First bass No.6 – Reflections on an Icon

I’d often been told that I bore a passing resemblance to Phil Lynott, bassist and singer with Thin Lizzy, and when Simon, our drummer in Tubeless Hearts suggested that I audition for Stars in their Eyes as him, it seemed like the natural thing to do. I’d met Phil very briefly back when Lizzy had their first twin-guitar album, Nightlife out and were touring the UK in support of it. As a starry-eyed kid, I was amazed to come face-to-face with him in the refectory at Derby college, prior to their gig!  I’d always loved the music, and wanted to honour his memory.  To that end, I bought  a Fender Squier bass and had it “Lizzied-up” , with the famous mirror scratchplate that he memorably employed after supporting Slade and seeing how the lights played off the mirrors on Noddy Holder’s top hat.

It became a favourite for a while, as evidenced by these photos, onstage with Graham Oliver performing Saxon’s greatest for charity event:

….and at a festival in Germany with Christie:

But, inevitably, it went the way of many others, however, this time to a good home. My good friend and producer Clyde Ward, a fellow Lizzy fan, bought it off me while we were working together  writing and recording material for my daughter Hollie. It took pride of place on the studio wall!

Kev, Hollie and Clyde in Mojacar around 10 years ago

Kev Moore

First bass No.5 – Off with his head!!

So, here we are with yet another bass guitar in my fickle fingers…

This is an 80’s classic – the Westone Superheadless. Its name , as you can see by the pics, is self-evident.  It had a Steinberger inspired tuning section below the bridge, but its weak point was the string clamp that held the strings at the blunt end of the neck.  It featured one bar that clamped across all four strings at the same time, so in a gig situation, a solitary string break meant that you had to slacken off ALL the strings at the same time! Nightmare! I had mine modified to take a more user-friendly 4 -point system that allowed clamping and release of individual strings. This model seemed quite rare to me. I never saw another one quite like it, it had see-through pillar-box red paint, with a beautiful birds-eye maple visible underneath, and all-black fittings, whereas most others I saw were an unappealing dirty-brown colour. This one saw off my Aria pro ll and became my favourite for a few years in the 80’s.

You won’t be surprised to know that it went the way of the others eventually…for a short while I had a Status headless – supposedly a wonderful instrument, and considerably more pricey than this Westone, but I hated it with a passion, it played like a cricket bat, and probably sounded like one. Small wonder I have no pictures of it!

These shots were taken at a charity show in South Yorkshire. I remember very little about it – except that we were on with a band called Slug the Nightwatchman!

Kev Moore

Travellin’ Light….

It hardly seems five minutes since I got back from the double-header in the U.K., but once again I’m duty-bound to hit the road for a concert appearance in Torgau, Germany.

I am presented this weekend with a logistical convolution that sees me board an entirely unnecessary flight this afternoon to Stansted in England, where I will spend an entirely unnecessary night in a Days Inn before meeting up with the rest of the guys and flying out of Stansted airport tomorrow lunchtime bound for Altenburg in Germany. I will then repeat the process on Sunday, resulting in my arrival home here in Turre at about 2 a.m. early Monday morning. Yes folks, this is the glamour of showbiz. Oh, and did I mention, tucked a way in the middle of all that is a 1 hour show?

It’s a big debt of time that I pay, an hour onstage costs me 60 hours away from Miki. It is a high price.

As a result of years of these escapades, I have become somewhat adept at downsizing in the luggage department. That is to say, I have no luggage. I am a professional hand-baggager. I can last for weeks on the contents of my trusty yellow-and black regulation sized holdall. Not for me the lengthy queues at the airport, I’m straight through with priority boarding, as opposed to being treated like a second -class citizen because I had the temerity to buy a suitcase. I even arrange to keep one of my bass guitars in the U.K. to prevent the need to transport one on the plane. Oh, yes siree, I’m through that airport like sh*t off a shiny shovel.

Except this time. The German promoter, who very kindly booked me a perfectly pointless flight via the U.K., perhaps in the mistaken belief that I missed my homeland, also was kind enough to reserve baggage entitlement for me. This is unalterable, and will result in me queuing with the great unwashed for no good reason at all. I will wait for an hour, just so I can tell the girl on the desk that I have absolutely no luggage whatsoever. Just my little bag. The relentless march of airport efficiency goes on, grinding the hapless passenger under its giant cogs like so much grist for the mill…..

Kev Moore

First Bass No.2 – Beg, Steal, or Borrow, but NEVER sell your basses!!!

A cautionary tale in my continuing series about my bass guitars.

Around the beginning of 1979, growing ever confident in my role as a bassist and inspired by the beautiful “blueburst” guitar our guitarist Fos Foster had commissioned from now legendary guitar builder John Birch (remember Dave Hill’s superyob guitar in Slade?) – I ordered one myself. This time, a Caramel sunburst Rickenbacker lookalike, with customised Birch biflux and superflux pickups, and a daunting array of controls bristling across the front. It had the most beautiful slim maple neck and was a dream to play. It served me well through two years with the band Apollo, touring Scandinavia, whom I joined in April 1979, finally turning fully professional. ( You can see me in unforgiveable satin in the photo, playing it at the Torvetten nightclub in Gjovik, Norway in 1980.) It stayed with me into the beginnings of Tubeless Hearts, but alas, like so many stupid kids before me, I messed with the bass, putting different pick ups in it, and eventually, disillusioned with the sound I sold it to a music shop. It was to be one of many basses I regretted parting with, as in the early days, i could only afford to by a new one by getting rid of another. Show me a guy who has a collection of guitars or basses, and he’s either sting, or semi-pro! I’ve always promised myself that if I ever saw this bass again, I’d buy it. It was a beauty!

Next time: Amidst the junk, a gem…

Kev Moore

Get your Fright Fix here!!

An unashamed plug for my Halloween Tale; Pumpkin Number Six! Check it out!

The Witching Hour draws near…..

Kevin in his favoured double jointed writing position, utilising an arm procured from a female corpse….

Want a fright to get you in the mood for Halloween?  Why not read my spooky tale..I’ve tried to do my bit to add to those End-of-October-chills….and I’m not talking about the weather!  If you enjoy Pumpkin Number Six, why not have a look at the other short stories I post from time to time here at The Muse on the Rock?

WARNING!! Not for the faint-hearted!!!

A Poem to Close the Miles

I’m away from home just now, down in Almeria with my son. It is bittersweet; wonderful to see him, yet so hard to be apart from Miki, my partner and muse. Yet “partner” doesn’t really say it. There is a colloquialism in English, “My other half”. In our case, Miki really is the other half of my soul, and we’re pulled apart, it hurts.

I found a poem in my flat down here that I wrote to her when we were apart around a year ago. I think it’s still relevant, perhaps even more so; and at the risk of sounding like a hopeless romantic, here it is, for all of you together, but apart.

It’s late now, twenty-five past two, and how I wish I was with you

Left pondering a night alone, a house perhaps, but not a home

Without you here, its soul is gone, it’s not a place to live as one

A solitary in the night, it’s difficult to not take flight

To take the highway back to you, for better than the one, is two

The fan above that shapes a breeze, is deaf to my unanswered pleas

That, with the early morning light, I’ll wake to find you by my side

And so I soldier on until, I make the journey mile by mile

And turn the corner up the hill, and bathe again in your sweet smile.

Kev Moore

Room without a View – A short story by Kevin Moore

 He watched the condensation forming on the filthy ceiling. Inexorably slowly, the moisture gathering together, re-shaping, forming, until it became a pendulous mass, depending from the roof, gradually surrendering to gravity’s sweet song.It fell, down, down, growing, though the effect was illusory, as it continued unstoppable through the fetid air of the dimly-lit cellar. For the merest fraction of a second, a dull light shone on its surface…and then it exploded in a thousand tiny droplets on his forehead.

He tried to force his tongue up to catch the precious moisture, but it always seemed to be beyond him. His tongue mocked him, immobile. He had no idea how long he’d been here in this room.  He felt numb. He felt…the slightest sense of being, like the brush of a feather or a lover’s tender kiss on the back of your neck, fleeting, ungraspable. There was a sound in his ears, like a storm, like rushing water, unyielding. It seemed he’d always heard that sound.

Then he heard it. Something else. The distant sound of a metal bolt being drawn. Footsteps on cold stone, The creaking of a rotten wooden door.A face loomed over him, a sallow, corrupted face, wearing medical whites, no longer white, stained, bloodied, some bright red and fresh, others old, brown mute to the horrors they had seen.  The face drew close, smiling, rotting teeth like tombstones peeking out.He spoke in a harsh whisper, like a death rattle.“You lasted the longest.” He said, holding a grimy hand mirror up to his captive’s face.

The prisoner glanced at his reflection, wide-eyed and terrified, letting his gaze travel down his face…to the ragged edge of his throat, the hack-sawed remnants of his spine, muscle, fat and nerve endings protruding out from the bloody stump of his severed neck like a dead man’s fingers.The man lifted the head and threw it into the flaming jaws of the incinerator in the corner, to the sound of a silent scream.

The Muse has returned to the Rock!

Yeah, I know…..I set this blog up a zillion lifetimes ago, and what have I posted? Yep, that’s right. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. But you know what? All good things come to those who wait, or should that be “those who waitress?…..” well, whatever, but I thought, being as I slip and slide through the wordpress blogosphere dropping a word of wisdom or wit here, a snide comment there, I thought it only fair to have a little something for people to latch onto when they click on my name. Indeed, dear reader, if you would click on my website link HERE, I can show you delights you had only dreamed of in the field of music and art!! And it should go some way to excusing my tardiness in actually getting this blog up and (I hesitate to say running) ….ambling. By way of an apology, I’m going to be publishing the occasional short story on here for your delectation. Enjoy!