Like many of my gender, I was for several years - a teenage boy. I lived at home and went to school occasionally, but spent most of my time practicing the blues, fifties rock'n'roll, sixties garage and seventies punk on my electric guitar. Fuelled by dreams of making it as an axe man in the big city (Reading), I terrified the neighbours and wrought structural damage for streets around with my Bo Diddley beat and Chuck Berry riffs - to this day, residents of Sturges Rd still break into involuntary Duck walks when a car backfires.
Eventually my dreams came true. Seduced by the glamour of Cemetery Junction and its bohemian hangouts, I befriended Howard, an agricultural student from the University, and like Art Brut, we 'Formed a band'. Having acquired willing accomplices - one very fortuitously on the Ents committee -, we were soon ready to face the public.
Our set consisted entirely of covers - Psychotic Reaction, Hey There Little Insect by Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers, Cadillac, Commanche, Sea Cruise, Who do you Love, Boys (which the girls sang), and My Babe by Little Walter. It never occurred to us to actually write a song - and for this I am grateful. With no eye on the future, the name we hit upon for our Thames Valley Delta psyche-out sonic assault was The Teenagers from Outer Space.
Last weekend, we had a reunion - think This Life without the artificial insemination. A sheep farmer/cider maker/special needs teacher, a solicitor, a fine arts lecturer, something in computers, a Timeout restaurant critic who had made some Brawn for the occasion, and me. We assembled at Howard's cottage in the Forest of Dean, talked through the legal ramifications of still trading under that name; ate, drank, reminisced, showed photos of our offspring - which took ages - had a demonstration of sheepdog whistling, and played together for the first time in eight thousand days.
I'd hoped that our restaurant critic/harmonica player would now resemble Mr Creosote, requiring 'one little wafer' to explode, but apart from the lack of several big hairstyles, and the odd grey fleck here and there, everybody looked the same - Howard even wore the same shirt. Musically, we were about as good as ever...but Howard's son was certainly impressed, delaying an evening out at the village disco to witness his father dancing with a microphone balanced on his hat.
Perhaps there should be a 20-year rule for early band reunions written into the constitution. Any less than 20 might delude you into taking it seriously again, leading to severe financial and personal consequences. It might also be worth considering future reunions when choosing your band name.
