Badfest '82
Badfest 82
“My strongest memory of that night is sitting on a roundabout (the one with all the traffic lights now) with Mickey Thompson, after drinking loads of cider and taking around a 100 magic mushrooms. I think Mickey had had about 300. Of course we were talking shite … all I can remember about playing is lots of noise and very bright, coloured, lights.”
Dave Wilson – 4More/Warm Winter/Putz
Some people say that Sunderland Council gave Green Terrace School - aka The Bunker - to the disaffected youth as a way of pre-empting any riots that might be festering amongst the massed ranks of the unemployed.
Riots were big in 1981.
Unemployment was big too.
The chances of the two converging appeared pretty scary to council officials.
But what the councillors didn’t quite grasp was the simple fact that we weren’t ever going to riot.
We had Extra Strong Lager.
The Ivy House.
And Magic Mushrooms from Backhouse Park.
And we had music.
If all we’d wanted to do was riot we could have gone drinking in the town on a Friday night and rioted all night long, and no one would have noticed.
But we didn’t want to riot, we wanted to play music. We didn’t need tear-gas or water cannon or the SPG.
We needed a venue.
So the ‘I predict a riot’ theory of giving fifty guitar-wielding dole-wallahs the keys to Green Terrace School doesn’t hold a lot of water.
Not to me.
Naah.
I prefer the ‘Hell hath no fury’ theory.
It’s only a rumour, but it goes something like this:
When Sunderland Musician’s Collective, Ford Weightlifters and various other groups asked the council if we could have the keys to Green Terrace School, an empty Victorian building dead in the middle of town, approval for our plans basically boiled down to one particular bloke on the council saying Yes.
Or No.
And he was on holiday.
So, taking his place on that particular committee, on that particular day was his ex- … aw hell, if I tell the rest, Booga might get sued but, suffice it to say, when the council bloke came back from his fortnight in Bognor Regis and discovered that four dozen muso’s, plus twenty muscle-heads from Ford, had set up shop right next door to the newly-built, multi-million pound leisure centre, having spent about eight quid on sound-proofing, three bob on hand-painted Fire Exit signs and a tenner on security (that’s about a slab each for the Newport boys) he wasn’t best pleased.
To say the least.
But there we were, a new breed of politicised, musically-enabled social dregs, playing loud music, right in the middle of town.
We could have done anything we wanted.
Anything.
And inspired with that thought, I said ‘Let’s play some really, really shite music. On purpose.’
And everybody thought it was a great idea.
Word went out, and we knew we were onto a winner when Alby Crosby roped in the Rockin’ Desmond rhythm section and formed “The Mills and Boons Funkateers” specially for the night.
From that point on, we knew it’d be bad.
And then Leechy, in between nicking Booga’s gear and gloss-painting his bull-terrier green, promised to deliver a full operatic aria, on stage, amidst, he assured us, a hail of phlegm.
And we knew it’d be even badder.
And then we saw the Fat Boy Two rehearsing…
This wasn’t just a bad gig we realised. This was a festival of badness.
This was going to be a BadFest.
Dave Wares
“My strongest memory of that night is sitting on a roundabout (the one with all the traffic lights now) with Mickey Thompson, after drinking loads of cider and taking around a 100 magic mushrooms. I think Mickey had had about 300. Of course we were talking shite … all I can remember about playing is lots of noise and very bright, coloured, lights.”
Dave Wilson – 4More/Warm Winter/Putz
Some people say that Sunderland Council gave Green Terrace School - aka The Bunker - to the disaffected youth as a way of pre-empting any riots that might be festering amongst the massed ranks of the unemployed.
Riots were big in 1981.
Unemployment was big too.
The chances of the two converging appeared pretty scary to council officials.
But what the councillors didn’t quite grasp was the simple fact that we weren’t ever going to riot.
We had Extra Strong Lager.
The Ivy House.
And Magic Mushrooms from Backhouse Park.
And we had music.
If all we’d wanted to do was riot we could have gone drinking in the town on a Friday night and rioted all night long, and no one would have noticed.
But we didn’t want to riot, we wanted to play music. We didn’t need tear-gas or water cannon or the SPG.
We needed a venue.
So the ‘I predict a riot’ theory of giving fifty guitar-wielding dole-wallahs the keys to Green Terrace School doesn’t hold a lot of water.
Not to me.
Naah.
I prefer the ‘Hell hath no fury’ theory.
It’s only a rumour, but it goes something like this:
When Sunderland Musician’s Collective, Ford Weightlifters and various other groups asked the council if we could have the keys to Green Terrace School, an empty Victorian building dead in the middle of town, approval for our plans basically boiled down to one particular bloke on the council saying Yes.
Or No.
And he was on holiday.
So, taking his place on that particular committee, on that particular day was his ex- … aw hell, if I tell the rest, Booga might get sued but, suffice it to say, when the council bloke came back from his fortnight in Bognor Regis and discovered that four dozen muso’s, plus twenty muscle-heads from Ford, had set up shop right next door to the newly-built, multi-million pound leisure centre, having spent about eight quid on sound-proofing, three bob on hand-painted Fire Exit signs and a tenner on security (that’s about a slab each for the Newport boys) he wasn’t best pleased.
To say the least.
But there we were, a new breed of politicised, musically-enabled social dregs, playing loud music, right in the middle of town.
We could have done anything we wanted.
Anything.
And inspired with that thought, I said ‘Let’s play some really, really shite music. On purpose.’
And everybody thought it was a great idea.
Word went out, and we knew we were onto a winner when Alby Crosby roped in the Rockin’ Desmond rhythm section and formed “The Mills and Boons Funkateers” specially for the night.
From that point on, we knew it’d be bad.
And then Leechy, in between nicking Booga’s gear and gloss-painting his bull-terrier green, promised to deliver a full operatic aria, on stage, amidst, he assured us, a hail of phlegm.
And we knew it’d be even badder.
And then we saw the Fat Boy Two rehearsing…
This wasn’t just a bad gig we realised. This was a festival of badness.
This was going to be a BadFest.
Dave Wares