
for rock and roll.
Overdressed
and conspicuous like a mod
on the streets of Modbury
I return the next weekend
in jeans and ripped jumper
mixing with working class
and middle class kids from Mannamead
and the People’s Republic of Whitleigh.
Hanging out in The Vandike
I saw the Third Ear Band,
but not the Camels Head Bangers
the Eurovision Snog Contest
Donald's Metaphysical Greenhouse
Safe As Toast or Punk Yoga.
One night I scored a quid deal
wrapped in silver paper
and got stoned
with Steve and Adrian
in old railway tunnels
under Kings Road.
The tunnels were an ideal
rehearsal space
for an underground band
so we strapped on our guitars
and started jamming
with Dead Rock Stars
in the Afterlife
and the Sons and Daughters
of the Baby Boom.
Back at Exmouth Road
I fell asleep in the cloakroom,
got kicked out by Pete Vandike
and spent the rest of the evening
tapping my left foot to King Crimson
throwing up to the twang
of Twenty First Century Schizoid Man
on the edge of Devonport Park.
Smoked more pot
with Derek the Disc Jockey
Milky Bar Kid lookalike
and other chocolate themed friends
the night Fairport Convention played
and two coachloads of police raided
and found nothing but dust in my pockets.
The Vandike was hot
and crowded that night
so I moved outside to get some air.
Some twenty folk-rock minutes later
when the police cruised
down Exmouth Road
the Dansette in my head
was playing Sandy Denny
singing Richard Thompson’s
Meet on the Ledge
from Fairport's
What We Did On Our Holidays.
When I saw uniforms
moving towards the Vandike
through the dodgy lenses
of my stoned haze
I thought it was a bunch
of brass band players
on a Salvation Army outing.
That night we had great fun
taunting the massed band
of the Old Bill as they moved
us slowly down the street
towards the Devonport Road.
In the aftermath
the police were slated
in the media for sending
teenagers home in the cold
without hats and coats
which were left hanging overnight
in the psychedelic quiet
of the Vandike’s cloakroom.
One night
I was reading poetry there
probably the Cow Poem
when someone dropped
a glockenspiel on stage
a subtle counterpoint.
This was the night Frank Charm
dressed as Father Christmas
handed out joints
to all the badly behaved children.
At the Vandike I saw Family
and Free and an American band
called Daddy Longlegs.
I saw Keith Emerson of the Nice
stick knives into his keyboards,
distorting Leonard Bernstein
and America.
I saw Adrian Henri’s band
the Liverpool Scene.
Ten shillings to get in the door
and take a ride
on A Tramcar to Frankenstein.
The night after I missed
the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band
a crew of urban spacemen
waved to me while driving
through Stoke Village
the following morning.
Shortly after Led Zeppelin and me
had made our debuts at the Vandike
I bumped into a blues harp player
by the zebra crossing outside Dingles.
The harp player who’d jammed
with Champion Jack Dupree
introduced me to the works
of Aldous Huxley and J.R.R. Tolkien.
The harp player blew smoke rings
and talked about smoking grass
in Anns Place.
At first I thought Ann was a friend of his,
but she turned out to be the name of a street.
In Anns Place
I met Albert Fischer
better known as the Bishop.
The night I met Albert he read extracts
from Alfred Noyes' The Highwayman
while drunk on rough cider.
Around this time I rode the bus
from Honicknowle to Exmouth Road
humming Steve Miller’s Quicksilver Girl
and Melanie’s Bo Bo’s Party.
I had a pocket full of joss sticks
and a season ticket
for the Aquarian Age.
I was rocking and rolling up
on Exmouth Road.
I was forty years away
from becoming a household name
like Pink Floyd and fish fingers.
Some nights
I’d catch the last bus home
to watch Monty Python’s Flying Circus.
Laughing my socks off while my mum
sat across the sofa from me and frowned.
My mum was keen on Val Doonican
and Jimmy Tarbuck while my dad liked
Sandie Shaw and bagpipe music
and read Robert Louis Stevenson
and James Fennimore Cooper.
I read the Desiderata,
The Narrow Road to the Deep North
and Other Travel Sketches and
By Grand Central Station
I Sat Down and Wept.
I was the only member of my family
who ever went to the Vandike
and later the Roundhouse and Ronnies.
The weekend Jethro Tull appeared
they played virtually everything
from This Was.
Up on the Vandike’s small stage
Mick Abrahams, Clive Bunker, Glenn Cornick
and Ian Anderson standing on one leg
left foot balanced above the right knee
playing the pirate, playing the flute
a little bit of showmanship
for the council estate crowd
which was almost as good
as that Top of the Pops clip
of Bill Wyman’s bass
sticking up in the air
like a big finger.
That night while the fanfare
in my head played Copland
The Buckingham Shed Collective
drove up to the club in a Ford Zodiac.
Falling under the influence
of rock and roll after a long day
potato picking in the South Hams.
When The Buckingham Shed Collective
walked down Exmouth Road
they looked more like tractor drivers
than rock stars.
When they walked into the Vandike
I was standing on the steps
above the dance floor
tapping my left foot
as Anderson’s flute paid homage
to Roland Kirk’s Serenade to a Cuckoo.
I was a teenager with a bad haircut
when I first went to the Vandike Club.
After I saw Led Zeppelin
I grew my hair down to my shoulders,
but it didn’t improve my guitar playing
so I switched to drums and progressed
from there to progressive rock
to tripping across the landscapes of town
turning up rolling a joint and zonking out
to Canned Heat, Country Joe and the Fish
and Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Playing acid rock on psychedelic Dansettes
tapping my left foot to the Grateful Dead,
Quicksilver Messenger Service
and Big Brother and the Holding Company
or stopping off at Jack's Joint
at the bottom of Albert Road
for one last cup of coffee
before heading down to Shakey Bridge
a caravan of teenagers
passing through Camels Head
edging closer to Abercrombie Lane
and another wild weekend
on the sofas of the housing estate
with Marianne and Nancy.