Video: The Zone performing 'In Any Other Way' at Guilfest 2012

The Zone performing their opening song In Any Other Way on the Main Stage at Guilfest 2012. This song is on their latest EP Which Path available now on iTunes, Amazon and other digital distributors.

Introducing rock covers band Riff Raff from Guildford, Surrey

A big rock covers-band WELCOME! to Riff Raff from Guildford in Surrey.

Riff Raff formed in April 2008 and, after winning Battle of the Bands at the Electric Theatre (Guildford) in June, went on to play at Guilfest '08. Since then, the band has gone from strength to strength playing numerous venues, clubs, events and festivals in the local area. Two original members of the band, Nick (guitar) and Ed (drums) are joined by Mark (vocals), Kev (guitar) and Jason (bass) to deliver a driving rock sound that identifies them as the No 1 rock covers band in the county.

Don't miss them - check out the RTYD Gig Calendar and join the party for an exceptional night of live rock music.

Dirk Thrust's second gig

I enjoyed my first four months in Plymouth. I’d finally left home. I was at Art School. In those days they gave you free money for being a student. My first grant cheque catapulted me straight down to Wants, a second–hand shop, where, for £30 I became the proud owner of a Burns La Vista short-scale jazz guitar. I’d left Guildford with a Gibson Discoverer Tremolo 20 watt amp and speaker combo, not to mention my Marshall Fuzz Face and Vox Wah Wah pedal. My flat-mate, fellow student, Bez, played violin and piano. We would smoke and Jam on occasion. We shared an enthusiasm for Jimmy Clitheroe and the Velvet Underground. Our classmate Jeff from Manchester’s Urmston [just behind the Holland Pie factory] played bass.

I met a non-student guitar player called Malcolm. Our occasional jams occasionally synchronised. He introduced me to Tim, another aspiring guitarist, whose girlfriend was one of three mates with proximate birthdays. They’d clubbed together and hired a waterfront nightclub for a party. A live band was required and thus opportunity knocked.

We would be The Mutley Plain Planet Munchers. Mutley Plain was a street on the way out of Plymouth. It was a good name…in Plymouth. Word spread, friends of friends were keen. By the night of the gig we had: - drums, bass, three guitars, keyboards, violin and flute. Our lack of material was not considered a problem.
We were by and large an Art School Band. This was the fag end of 1972 and we were going to improvise.

One other significant factor was that at least fifty per cent of the band ingested a little opium a couple of hours before the performance. This was my one and only acquaintance with the drug. We all muttered about Thomas de Quincey, though I doubt any of us had got beyond the front cover of The Confessions of An Opium Eater.

‘Ronnie’s’ was an upstairs nightclub in Plymouth’s Barbican - a waterfront area where the fishing fleet moored. The place was heaving as we all set up, some of us meeting up there for the very first time. After an interminable delay we were introduced. And off we went.

There was a huge locomotive roar, within which could be detected drumbeats and cymbals, bass rumbles, a tweeting flute, arpeggiating keyboard, piercing psycho violin, guitar chords and discords and twiddly fuzzed wahs but strictly no vocals. The overall effect was probably more industrial than psychedelic, less wall of sound more housing estate of noise.

I have no idea how long we played for. Time stood still. We were far too out of it and too far into it. We were an eight-piece paradox. It can’t have been easy to listen to. It was impossible to dance to.

Eventually after what probably felt like a month for the audience. A long-haired blond John Lennon look-a-bit-alike singled me out as the ringleader. He came slowly, gently and inexorably up to my non-fretboard side, pushed his pointy nose into my right ear and yelled in that soft Plymouth accent the unforgettable words, ‘I THINK PEOPLE WOULD QUITE LIKE IT IF YOU STOPPED NOW.’ Easier said than done. Eight out-of-it aspiring rock stars on full volume fulfilling their fantasies. We were like a Runaway Train going downhill. It took forever. I stopped but nobody else did so I started again. Then I managed to get half of us to stop, but seeing the other half was still going. Sod it we started up again. This happened three or four times until eventually, all brake shoes burnt to a cinder, we ground to a halt like a shot up Lancaster running out of runway after a heavy night over Hamburg. Next time we would have a song.

(Originally posted 20.01.2010) © Dirk Thrust 2010

My first gig by Dirk Thrust

My first electric guitar cost £4. It was home made. I bought it in a junk shop. I took it home and painted black and white swirly patterns all over its body. For eight quid I bought a knackered Watkins Dominator combo. After less than five minutes on full whack the Dominator made a noise like a demented donkey that you could only kill with feedback. Best feedback resulted from sticking the head of the guitar against the speaker, the guitar’s arse into my groin and basically humping the amp to vary the pitch of the scream. Psychedelically enhanced, this felt fierce and mighty.

I wanted to be original, so I resolutely refused to learn anything. That’s how smart I was. I twiddled and diddled. I bought a Marshall Fuzz Face and a Vox Wah Wah pedal. I fuzzed and wahed my twiddly diddlings.

After a year or so I met another guy called Dirk. We jammed. He would play A and E minor and I would twiddle and diddle.

Obviously the next step was a gig. I knew a chap called Ambrose who was putting on a benefit at Guildford Youth Centre. I blagged a slot. This was 1970. These were Acid Days. I may not have been able to play the guitar but I was more than able to talk. I knew a drummer called The Black Shadow. He looked like King Charles the Second. He knew a white South African who claimed to play the bass. We called him The Immigrant. They were both up for it. None of us had any gear. No matter. We would borrow. I called us ‘Scorched Earth’.

I invited Stephen Stills to come and jam with us at the gig. I’d never met him, but I knew where he lived. He’d bought the house that Peter Sellers had sold to Ringo Starr. It was three miles from Guildford.

I wrote him a very trippy illustrated invitation, which not only explained several of his own song lyrics to him, but also suggested he bring his friend Eric Clapton to our gig. I delivered it by hand. This was 1970. Security hadn’t been invented yet. I walked into Stephen Stills’ kitchen and handed the invite to a very beautiful young American woman. She assured me she’d pass it on to Stephen. I told the promoter. We got a mention in ‘The Raver’ column in Melody Maker.

At the last minute the other Dirk pulled out. His girlfriend went into labour. This was a serious setback. His A and E minor had been intrinsic. He did however lend me his claret coloured velvet doublet. It had puff sleeves and old-gold frog fasteners. He’d bought it in Amsterdam so it had to be cool. It went perfectly with skin-tight white needle-cord wranglers tucked into knee-length, ox-blood, Cuban-heeled Anello and Davide boots. Shoulder-length John Peel haircut complete with wispy teenage beard. No set, no rehearsal, but I looked great.

We arrived punctually, but Black Shadow and The Immigrant were not getting on. They were snarling at each other like a pair of rottweilers with too-tight nut-sacks. It was a struggle to keep them apart whilst attempting to explain to Ambrose, the promoter, my vision for the gig.

My plan was to be actually playing before anyone even arrived. It was going to be a hypersensitive organic psychedelic jam session. The vibe of the arriving audience would totally govern the music. In fact I told Ambrose it was an experiment in Anti-Music. With hindsight this may have been a mistake.

Ambrose did not share my enthusiasm. If anything there was a definite flicker of panic in his eyes. He told us he’d prefer to start off with a few records. I was a little bit disappointed. But he was adamant. So much for my cunning plan. First no rhythm guitar, and now, not only the bass and drums at each others throats, but my artistic improvisational brainchild aborted by the promoter’s short-sighted lack of faith.

‘Well be back later,’ I murmured through clenched teeth. I turned on my Cuban heels and strode off, Black Shadow to the left of me Immigrant to the right of me.

We went round to visit Christopher Robin. He was a vegetarian butcher: a troubled soul with a heart of gold. He lived just a few streets away. He had a big bag of weed. It helped calm down The Black Shadow and The Immigrant. It took the edge off. They stopped snarling at each other. After an hour or so we staggered back to the Youth Centre to see what was happening. We were well wasted.

The Youth Centre was now half full. Between fifty and a hundred people sat around looking bored and mildly pissed off. Ambrose rushed up. He now seemed even more panic-stricken than when we’d left.

‘Quick. You’re on. Now.’

Too stoned to argue, we stumbled onstage. I had a great deal of trouble plugging in my fuzz box and wah-wah pedal. Some kindly hippie assisted me but I was still too out of it to stand up. It was a big stage. We were surrounded by equipment belonging to the several other bands on the bill. Someone got me a stool. I sat down and we started.

I diddled and twiddled. The Black Shadow triple-flammed and paradiddled. The Immigrant pumped out some deep mumbling bass lines. I fuzzed and I wahed. It didn’t take long for me to get through my entire repertoire of three or four riffs by which time I managed to hoist myself upright and line myself up with a microphone. We seemed to have somehow slipped into a twelve bar blues which was a surprise. I’d never played one before. Hell, I couldn’t even play a scale. I sang some kind of ‘Just a Country Boy’ lyrics.

I noticed a pretty girl smiling. ‘Hey, this is fantastic,’ I thought. Then I spotted a bloke yawning. ‘Oh no it must be shit,’ I thought. I then turned my improvised lyrics into ‘hey lets all have a jam, everyone.’ A couple of guys got up on stage at my invitation, but they were halted by representatives of all the other bands. No Way was anyone going to play any of their gear, Jose. That was final, non-negotiable and totally immune to all my ‘Aw c’mon, mans’.

None of these supposed hip musos seemed to understand the hippie ethic. ‘I’ll bloody show them,’ I snarled to myself. I handed my guitar to the nearest of the two onstage volunteers, exited stage left and left them to it.

It would be two years before my next gig. It would also be two hundred miles from Guildford.

Dirk Thrust

New Video! The Zone

Snippets from the Zone's new 5-track EP along with clips from their performance at Guilfest 2011 - Classic Rock, Alternative Rock, Zone Rock!

Video: Surrey band, The Greedies, on a 'Highway to Hell'

The Greedies rock the Old Ford, Ash Vale nr. Guildford, Surrey, with their version of the AC/DC classic. Go to the band's website for contact details, and more good stuff..

Guildford Surrey - based guitarist Brad Williams is now a member of ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP & looking to join a band: http://bit.ly/iHmzyR

Video: Guildford Band, The Greedies

Watch Guildford band @TheGreedies perform Highway to Hell by AC/DC at The Old Ford, AshVale on ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP: http://bit.ly/kJ0IH5

4 by Guildford band Riff Raff

Listen to 4 songs by Guildford band Riff Raff uploaded by bassist Trisha McNair to her ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP page: http://bit.ly/irvncg

Guildford, this is Guildford: full of lovely mature musicians.

I like going to Guildford. I have loads of good memories of Guildford, notwithstanding the 2009 Boileroom Disaster. Almost every part of the place sparks at least one.

Last night's ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP-SOCIAL was held there. The hosts were enthusiastic RTYD members Paul Santilli and Kirsty Pollock of Surrey band, The Greedies. I'd met Paul before, but not Kirsty who is also lovely. Did I just call a bloke lovely?

Charles Ranson of Said & Done (also lovely, too) came out with his bassman Howard (lovely), and both were soon followed into The Keystone pub (not exactly lovely, though it did have some nice beers) by bandmates Trevor and Colin (very nice). Finally, we were joined by RTYD stalwart Trisha McNair (it goes without saying...) and members of her band Riff Raff (riff-raff....just kidding....nice guys)

It was a modest turnout, but enough to constitute a social event. Said & Done had not met the Greedies, and both promised to support each other at their upcoming gigs. We talked a lot about the ins and outs of choosing and playing cover versions. Apparently, it is quite common to create spreadsheets to establish the popularity of song choices amongst the band members. I have even been promised a glimpse of one of these. We'll see.

Almost all of those present had been Weekend Warriors or through the Get Rocking programme for mature musicians who want to get on stage again, or indeed, for the first time. This is how and where they had all initially joined bands, though their bands, it seems, have been through some personnel changed since completing the course.

I had to leave at 10:20 to get my train, which was a shame, but hey! there's always next time.

A ramble on the storm before the calm

November is a busy month for RTYD. We have the RTYD-SOCIALs in Surrey, Oxford and London: the first, kindly organised by Paul Santilli of the Greedies, the second by Guy Pearce, and the latter by Mark Thirkell, my London apprentice. We also have the voting for the 2010 RTYD Awards, and four gigs, including one with my band Pocket Rocket on the bill.

In December there's another couple of events, but come 2011, I'm cutting back to just the one a month at 4 Denmark St, recently renamed The Alley Cat.

The last year and a half that I have been promoting gigs has been really interesting, but I'm not sure a promoter's life is for me. Not at this level. There have however been highs, such as the PUNK-ROCK-TIL-YOU-DROP night when TV Smith and Gaye Advert came out to see Punks Not Dad, and I got to meet them both and have my photo taken with them. And there have been lows like The Boileroom Disaster, Guildford, 2008.

The problem, and one of the reasons I'm knocking most of the gigs on the head, is that I never got past the point that I didn't have to rely on the bands to bring a good crowd.  I refused to hassle bands about bringing people, which of course you have to do to make any money at this level. I am just not interested in becoming an absent promoter who doesn't give a damn about which bands he puts on as long as they bring people through the door. There are enough of these. And my mission has always been to primarily help bands that struggle to develop a following, that are hobbyists and who play original material, by helping to provide them with an audience to bolster the half-a-dozen friends they do manage to get out.

I have to confess, too, that more recently, I have started to feel some complacency creeping in. I've found myself promoting bands I don't even like. I've found myself having to fill bills with bands I don't really like. Promoting more events than I can find bands I like, to play. A lot of the bands brings a handful of people, expecting a RTYD audience, and one doesn't exist. The audience is largely the other bands. Truth is, this is the only time you are going to get old gits out to watch old gits playing: when they're sharing a bill with another band.

My band has just finished getting a new drummer up to speed on eight songs, and is making its debut with its new 3-piece lineup on 20th November in support of Spirit of Play at The Alley Cat. In 2011 I need to focus on my band for a while. I need to get it some gigs, for a start.

I try to make an effort to get to as many gigs as I can, but with my band rehearsing once a week, having three gigs a month, and needing the occasional night out with friends, I'm pushing it 'indoors'.

I'd like to go to all the Outbursts gigs, they're fun, I love watching them, but it's just not possible.

In some respects I dread going out and playing live again; without a real shtick, with just a bunch of original alternative-rock songs, and no real following. It's no secret that I set RTYD up to create a scene for bands like mine. I know that there's a lot of very good bands out there, in the same boat, and in a way seeing them struggle to develop a following hasn't helped.

I don't know? Is RTYD making enough of a difference? I'm not sure. When the Outbursts play in East London, when any band that has posted there gig on the RTYD calendar, plays, I will Twitter/Facebook,etc. it. Does it make a difference. I doubt it. I need to concentrate on making it make a difference. Me putting on gigs does not make a difference. So, I have to find something that will.

I hope the RTYD-SOCIAL events are a success. But I'm sure these too will suffer from lack of interest. From members who don't see the benefit of socialising in the real world with a bunch of other musicians.

I was in two minds about going to the first of the November Socials in Guildford, but my presence has been requested, so I will go. It is my first return to Guildford since the disappointing gig there last year. I suppose if it's going to be a poor show, I should at least be there to share any disappointment.

Looking on the bright side, RTYD has a healthy following around Guildford and in Surrey now, healthier than two summers ago. So, I hope to be pleasantly surprised by the turn out.

A Guildford Rock-Til-You-Drop: What's the worst that could happen?

Something like this.

You are being dropped close to the venue by a family friend at whose house you are staying the night, after the gig. It's 5:20pm. You've missed a mobile call from the singer from the second band on the bill. As you walk, you listen to his message which informs you that he has just received a call from the headline act to say they may have to cancel their performance due to the hospitalisation of their drummer's son. Having had a band cancel a gig on you the night before, you feel you can take this in your stride. You keep moving, as if nothing has happened. You will deal with it like a mature musician, and promoter, and improvise if necessary. No need to worry yet, though.

You reach the club and make a call to the headline act who put an end to any doubt about their possible cancellation. Thankfully, the second band on the bill are able to rustle up there own backline at the drop of a hat, to replace the one that they were due to borrow, that ain't now coming.

You are a band down. This will obviously affect attendance. But how much? The headline act say they have already informed their fanbase that they will not be playing (that was quick-Ed), so it is unlikely that any of their supporters will show up and be disappointed.

You discuss the situation with the venue promoter and during this conversation you suggest that maybe you should do an impromptu acoustic set to plug the gap in the bill now that the two remaining bands have been upgraded to first and executive class respectively.

You sit down with the house electro-acoustic and run through a 6 or 7 song set, remembering some words that you haven't sung for a while, and making some notes. Soundcheck goes smoothly and doors open. It's 7:30pm. People though, are not queuing at the door. A couple in their 70s or 80s walk in. I welcome them and give them a programme. One down - ninety-nine to go (programmes, that is). They sit down at a table under the sound desk directly in front of the stage.

A few minutes later, a few people, somewhere between, 3 and 5, enter the venue, and proceed to sit in the beer garden.

The room is still virtually empty. At 8:00, discovering that the club's electro-acoustic isn't working, you borrow a Fender Strat and take a seat on stage to play a few songs. Fearing how the afore mentioned couple will react at the sound of a heavy metal band playing 20 feet away from their table, you feel it is even more important that you perform at least a handful of songs that they can take away with them, when they are blown out of the room by the first band on. Songs that at least they will be able to hear the words of, if not fully comprehend them. It is a Story of Anvil moment. There is pathos in the air, and a sadness in the room which transforms happy songs into sad ones. But after a shaky start and a couple of fluffed chords you start to relax into the performance and even begin to enjoy yourself, relishing another opportunity to sing through a decent size PA.

Unable to afford to travel with your loyal MC 'Dove Jones', you are also forced to do the MCing yourself. It is not your forte. But in rehearsal on the train you imagine at least 20-30 people in front of you when you make your first announcement. This is not the reality.

To break even on the night, you need 45 people through the door. This, in your mind is what you expect at the very least, being that these are local bands, two of which are playing Guilfest, and the other which is always assuring you of its popularity and the success of its gigs. Since they have cancelled, your expectation has been shot to bits. All you know now, is that you are a band down, and there is no bugger here. And being that this isn't the Dublin Castle with its conveyor belt of bands and fans, there is unlikely to be a hoard of fans waiting in a nearby pub to arrive closer to the time that their favourite local band is on. This is Guildford, you'd think this gig would be in people's diaries and they would be here on time to get value for money and to see a couple of bands they didn't know.

You announce the first band, they play. At some point the elderly couple leave. You introduce the second band, and they play. Well. To an imaginery audience. During their sets, you dread to count the number of people in the venue. So you don't. You think about crying, but you don't.

You have clearly over-estimated the interest of local mature music fans and musicians in lcoal bands that continue to play original material. In the concept of Rock-Til-You-Drop. You have clearly overlooked the fact that "Wednesday is not a good night", not in Guildford, anyway. You have clearly deluded yourself somewhat. You are now brought down to size. The last busy Dublin Castle gig has been replaced in your memory by this. You are now not returning to your old stamping ground, triumphant, as you had hoped. Instead, you have returned unnoticed (Thank fuck-Ed). And now you wish you weren't staying the night here, but that you could leave tonight and wake up in London like it was all a bad dream.

You cannot.