Rougham - 1
Jules and Tim went to his sisters cottage in Norfolk for a “music writing” weekend.
The weather was wonderful so we set up outside to write and perform our great unpublished rock opera - ‘Billy Carter’ (brother of the US President at the time) together with a rather nastier composition “Gruff Nuts in Winter”. The local Farmer in the field opposite had never seen or heard anything like it.
The next day we went to Rougham Tree Fair to scope it out.
Tim was discovered by Rupert (who met us there) in the centre of a crowd competing for the Yard of Ale speed award - he introduced us to his new friend who, wrapped in a brown fur coat, was selling a selection of valuable artefacts (including a lump of blu tack) on a small handkerchief in front of him. We knew immediately it was our sort of festival.
The Barneys weren’t there that year, but Tim joined a group of stoners in a circle that had convinced themselves that Pink Floyd were going to make an impromptu appearance. Any minute. ‘They owe it to us, man’. ‘It’s time, man’.
They didn’t.
Not very surprisingly Tim then lost his car keys so had to be driven back up to the cottage to collect the car the following weekend with brother Nick who at that time was luckily still operating with both arms. The cottage was now being occupied by a bunch of nuns who wouldn’t let him in.
Rougham - 2 (the Guitarist)
The call went out that we would be head lining at the now expanded Rougham Tree Festival on the Saturday (that was a lie for a start).
I borrowed a van from the delivery part of the hotel company I was working in. It wasn’t in the greatest shape and on the Saturday morning, we loaded the borrowed Marshalls, Peaveys, PA system and instruments into said ancient vehicle together with one of the band’s female fans who sat in the back in a velveteen armchair looking out backwards at the A12 spooling un-endingly until …
The van died.
We pulled over onto the side and quickly established that we had none of the skills necessary to solve any problem more complicated than running out of petrol.
I waved down an articulated lorry and offered him our sandwiches if he would tow us to Rougham. He was going nearby so agreed. And in that way we limped hungrily and ignominiously, but rather splendidly (as the velveteen armchair, with female fan still attached) was now on the open back of the lorry, onto the festival grounds.
Fun and drinking ensued, until darkness began to fall and we started to bend our minds to setting up the gear on the right stage - but where was that?
It was only then that it began to dawn on us that whoever (nobody could remember who) in the band had put out the call to assemble at Rougham was nowhere to be found. And worse than that, we were not on any list or billing for any of the stages. Was this all a practical joke? That was the most likely explanation.
What to do?
Band members were dispatched to the various stages investigate and otherwise to ask (beg) whether we might do a short set between the current published bookings. Annoyingly, the van was still dead in a far corner of the field.
As I remember Julian found a weakling Stage Manager in the children’s tent that he could bully. And then bribe. Not waiting for an explicit Yes, we pushed the van to the back of the stage and began to set up behind the Barneys, who were a teeth-gratingly irritating magic/theatre/puppet act, bu going down a storm with the audience, a curious mixture of bikers and the delighted progeny of local East Anglian hippies.
As the Barneys drew to a close and they were standing in the wings preparing to return for the first of their encores before the shining faces of a mass of excited children inches from the stage, we pushed them unceremoniously aside, rushed on, and blasted into Communication Breakdown, only to be confronted with a host of bewildered, muted beseeching cries of ‘We don’t want the Group, we want The Barneys’. Followed by isolated sobbing.
I also remember noticing that the magical, solemn and silent “Tree Ceremony” the highlight of the weekend and performed by an assortment of clothed Druids and naked Wild Men was just starting, immediately behind the tent.
And the Stage Manager saying ‘How much longer will you be?’
I can’t remember much after that, except waking up in London, and somehow the van & gear had come back with us. Maybe the Barneys magicked it back into life? After all, they had a vested interest in getting rid of us.
Rougham - 3 (the Drummer)
Sadly Neville was killed in a car crash before we hit our stride as a band, but in his memory we booked in to play a festival in his native Suffolk. The Rougham Tree Fair was a mini Glastonbury, replete with three performing stages. For this gig I actually bought a new second hand drum kit.
We had arrived mid afternoon and, after various “misunderstandings” established that we were going on at midnight, on the Dome stage, after a performance by a Hungarian puppet troupe. We were in a marginally better state than the stage manager, who by eleven, was out of his box.. Naturally everything was running late, but our turn finally came.
I had devised a costume that would be not too hot for my exertions, which involved silver lurex tights and an elasticated ‘Teddy’, set off with a red fez and black lipstick.
The routine was for me to go on first, house lights down, set up a beat, to be joined by the bass man, and then the rest of the band. On I went. House lights went up and I was confronted with an audience of hairy bikers. Shit ! How was this going to go? I blew them a kiss, the band came on, and we rattled through a punk version of the Eton Boating Song. ( Works well in punk ). The Pukettes wore minimal clothing. We were a triumph!
Rougham - 4 (The Fan)
Name: Denny Elrod - Memories of Rougham.
I’m now an Old Arkansas hillbilly. In my youth I was stationed at RAF Mildenhall from 1981 to 1984 as an airman in the USAF. One of my most treasured memories is of the day in 1982 my barracks roommate drug me out of bed and we hitch-hiked to the Bury St. Edmunds area then walked for miles through the mustard-strewn fields to come upon a fantastic place–the grove of Rougham.
I had been in the UK for almost a year and had yet to get over the culture-shock I had experienced. I’ll never forget that day–or the day after–because we didn’t leave the festival that night. We stayed and experienced the most amazing party I’ve ever attended!
I made it back for the the next year–this time having PLANNED to spend the week-end. I’ll never forget the drums, the movies under the great trees (King-Kong comes to mind), the story-telling, the crafts, the music (Donovan, Heavy Puke), and especially the incredible people! I’ll never forget the sense of community I felt those few days I spent under the wonderful trees of Rougham!
I value my experience with your festival-culture.
Cheers, Mate!
Denny Elrod
The Round House - 1 (Band Member)
This was meant to be our finest hour but, in reality, went something like this…
We turned up a couple of hours before the party was due to start, set our sound system up for a short practice (not too long in case they “found out”) and immediately blew it all up. We had insisted on headlining the evening, with the band beforehand being the very incredible and professional Geno Washington and the Ram Jam Band. Not surprisingly, Geno, somewhat irritated at having to come on first, was not willing to lend us his equipment. A desperate cry for help went out to all our friends (this was the day before mobile phones existed) and, incredibly, one of Tim’s old friends Chris said he could get us some gear just about in time for our scheduled appearance.
With several hours to spare, we therefore repaired to the pub, followed by a mammoth session of indulgence in our dressing room. Bad mistake on both counts. Not only were we completely pissed by the time we got to the dressing room, but everyone had then indulged in something completely different. Worst of all was our replacement drummer, Nick, who had taken 3 tablets of speed. When questioned later, his response had been that he had been trying to compensate for the fact that he’d actually only got one working hand, the other being in plaster (a handicap we had somehow failed to observe when we hired him).
So, on to the opening number, a spirited rendition of “Born to be Wild” which involved Julian clambering through the audience and then onto the stage, enveloped in a sea of dry ice, sporting a long blond wig. No sooner than he had got onto stage (a sultry faced Geno watching from the wings) than we blew the second sound system up. We discovered we only had one working amp left into which everyone, including all the vocalists, had to plug themselves into. Anyone who has any experience of sound systems will know that this is a perfect recipe for complete audio mayhem.
We needed an immediate distraction so a signal was sent to our special effects man to give it everything he had halfway through the next number. Unfortunately, said “expert”, who also happened to be completely stoned, couldn’t see properly as his glasses were misted up by the dry ice. He interpreted the sign as immediate, rather than shortly. The thunder flashes that he set off were all directly beneath our bassist and two rhythm guitarists who had not yet been given the signal to move away and were therefore raised some 3 ft in the air by the explosion. Luckily all three were too out of it to notice. Indeed the Bassist (who was wearing a gas mask and couldn’t see anything in any event) remarked later that he had had some strange but rather glorious mystical multi-coloured experience at one point during the gig.
Although the visuals were going down a storm with the audience, the audio was not (a new problem having arisen that most band members had become half deaf from the explosion and were now playing different numbers) and so, after struggling through the next song, we saw our hosts weave their way to the front of the stage and grab the ankle of our lead singer. “Thank you, thank you very much, time to end if you don’t mind”.
Now, what do you do when you have finally made it to the Roundhouse and are asked to stop? Of course you don’t. With a flash of panic stricken inspiration, Julian sent the 4 pukettes off for an immediate and rapid costume change from T shirts into figure clinging red all-in-one cat suits. It worked. We remained on stage to the bitter end of our set. “Bitter” not even beginning to describe it…
To this day, we have never spoken to any of the hosts of the party again. Strange that.
The Round House - 2 (Band Member)
At one point, early on in the evening, I found myself chatting to a very amiable chap at the bar. “So what do you do for a living?” I asked. “Well I’m an Actor actually” he said. “ Ah”, I replied knowingly “Bit of a struggle then. Never knowing when you might get a bit part in something. Mostly out of work. Still there is always a slim chance you might make it at some point”.
Later that evening, I saw the same bloke again, this time, sitting on a bench, staring into space. “I was talking to him earlier” I said to my companion. “Struggling Actor”. “He’s not struggling, that’s Griff Rhys Jones, one of our hosts”. “Oh Christ, I must apologise to him”. So I walk up behind him, give him a gentle tap on the shoulder and say “Griff, I’m terribly sorry, I had no idea who you were”. Griff falls to the ground and lies there motionless flat on his face. He is completely and utterly pissed. I exit stage left quietly.
Sadly, I have never had the opportunity of further apologising to him.
Found on the Internet - 1
I had the pressing of ‘Don’t you want me Baby’ , a 45 single signed by Julian and Tim but it was stolen at my 21st birthday party ( Pity as it was a fun thing to have and there were hardly any copies).
I too was in the backing singers but was not amongst the names listed above. I was then Fiona Welsh. I saw an ad in the Evening Standard asking for singers who couldn’t sing but looked good. Perfect as I couldn’t sing to key but looked reasonable..( many years ago!). I showed a girl ( the name Caroline rings a bell) I worked with in a London American Diner the ad, she said she knew Julian and told me to go along and say I knew her. I got the job! We sang one gig at a North London music venue…near Marylebone from memory. Julian was asked to do another gig but he said he wanted a helicopter to take us from the gig so they turned him down. He was trying to prove that even with backing singers who couldn’t sing you could make it in the industry.
I certainly couldn’t sing but it was a great experience.
All above was 30 yrs ago so sorry if I recall wrongly.
Every time the Human League is played I think of that crazy night
Found on the Internet - 2
I have this record and sang a few gigs with this band in a Pub in the North End Road London, about 30 years ago!! The actor William Boyd from Eastenders fame was in the band. It was a joke, none off us were real punks.
Eggar I believe was a writer and publicist. We had to sing off key. We also sang Don’t you Want me and The Kinks ….All of The Night . We did a photo shoot in a London Club for a May issue of a Men Only Mag, I tried to find it in the library once but the page had been ripped out. Never heard from them again I found them by replying to an ad in Melody Maker, although it was short and sweet it was a great time and laughs.
The Barracuda Club (New Band Member)
This was the first time I had been invited to play with the Band. We gathered beforehand in the dressing room. No soundcheck - I was rather impressed by that. The usual combustibles were rampant - again impressed and rather chuffed that I was now definitely a part of serious Rock and Roll.
I then noticed one of the Band take out a large syringe and inject himself. No one took any notice. “Christ”, I thought, “I’m actually totally out of my depth here”.
It was only afterwards that I discovered he was a Diabetic.
Chelsea Barracks (Band Member)
We’d assembled at the Barracks in Chelsea to be shown to a large empty concert hall by a squaddie.
I can’t remember much about the gig. It seemed alright, as HP gigs go. But suddenly all the lights went out. We groped our way backstage to the room with the table and waited, listening to the roar of completely disoriented people staggering around in the darkened hall.
It appeared that one of the guests had sneaked down to the basement and had thrown the main power switch, but then couldn’t find how to turn it back on in the dark.
Abruptly the lights came back on and we waited for the call to come back on stage. It never happened.
What did however happen next was that a large red-faced man suddenly came into the room, said that a lot of damage had been caused by the sudden cut to the power, and, to make matters worse, there was a virtual riot going on outside in the hall. ‘Which one of you is Rupert?’ he enquired in a worryingly low voice.
Rupert, bassist, taken unawares, replied unhesitatingly-
‘Me’ .
At which point, the Red-faced man ran round the table towards Rupert.
Adrenalin miraculously overcoming Rupert’s normally languid demeanour, enabled him to race in the opposite direction, accompanied by the rest of the band.
A Benny Hill standoff prevailed with the band clustered together on one side of the large table and the Red-faced man on the other, occasionally feinting to one side or the other, producing the inverse effect opposite. Red-faced man then left the room leaving us no clearer as to who he was and why he had asked for Rupert in the first place.
Shortly afterwards, one of our friends appeared, who had also been in the audience, dragging some unfortunate guest by the scruff of his neck. “I’ve found the Bastard who cut the power” he said, and stood back waiting for us to beat the living daylights out of him. “Why did you do it?” we asked. “Because I didn’t come half way around the world to listen to that sort of shit”. “Fair enough” we replied and shook him warmly by the hand.
We were escorted off the premises by rather more squaddies who had welcomed us onto it.
The Surrealist Ball (the Drummer)
Our final outing was The Surrealist Ball. There had always been a stand in drummer, Nick, Tim’s brother, who indeed deputised at the notorious Round House fiasco while I was riding at the Burghley Horse Trials. For this one however there were two drummers available, and two drum kits. Let’s both do it. The more the merrier. Then I had a plan. If I really wasn’t needed for the first couple of numbers, why not achieve a life time’s ambition of being one of the Pukettes (8 of them already - a record turn-out).
I didn’t inform the rest of the band. We set up and did our “sound check”, then I went into darkest Knightsbridge to a fabulously Sloaney ex flat mate Henrietta, who was entertaining a former girl friend of mine and chums for dinner. Maria had been a BBC make up artist, and had done me up in drag before. I rocked up in cord trousers and check shirt, welcomed the dinner party and said to Maria, ‘Slap time.’
Half an hour later I tottered down the stairs in a pair of my mother’s high heeled Rayne shoes, a combat jacket as my mini dress, fish net tights, a Cher wig, red Paris hooker’s beret and a fag in a 12 inch holder. Gorgeous. Dinner party slightly gobsmacked.
By the time I arrived back at the gig venue over a thousand punters had assembled. I ambled up to a bar to find the rest of the band, who took a surprisingly long time to twig that this flirty drag queen was their other drummer.
Having done a couple of numbers as one of the girls I returned to my drum kit and completed the set. After our performance I was heading for a pee, when one of the St. John Ambulance blokes in uniform,( they were one of the benefiting charities ), said ‘ hello darling, all the pretty girls have given me a kiss tonight.’ So I did, and told him a pretty boy had now done so too.
A somewhat ponderous, yet a clearly awed recollection of the Band (anon)
In essence, Puke was a ‘theatre band’. Given to Ironic spectacle, put on by attention-seeking naifs.
More of a Dunkerque than a Waterloo.
Puke was an against-the-grain, democratic and inclusive phenomenon - a counterpoint to the great bands‘ onerous perfectionism. Puke will never ever split up through ‘musical differences’.
Unsurprisingly.
Lack of musical ability (like a barre chord, for example, or being able to sing) was (and is) no bar to life membership. Enthusiasm and devotion (no one leaves the band unless they die, or all memory is expunged) must lead on to greatness - and it did. OK might do.
The band’s helicopter arrival at a gig has not yet materialised. But Puke are not discouraged. It will come one day. Maybe not on the same day, though. They are not that fussy.
As the great Jimmy Page said while attending the 2019 relaunch of Riverside Studios in London (an old Puke stamping ground) -
‘Hmmm. No, I don’t think I have ever heard of Heavy Puke’. [true]
But at least he said their name. And that is immortality enough for Puke.
Further proof of our Fame (a Guitarist)
Just reminded about the time me and Tony Blair had a competitive conversation about Ugly Rumours and Heavy Puke (and what we did with our lives). Where? Buck House of course.
By coincidence, yesterday I had a call from a property developer who is raising palm oil maggots for fish food in Sumatra and wanted $40m to scale up. He rang to seek my help. I was a little startled when he opened the conversation by saying: “Weren’t you in Heavy Puke?” News travels FAST! Turns out he and one of our pukettes were an item in the smoky past…..
Staying with the Pukettes (the Harp Player)
Unable to get home after a party the keyboard player invited me to stay in a house in Clapham. It was owned by two Pukettes.
I was shaken awake late and hungover by a beautiful French girl who urged me to leave immediately, the house otherwise now empty. I agreed to but only after coffee which I made stumbling about in the kitchen.
I took it out into the small walled garden to find I was surrounded on three sides by marijuana plants, tall and healthy.
The girl was renting a room and unbeknown to the owners was a hooker awaiting a client.
Later I was offered a room there myself where I met the rest of the band.
I first saw them play at the Cock in the Northend Road.
They were astonishing and exactly as described.
When they discovered I played blues harp they invited me to join them and so I did.
I found it hard to fit a harmonica part into some of the songs like the one about a Cortina and The Smell of Burning Leather but no one gave a shit.
I had a white stick, shades and a sun visor and was led on stage by almost naked Pukettes.
There was not a lot not to like. Well, there was once when later at the Riverside Gig I was hit on the head by a hard white cabbage and split my lip on the harmonica.
Happy days.