Musical Chairs

#33 The road to friendship

Oh, for days like these, when we were young, and everything was possible.

In late 1986 I was one of a not insignificant number of people who went to all 25 dates on The Mission's World Crusade British tour. In the interests of audience engagement, I won't list every one of them, but it went as far north as Aberdeen, as far south as Brighton, as far west as Exeter and as far east as Norwich. All the usual gig-going cities were featured. And Aylesbury.

"What madness is this?" you may ask. I'll attempt to explain. Most of us were in our late teens/early twenties at the time - alternative pastimes at this point were college, work or an afternoon watching Countdown. As young music fans we were keen to explore the world on a budget of next to nothing. So, kitbags thrown over our shoulders, we hit the road.

Unbeknownst to us at the time, we were part of a growing culture of "followers", young people who hitchhiked round the highways and byways of the nation to watch their favourite bands (usually for free, courtesy of the band or promoter's guest list).

This trend was particularly prevalent with post-punk, goth and psychobilly bands - from my experience, The Sisters of Mercy, Death Cult/The Cult, New Model Army, Spear of Destiny, Play Dead, Balaam And The Angel, The Meteors, Guana Batz and King Kurt all had big UK followings in the mid-80s.

Having dipped our collective toes in the water with The Sisters of Mercy in 1984/85, many of us gravitated towards the band that formed from their (original) ashes, The Mission. From October 29 to November 26 we followed The Mission everywhere. Twenty nine days where the morning/afternoon was the road, the evening was the gig and the night was wherever we could find.

Uncomfortable, unsafe, unhealthy but most of all, unforgettable. For these were hallowed days where lifelong friendships were forged. In the cold and rain, in the lay-bys and service stations of the nation's motorways, in the cars and lorries of strangers, in bus stations and front rooms, in the towns and cities where we gathered to share our love of music and our appetite for adventure.

To an extent we developed our own form of communication - from marking our territory on the back of motorway road signs (many of these marker pen messages are still visible today) to the language of hitchhiking, hand signs from the driver and cardboard destination signs from us. Special shout out to ex-Mission follower now Evil Blizzard member Stoko for his legendary "Absolutely Anywhere" destination sign - sometimes, it really did feel like that.

Along the way, certain incidents have taken on almost mythical status - the tiny dog on the dashboard raising its paw to indicate the car wouldn't be stopping for us, the sub-zero public toilets which provided frail shelter in the small Scottish town of Sanquhar, the hollow "10 minutes, just round the corner" refrain in response to the whereabouts of your destination as you scaled another unbearable Northern hill in search of midnight sleep and warmth.

Many years on, it's important to acknowledge the support from the band and crew and, of course, the countless nameless drivers who ferried us to our nightly vocation. Without them, the winter of 1986 would have been very different.

Like many of life's great experiences, it has grown richer with the passage of time. Today, I'm proud to class at least a dozen of my fellow rock'n'roll travellers as close friends and I know that's the case for almost everyone who shared our adventure. Our lives may have changed beyond recognition but fuelled by our common love of music, our bond of brotherhood and sisterhood is stronger than ever. Now, where did I put that cardboard sign?