Putting together my list of the uncoolest albums from my youth (in my last post) got me reminiscing. There was one guitar (‘axe’ is the proper term) hero in my youth who shone above others. His name was Ted Nugent. He weilded his axe like a, er, weapon, producing the most headbanging, parent-annoying, dad-banging-on-the-ceiling-to-TURN-DOWN-THAT-BLOODY-RACKET-I-CAN’T-HEAR-MYSELF-THINK guitar solos the (tiny world I occupied) had ever heard.
I wanted to be Ted. Just look at him. You can see why, can’t you?
Not just an axe, but a flame-throwing gun-of-a-guitar
There was only one man I worshipped more than Ted, and that was my Dad. Because my Dad – as well as being a Real Man with a Proper Job which involved Getting His Hands Dirty was the law in our house. What he said went, no arguments.
So when the music papers announced that Ted Nugent was going to tour the country, including a gig at Manchester Apollo, I went into Best Behaviour Mode, turned my record player down, made Dad a cup of tea when he got home from work, didn’t argue when he told me to eat up the overcooked liver and cabbage prepared by my Incompetent Cook Mum’s Loving Hand. If I was nice to him, he’d be nice to me – and let me go and see my straggly-haired hero at the Apollo, 12 miles from where we lived on the outskits of Manchester.
I was only 15 at the time, far too young to be going to a gig on my own, but – and this may surprise you – I couldn’t rustle up any interest amongst my punk-and-MOD-loving friends to come with me. But after an esepcially wonderful mug of Tetley’s and a barrage of Please-Dad-Per-leaaaaaase campaign of harassment, he finally succumbed.
But first, I had to get the tickets. Now these things were like golddust. In those day, there was no t’internet. You couldn’t register online and wait for an email alert to tell you whether or not you’d been successful in your quest. You had to queue up. Early. Ted Nugent tickets were the iPads of my generation. Well, to me anyway.
And so the Big Day came when the tickets were to go on sale. My Dad’s oldest son packed his sleeping bag, a flask of tea and a Mars bar and caught the 125 bus for the hour-long journey down the A57 to Ardwick.
I arrived at around 7pm. The evening was light, the weather warm, and to my relief I was first in the queue. ‘Smug’ was the word. I’d get a Front Row seat to see my hero and if I chanced my arm, I might get to climb on stage and play air guitar alongside him.
As dusk fell, I nodded off, dreaming of the licks and riffs. I was still alone, just me, my flask and my sleeping bag. But they would come, they would come.
Now Ardwick isn’t one of the most salubrious parts of town. It’s pretty dangerous, actually. Even more so then than now. But I didn’t care. I’d had my head kicked in many times by punks coming back from a heavy metal gig, and then again by metalheads after I’d attended a MOD concert with friends. I was as tough as old boots back in the day, long before I lost my job and became a Reluctant Housedad.
I got a bit of abuse in the night, mainly from drunken tramps, annoyed that I’d stole their pitch in the doorway of the Ticket Office, but shrugged it off. Refused to budge. I’d come too far to be jostled out of place by a couple of teetering p**heads.
As night fell, and the Moon rose high, I fell sound asleep. There was still no-0ne in the queue to keep me company. But so what? Their loss.
At 6 in the morning, I felt a rough meaty hand grab my shoulder and stir me from my slumber. It was my Dad, on his way to work at the Dunlop factory nearby, where he was Chief Fitter.
‘Here, Keith,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you some some breakfast.’
He shoved a cold bacon roll into my hand and sat down for a few minutes and shared his fresh flask of tea with me.
‘So,’ he said, looking around. ‘If this Ted is so popular, how come there’s no-one else here queueing up?’
‘Oh, they’ll be here, Dad. They’ll come. They’re just not as savvy as me.’
With that, he left. And I packed away my sleeping bag and counted the last four hours down until the Ticket Office threw open its doors and welcomed me in. And on the stroke of 10, that is exactly what happened.
I could barely contain my excitement as I burst through the door, clutching my fiver, and strode to the counter.
‘One ticket for Ted Nugent please. Front Row, centre, please. Thank you.’
The cashier looked me up and down. Seemed confused.
‘Ted Nugent?’
‘Yes, Ted. Y’know, Weekend Warriors and all that.’
‘Oh,’ said the cashier, breaking into a smile. ‘Tickets don’t go on sale until tomorrow.’
Disappointed? Yes. But determined. Still. I sat back down on the step and prepared to wait, all day and another all night if need be.
But then, at 5.30pm, I saw my Dad walk towards me. I was exhausted. dirty and very, very hungry.
Dad took my teenage hand in his huge rough paw and said: ‘C’mon, Son. Let’s go home.’
And we left together. Father and son. A Real Hero and His Boy.
I never did get to see Ted Nugent.
Chronicles of a Reluctant Housedad 