Alex Harvey: He didn’t need to ‘move like Jagger’ cos his band was sensational

Adelaide has been quiet this week. Reason? The Rolling Stones have left town. Now they take their epic roadshow around the rest of Australia. Good luck to ‘em. It was all go for a while with the old rockers turning up everywhere around SA and Ronnie Wood in particular seeming to be having a great time. He even made it to an Adelaide United game when they took on Melbourne Victory at the Adelaide Oval. Maybe, he was checking out the venue ahead of last Saturday’s Stones gig. I was one of the seemingly few people in the city who failed to land a ticket for the biggest show in the state. I was in two minds when the tickets went on sale. Did I really wanna see a bunch of blokes in their sixties/seventies still trying to strut around a stage like they did a few decades ago? Or should I have applauded Mick Jagger and his chums in their fight against ageism, showing that you could still do anything you wanted to do, whatever the date said on your birth certificate? In the end, it didn’t matter. The internet didn’t seem to wanna work for me, so zilch tickets . Most folk who went to the gig seemed to have had a ball. Everyone had a special Stones story to tell. So the one-time rebels who are now “so respectable”, to quote one of their songs, can still deliver. The atmosphere walking around the city on Saturday afternoon was certainly buzzing with Stones fans decked out in multifarious t-shirts dedicated to their heroes providing an atmosphere more akin to pre-kick off build-up for a football match than a mere rock concert. But the two have often gone hand in hand in my estimations. So I got to thinking about which bands and artists could cause such a fanatical flutter in my leanings. Don’t get me wrong, I have a healthy respect for the Stones, but I can think of a lot more acts plucked from rock’s rich tapestry who I would have fought to grab tickets for. So, I’ll offer up my top ten. These choices may not provoke universal agreement but we are about to exit from the mainstream. So, in the words of Mrs Murton: “let’s have a heated debate.” At number one has to be the Sensational Alex Harvey Band: Deliciously deranged Scottish rockers fronted by madcap mentor Alex. In 1975 with the band heading ever upwards towards their critical and musical peak, Alex was already 40. Lead guitarist Zal Cleminson, bassist Chris Glen and the McKenna brothers – Ted on drums and Hugh on keyboards – seemed happy to go along with Alex’s pre-punk slant on Seventies Britain and everything before and about to happen. The Glasgow lads had previously existed under the name Tear Gas. Under Alex’s tutelage, they went on to bigger things. Alex’s lyrics touched on witchcraft, Scottish and American history, crocodile hunters, black magic, cookery and super heroes. Their live acts were a joy to behold with Alex holding centre stage in black and white hooped t-shirt and leather jacket while Zal and Chris cavorted around, assuming almost vaudeville personas. Zal, with white painted face, looked like a deranged and dangerous clown paying homage to Cesar Romero’s Joker from the camp 1960s Batman, while Chris seemed to have adopted a role of a time-travelling updated teddy boy. Manic would be putting it mildly. I first heard the opening hypnotic intro to Faith Healer leaving a Hatfield and the North gig at Barbarella’s club in Birmingham in late 1974. After my Brum University mate, Rick Newman, had informed me what the track was, I was hooked. The music seemed to bubble along for ever, up hill and down dale with Alex’s malevolent vocals trying to instil a sense of mock goodwill that you just were so aware wasn’t there. “Let me put my hands on you…” he begged. You knew that whoever he was imploring to do so, would be in for a rude shock if they succumbed to his request. Image my delight when I found that the pared-down single version had been put on the jukebox of the legendary Queens Hotel in my native Blackburn. In those days, most pubs had jukeboxes and you could instantly tell their character by what you saw there. In Blackburn we were blessed with the Vulcan, the Peel, the Jubilee, the Courts (all ‘cept the Jubilee now sadly long gone) which contained musical tyrannical treasures that were not for the faint-hearted. Many a student mate visiting the town for the first time was blown away by the loud, loud fayre on offer. Sometimes I would go into the Queens and put “Faith Healer” on the jukebox before I even bought my first pint. Alex and co carried on the good work from their “Next” album in 1973 with “The Impossible Dream” in 1974 and “Tomorrow Belongs To Me” in May 75. One of the band’s quirks was to play oddball cover versions and when they turned their hand to Tom Jones’ “Delilah” in summer 1975 it earned them singles success in the UK and a place on Top of the Pops. Who’d a thewt it? On they marched. SAHB gigs were now sold out with packed houses at Birmingham Odeon when I first saw ‘em. I went along in May 75 with student pals Rick plus Val Trotman (of Whitley Bay fame) and Nicola Wellens (who hailed from Manchester). It showed that SAHB had straddled across the barrier of being accepted across the board. But they were still hip. And they were truly sensational that night. Just to make sure, I saw ‘em again two days later – this time in a stadium setting at Stoke City’s old Victoria Ground football stadium. I jumped on a coach with Margaret Walker (Hull City fan) specially organised for the gig. Yes were the headliners and there was also Gryphon and Ace on the bill. We bumped into various Vulcan reprobates and Blackburners Eric Spiby ( North Staffs Poly) plus big Jim Chadwick, who had brought Jimmy “Dreamer” down with him from Manchester Uni. The gig became infamous for outbreaks of crowd violence during the SAHB set. No bother… Alex sorted it out with a tirade involving the ‘c’ and ‘f’ words. A bit rude, but problem solved. And another great set. The band seemed street-cred a-go-go in my eyes so easily survived the UK cultural tidal wave of punk. The band even released an album of tight tunes minus Alex in 1977 and Zal took off his war paint when they played the stuff at Birmingham University. In 1982 Alex’s hard living caught up with him and he died in Belgium after the band had suddenly and messily dissolved under financial pressures before the turn of the decade. Oh, well, I’d always have my memories. It was amazing how over the years when you named-dropped Alex Harvey and the lads, how many people that moniker would strike a chord with. There was Rangers fan Moray Allen in Brum, Chris Baines (Geordie land), Pete Brown (Sydney via Tamworth), plus Alan Blane (a Scot in Adelaide) along with The Advertiser’s Mike Gribble. It was like belonging to a secret, underground sect. Then in 2005, all those years later… they were back. Minus Alex, for obvious reasons, the SAHB had reformed with another eccentric Scot, “Mad” Max Maxwell, fronting the lads as he spouted out Alex’s rasping native narrations. And it worked. Zal had mutated into a fresh-faced soul who still oozed menace and Chris Glen looked like he loved a beer even more. At a dungeon-like venue in London’s Camden Town, they played a set of the old favourites that was as tight as ever and that had stood the test of time. Gabs bravely accompanied me on that gig. I still don’t really know what she thought or whether the experience left her subliminally scarred, or perhaps scared, for all time. Better still, after we moved to Adelaide in late 2005, shortly into my new existence the band turned up at the Governor of Hindmarsh. Again a small, intimate venue with the same ecstatic result. I realise SAHB were never as popular as the Stones but the devotion they inspired from their fans was almost like following a football team. Now it seems I’ve rambled on long enough about my top 10 alternatives to the Stones. And I haven’t even got to number two. Looks like this will be done in instalments. So stay tuned. As Alex Harvey signed off after “Hail Vibrania” on Tomorrow Belongs To Me … “To be continued”…

England’s schedule disrupted by Kevin Pietersen’s petty disclosures

England’s cricketers have plenty on their plates in the coming months. They visit Sri Lanka for a schedule of one-day encounters and arrive down under for the World Cup in the new year. After that, they jet off to the West Indies for a Test series, then there’s the little matter of a home Ashes showdown. So the last thing they need is to have their ambitions derailed by friendly fire. But that’s just what Kevin Pietersen seems to have done with the publication of his autobiography. The discarded maverick has cooked up a rare ol’ storm, slagging off his former colleagues left, right and centre. In the process he has been the subject of some stinging rebukes with every cricketer within sight having their say on Kev’s supposed exposes of a fractured dressing room and vicious cliques. If KP’s revelations are anywhere near the truth, no wonder England suffered a 5-0 pasting in the Ashes series of the last Aussie summer. But if the backroom was so rife with in-fighting, how did they ever manage three successive Ashes successes and rise to be the number one Test team in the world? There’s no denying that Pietersen is a special talent, but he seems to stir up spats wherever he goes. It’s like the joke about former BBC journalist Kate Aidie, who was always reporting from war zones – “That Kate Aidie, where-ever she goes, there’s trouble.” Right from KP’s junior days in his native South Africa through a falling-out at Nottinghamshire, then at Hampshire and rows with various England backroom figures and team-mates, it seems Kev could start a bust-up in an empty room. He was certainly under the cosh in Australia last summer when the natives were craving for revenge in the wake of numerous Ashes capitulations of their own. Every time Pietersen came to the crease, he was pressured because of the failings of the upper order. His carefree manner often came across as a “couldn’t care less” attitude. Such a shame. He wasn’t the only one to fall short. And such a shame that he may now be remembered as a disruptive influence and for the dirt he has dished out in his book. I guess Kev really just wanted to be liked. I remember watching on the box when he was starting out on his brief, ill-fated reign as England captain a few years ago. At the end of every over when England were in the field, Kev would be running round clapping his hands, patting bowlers and fielders on their behinds and generally yelling “C’mons” in all directions. It was like he was trying too hard. “Jeez, he’ll be knackered at this rate,” I remember thinking to myself. There are also other England players who don’t come across as being too edifying. Lancashire’s own James Anderson seems gentle as a teddy bear off the field but then gets into all kinds of strife when he walks across the boundary ropes. He’s not exactly best friends with Michael Clarke, had a set-to with the Indians at Lord’s last UK summer and has caused verbal commotions in a couple of Roses matches against Yorkshire in recent seasons. Stuart Broad survived a torrent of abuse from the Aussie media last time around but he isn’t even liked by some England fans because of his apparent aloof demeanour. Jim Chadwick, Rossendale cricket umpire and raconteur extraordinaire, routinely tells me that “if Broad walked down our street, I’d like to bloody hit him.” Straight talk as ever from Big Jim. But as everybody steps forward to speak out about KP – from Alastair Cook, Andrew Strauss, Matthew Hoggard, Anderson himself and countless other team-mates – the one voice I would find positively fascinating would be another perceived self-centred enigma from yesteryear, Geoff Boycott. The Tyke opener was as fastidious as KP was flamboyant, but they could both win Test matches for England. Boycott came from the wrong side of the Pennines for me, but I always wanted him to do well for England. He came back from his strange, self-imposed Test exile in the mid-Seventies and was better than ever. But I always got the impression that, like KP, he just wanted to be loved. If things had gone awry, I always worried that he could just pick up his bat and walk away again. Such prickly characters, these players of genius. Nowadays I always look for Geoff’s comments in London’s Daily Telegraph, my former place of work. My most bitter-sweet memory of Boycott during his playing days was one I missed – the Roses game of August 1975 at Headingley. And as fate would have it, Big Jim Chadwick was one of the characters involved. Along with Al Denby, we set off from Ramsgreave in Johnny Young’s car for the championship encounter. Naturally JY was running late. We went to Leeds via the scenic route through Skipton which took an age. Then a wasp entered through a window which caused the brakes to be slammed on and an impromptu evacuation of the vehicle. The wasp was eventually disposed of but time was ticking by. “We’re gonna miss the start,” I yelled at Johnny. “If Boycott’s out for a duck, I’ll kill you.” We arrived at the turnstiles to be told by a gloomy Tyke gateman that Yorkshire were batting and had slumped to 13 for four. And guess what? Boycott c Simmons, b Lever 0. Aye, the Yorkshire nemesis had duly gone for a duck. It would have been one of my greatest sporting moments. Alas, I had to watch it on the TV replays. Yes, Roses games were on the telly in those days. But when Boycs played for England, I just wanted him to score plenty. So I wonder what he would think of the Pietersen situation. Totally different personalities but kindred spirits. If Boycs doesn’t air his views, maybe I’ll just get on the phone to Big Jim this week and see what he thinks. Might be fun to hear…

Rabbitohs and Bulldogs ready to slug it out in rugby league showpiece

The Australian sporting calendar turns over another page this weekend and it’s rugby league’s opportunity to take centre stage. Let’s hope the NRL grand final between South Sydney and Canterbury produces more of a spectacle than last week’s one-sided AFL affair when my Sydney Swans mysteriously decided not to turn up performance-wise against Hawthorn, who must have been pleasantly surprised at the ease of their victory. I’ve always has a healthy respect for rugby league as a sport, even if I have never been a passionate watcher. I hail from Blackburn, a town just up the M6 from Wigan, which is deep in the heart of rugby league territory in England. But in reality it could be a million miles away in emotional terms, because rugby league just isn’t on the map in that area of Lancashire. Odd isn’t it. In essence rugby league is a minority sport in the UK. It’s basically played across a trans-Pennine corridor of South Lancashire and South Yorkshire. The Super League now embraces a token French team and down the years, there have been numerous attempts to establish a side in London, I guess with a view to attracting Northern and Antipodean expats in the capital. I remember going to a game at Brentford’s football ground with the Daily Telegraph’s Gary Slater, who was reporting on the match for whichever London incarnation existed at that time. Gary hails from Warrington and is an avid Wolves fan, so he knows the ropes. Plus, Griffin Park is an unusual venue in that it has a pub on all four corners of the ground. Very handy for thirsty journalists. And I can appreciate rugby league greatness when I come across it. I reckon Queensland legend Wally Lewis is the best player I have ever seen. He seemed to have so much time when he had his hands on the ball that time almost appeared to stand still until he decided where he would distribute the pigskin. It could almost have been like a frozen moment from The Magic Boomerang. I saw Lewis in the flesh once when the touring Australians of the mid-80s played Wigan at their old Central Park ground. There was a packed house, hopeful of the Cherries causing the much-lauded Aussies some grief. But Wally and his mates simply blew Wigan away. Arriving to live and work in Sydney in the mid-80s I was astonished at the amount of pages devoted to rugby league I had to edit for the old Sun newspaper. The Sydney teams all still played at their suburban bases back then. But in my eyes their crowd numbers were pitiful. Eastern Suburbs, as they were called then, played in front of audiences that would not have been much bigger than Rochdale and Halifax attendances in the lower tiers of the English Football League. But as sport’s chief sub and Scottish legend Brian ‘Doc’ Gregor simply told me: “It’s what they play here, Davy. So stop moaning and just sub the stuff.” When in Rome … and all the rest. But I was in Sydney so I decided to adopt the nearest team to my abode in Glebe. Which meant Balmain. I used to make it to the midweek Panasonic Cup games via a few ales in the Orange Grove pub up the hill from Leichardt Oval. They were entertaining evenings, especially when I was joined by Sydney Morning Herald sports reporter John Macdonald. John was such a genius with words that he could file his stuff from the halfway line stood as a spectator with me. Alas Balmain have since mutated into some entity known as West-Tigers, merging with the former Western Suburbs, which has meant that my interest has been diluted somewhat. Plus, I now live in Adelaide which is serious AFL territory. Strange how the two codes mutually exist but have little time for each other. If you board a plane in Adelaide talking about “football”, you mean Aussie Rules. Step off the flight in Sydney and mention “football’ and people would suddenly assume you are referring to rugby league. Sydney rugby league fans would routinely dismiss Aussie Rules as “aerial ping-pong”, while I’ve heard Aussie Rules aficionados deride the rugby league players as “bum sniffers’ in reference to the scrums. But the Sunday showdown will grab my attention especially with two English powerhouses as genuine stars in their respective teams. Step forward Sam Burgess for the Rabbitohs and James Graham for the Bulldogs. And I know my old mate Mike “Stevo” Stephenson will be watching from afar in the UK. Stevo, a son of Dewsbury, came out to Oz many years ago and did his stuff for Penrith. In his post-playing days, he was a columnist for The Sun when I was there and has now gone on to great things as a commentator on Super League with Sky in the UK. It should be a stirring contest between two of Sydney’s traditional bedrock teams, who are closely attached to their expectant communities. It should also be one helluva party for whoever wins in either Redfern or Belmore. I shall look on with interest as the conflict unfolds…