It was the early 70s and I was a young, wet behind the ears, manager in charge of a three band bill, touring Spain in the dying days of the Fascist regime of General Franco.

I was the manager of  the Kevin Coyne band and we were packaged with prog rock label mates Hatfield and The North and a free form jazz duo comprising Lol Coxhill (sax) and a drummer whose name escapes me now. The deal was we would travel together in a coach and rotate the order of appearance, each taking a turn to headline. I knew we had a problem when we first met the driver and saw the coach. It was unclear which was older but both had seen better days.  I'd approved the itinerary thinking that the routing, whilst far from ideal, was do-able with a willing driver and good humoured musicians. Sadly neither assumption was well founded. The promoter had failed to tell me that the driver had an all-in deal including his cost of petrol. He was therefore intent on chugging down unrestricted roads at a steady 30 mph to conserve fuel, turning what I had calculated to be 4 to 5 hour journeys between back to back gigs into 8 and 10 hour endurance tests. This tested the patience of the band members who were less than good humoured by the end of the first day.

Having been on the road for several days and on this particular day, for many ill-tempered hours, we arrived in Valencia to find the equipment truck still fully loaded outside the get-in. It was about 10 pm and we were due to play that night. The crew boss, sitting swinging his legs from the tailgate of the truck, informed me he couldn't start the load in until the opera which was still being performed had ended and the audience had left.

I was outraged. I sought out the local promoter and informed him this was a shambles, the bands couldn't be expected to play and that we would be going immediately to our hotel as we had another 10 hour trek the following day. He politely asked me to wait whilst he fetched someone. A minute later he returned with a Guardia Civil. He then explained to me that a licence for the show had been issued and therefore the show really must go  ahead or there would be a “big problem” His words were given added weight by the fact that his new friend kept a sub machine gun pointed at my head throughout the "explanation" of the "problem". Needless to say, I was quickly persuaded. The promoter then produced in the dressing rooms the largest supply of beer and other alcoholic beverages I'd seen outside of an off licence and exhorted us to drink our fill whilst waiting for the opera to finish and the gear to be set up. Needless to say, we were again putty in his hands and complied to the best of our ability.

At about 2am the first band took to the stage to an expectant roar from the excited crowd, Unfortunately, the drummer, having greatly enjoyed the unexpected hospitality of the promoter, threw up over his snare half way through the set and spent the remainder of it face down in his own vomit. Spain was unused to such provocative performance art and the band were booed off.  The rest of the gig was not much better but having started disastrously, the audience enthusiastically cheered the pedestrian performances of the other exhausted and legless musicians.

The following day we were due to drive to Madrid from whence we were to fly home at last. The late, lamented Pip Pyle, Hatfield and the North's drummer, a normally agreeable man, needed a bathroom stop on the way to the airport and politely asked our driver to allow this- the coach had no toilet  despite the fact that our shortest  journey was 6 hours. The driver studiously ignored Pip's polite request. This so incensed Pip that he placed his mouth about half an inch from the driver's ear and bellowed "I need a piss NOW". The driver remained unaffected or so we thought until he pulled over at a Guardia Civil post by the roadside. He disembarked and locked us in the coach whilst he spoke to the armed troops in Spanish. They all then boarded the coach and approached me with guns drawn. I was getting used to this. Having had a machine gun in face only hours earlier, I was by now shitting only half as many bricks as on the previous occasion. I was informed in sign language, continually emphasised by prods in the ribs by the gun, that our behaviour  had better improve or we would be locked up.

We then continued our journey to Madrid airport where the driver demanded a further (unjustified) payment. I refused and tried to usher my charges off the coach only to find us once again locked in as the driver again summoned Guardia Civil.  This time I was marched off (at gunpoint of course) and taken to an area out of bounds to the public. I was convinced the fascist goons were now beat the leaving daylights out of me. If I was lucky. I called over my shoulder to the musicians  "Call the British Embassy". As if they would know how. I was brought before a serious, menacing looking man to whom the driver jabbered in Spanish for some minutes. Eventually serious, menacing looking man turned to me and explained in fractured English that I was accused of not paying the driver in full and that he would now determine whether I was guilty. Could I prove I'd paid? Fortunately, I had with me the contract with the coach company setting out the schedule of payments and receipts signed by the driver for each and every required payment.  The "Judge" indicated I could go, much to the obvious disappointment of the driver and the Guardia Civil officers who had taken a clear dislike to the long haired Englishman they had earlier frogmarched into "court".  I smiled sweetly at one and all and returned to the departure area.

In those days it was illegal to take more than a specifed amount  of Spanish currency out of the country.  I had in my briefcase all the bands' fees from the tour. As we passed through passport control, I noticed the two goons who had marched me to the "Judge" observing our progress. 
They asked all of us to open our carry on bags. I was near the back of the group and knew they wanted to nail me more than the others but  what could I do? There was no way they would not ask me too.  To compound the problem, we'd been paid in bills of small denominations. When my turn came, I opened the briefcase and revealed what looked like a king's ransom.The Guardia Civil's faces lit up. Third time lucky. They had me now. "Is this yours?" they asked me.  "No." I replied. "I'm the manager. The musicians asked me to look after their money." It wasn't true but I knew the bands had spent all their per diems and I was frantically doing mental arithmetic,  trying to work out the amount in my brief case divided by the number of musicians.  I figured I might just get away with it if I was lucky. 
A member of one of the bands, intending to be helpful or possibly amusing, remarked that I was a lying bastard. Fortunately the soldiers didn't understand. After five frightening minutes during which I thought I might be thrown in a Spanish jail, I was eventually allowed to board the plane.
When the cabin crew came round with drinks, I ordered a large one and as I felt it warm my gut, I was delighted to see Spain disappearing behind us, my briefcase still full of cash under the seat in front and my exhausted charges already slumped asleep around me. It was only rock'n'roll but I was mightily relieved.

Steve Lewis - Managing Director Stage Three Music

Comments (2)

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written by Rob Greenland, January 19, 2009

a really great read!

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written by simon goffe, January 09, 2009

Excellent story - made me laugh. I bet that has put you off holidaying in Spain since? I had a similar (though slightly better) experience with the authorities in Turkey about 18 years ago. But thats another story...

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