Being scouted in the pub for movie stardom
Nostalgic trip through teenage years from sneaking into pubs to being an extra in a rock film.
There was a pub we used to drink at when I was on the cusp of 18 (and technically not allowed to be there) called the Old Angel, in the centre of Nottingham. Back then it was a rock/metal pub, though it looks to have rebranded as a microbrewery in the intervening twenty years. We’d finish classes at sixth form and walk over there for a burger, chips and a pint. It was 2004 and it felt like we had all the time in the world, with our baggy jeans and dyed hair.
My teenage band used to play gigs there: it was pay-to-play and we literally handed out paper flyers to likely-looking strangers in Nottingham city centre to try to earn enough door money to pay for the old, grumpy sound guy who’d grudgingly run the PA for the night while we performed, for something like £50 and a couple of Kronenbourgs. The stage was tiny, but incredibly, the venue played host to genuine touring bands as well as small-timers like us, so we were able to say we’d shared a stage with the big-name artists, despite being technically a vanity gig.
My parents came to see us play there at least once, and I remember having to explain to my dad that the men’s toilets were located through a hole in a door which someone had recently kicked in, which you had to step through in order to relieve yourself. These toilets remain in a very short list of establishments I’ve been in which contained a vending machine selling porn DVDs – medieval-themed porn, at that.
Hey kid, want to be in the movies?
It was a venue of character, is what I’m saying. We were sitting there one summer when a casting scout for a movie walked over to us and asked if any of us would like to be extras in a “pub rock film”. We decided we were up for it, and a couple of us trooped next door to be measured up and photographed, and to sign various forms guaranteeing we’d visit a local school in a few weeks’ time for filming.
A few days later and there we were, choosing our outfits from rails of genuine vintage 70s clothing, and gearing up for a day of watching a fake band perform real songs at a club. We were the audience and had to react with suitable energy as they performed their triumphant headline set, no matter how many times we’d heard it that day.
I’d perhaps held jaded impressions about the glamour and creativity of being “on set”, but the reality was that we were going to have to work extremely hard for our £25 cash-in-hand. We were sprayed with glycerine water in between takes so our hair looked suitably sweaty, and we had to keep waiting for the makeup team to reposition the prosthetic which connected the conjoined twins who were the stars of the film. It was called “Brothers of the Head”, and based on a book. Two conjoined twins form a sleazy rock group and become big stars. Sadly, the lead actors weren’t actually conjoined and every time one of them strummed his guitar it seemed to disconnect the rubber costume all over again.
Rumours buzzed through the crowd, emanating from one bloke who’d read the book and told us breathlessly that “at the end, they get a third head grafted onto their shoulders”. Everyone dismissed this as nonsense, but years later I bought the film second-hand on DVD (sadly not from a vending machine) and discovered that this is indeed how the film ended, too.
I didn’t see myself in the film, but I did see the Old Angel again, in spirit if not on celluloid. The pub didn’t feature, but the film reminded me of this place which was a kind of staging-ground for adulthood for us. I remember being nervous going into a pub while underage, as though somebody was going to discover me and throw me out (despite me ordering pints of coke). We haltingly experimented with our music in this place, finding our feet as performers and songwriters, and entrepreneurs as we booked support slots and promoted concerts.
I haven’t been back there since I left home, but I walked past it the other day while in town and wondered what it was like inside. I could see the fire escape and stairs where we sweated and struggled with drumkits and amplifiers, and again was transported to that period before social networks, music streaming and recessions, where everything seemed like it was about to happen, and yet felt like we had all the time in the world.
Mini-feels this week
Running up that hill
I went for a bike ride with friends last weekend and we had to cross a canal bridge. I remounted my bike and prepared to do a mildly impressive feat: ride down a steep, cobbled canal towpath on my road bike. I checked the coast was clear, saw a runner in the distance, and began to roll down the steep incline.
The runner approached, saw me, and then continued to run directly past me, meaning I had to squeeze aside on the narrow incline to avoid us colliding. “Seriously?”, I asked as he passed me, exasperated.
“WHAT GIVES YOU THE PRIORITY?” he yelled as he puffed past. “I was there first!” I yelled indignantly over my shoulder. I already have “previous” with runners on the canal, having had to bundle myself and my young son into some bushes as a group of 20 Sunday morning joggers run past two abreast, not thanking or even acknowledging us for dodging out of their thundering path.
My co-rider Josh, at the back of the group, confounded the runner by yelling, good-naturedly: “Stop shouting! Smile instead! It’s a lovely day!” or words to that effect, and apparently the trainer-botherer cracked a grin before continuing on his way, no doubt keen not to stop even for a second lest he miss out on a PB.