Field Notes

Stories

Snapshots from a life spent recording, performing and listening — from the UK to France to Australia to the lagoons of French Polynesia to the hills of Isère.

1972

United Kingdom · 1972

How It All Started

In 1972, I was 14 years old and completely obsessed with music. I was discovering Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix and all the other great bands of the time, and music seemed to me like the most exciting thing in the world. My friend's older brother, Berni, played guitar and had a band called Crimson Flame. Whenever I went round to their house, Berni would show me a few chords, and little by little I started to learn the guitar myself.

Every week, Berni and the band would rehearse, and I would tag along. I'd sit there watching them play, fascinated by the whole thing. To me, they were proper musicians, and being there at rehearsals felt like getting a glimpse into another world.

Then, one evening, something happened that would completely change my life. Berni and the other guitarist got into an argument, and the guitarist walked out. He said he was fed up and wasn't coming back. The problem was that Crimson Flame had a gig coming up in a well-known local pub — in just one month — and suddenly they had no guitarist.

There was a brief silence. Then everyone looked at me. "What about Antony?" I reminded them that I knew exactly three chords and could just about play Old Shep Was a Dog by Elvis Presley! Their response was remarkably optimistic: "You've got a month to rehearse. You'll be alright." And somehow, I believed them. So I said yes. And that was the beginning of my musical career.

For the next month, I practised whenever I could — every weekend, every evening after school, basically whenever I could get my hands on a guitar. I was completely driven. At that age, I didn't have complicated plans for my future. My one and only ambition was to learn those songs well enough to get through that gig. There were about fifteen songs in the set, including Travelling Light by Cliff Richard and Not Fade Away by Buddy Holly. Looking back, they were pretty simple songs, but to a 14-year-old who had only just discovered the guitar, they seemed incredibly difficult.

Then the day of the gig finally arrived. I can still remember the stage fright. Standing there with a guitar in my hands, knowing that people were actually watching and listening to me, was terrifying. But we played. And somehow, I got through it. I'd just about managed to play the songs correctly, and when it was all over, I was still the guitarist in Crimson Flame.

Looking back now, it seems almost unbelievable. One month earlier I knew three chords. A month later I was standing on stage playing in a band. It taught me something that has stayed with me ever since: it's amazing what you can achieve when you really, really want to do something. That little decision in 1972 — saying yes when I probably had no business saying yes — was the beginning of a musical journey that would continue for decades and take me much further than I could ever have imagined at fourteen.

1979

United Kingdom to France · 1979

How I Met Your Mother

In 1979, I was living in the UK and, along with some musician friends — including Berni Bills on bass and acoustic guitar, and Dave Dunmore on keyboards — we decided to buy a VW Kombi and a caravan and tour around Europe. We started in France, travelling down the west coast and stopping near Perpignan, where we did some grape picking. From there, we drove along the Mediterranean coast before heading up the Route Napoléon, with the intention of eventually playing in Geneva.

Unfortunately, just as we arrived in Grenoble, the van decided it had had enough. The engine was completely kaput, and we didn't have the money to get it repaired. So, rather than give up, we found a campsite where we could park the van and caravan and decided to look for somewhere to play and earn enough money to keep us going.

This was September 1979. We found a restaurant called Les Enfants de la Balle, and managed to get work playing there four nights a week. The gigs went down really well with the locals and students — Grenoble being a university city — and we had a great time.

Then winter arrived...

The temperature kept dropping, eventually reaching around minus 15°C. Our little caravan had absolutely no heating, which made for some very uncomfortable nights. Berni, our bass player, had by then found himself a girlfriend and sensibly moved in with her. Dave and I, meanwhile, carried on freezing in the caravan. One morning I actually woke up stuck to the side of it. There was ice inside!

By the end of the year, we had had enough. We decided to return to the UK and planned our final gig for New Year's Eve, December 31st. That night, we were playing a great gig. At around the same time, a young nurse called Danielle had just finished a twelve-hour shift and was walking home from work, exhausted and wanting nothing but to get home and go to bed.

As she passed a bar, a friend spotted her and called out: "Come in! I'll buy you a Kir Royal for New Year!" Danielle agreed, although she said she wouldn't stay long. Two drinks later, she left the bar — but was intercepted by another friend: "You can't go home now! It's New Year's Eve! There's a band playing just around the corner. Come on, just for a little while!" And so, reluctantly, Danielle came to see us play.

After the gig, I met her at the bar. I was, to put it mildly, rather tipsy. I walked up to her and said: "Hello, I'm Antony. What's your name?" "Danielle," she replied. I looked at her and said: "Isn't that a boy's name?" Yes. That was my opening line. What a pickup!

I have absolutely no idea what she saw in me that night, but somehow we got to know each other. And despite all the things that could have prevented our paths from ever crossing, we are still together today, nearly fifty years later, with three children. Sometimes life seems to have a plan of its own. I suppose you could call it destiny — and somehow, despite my terrible opening line, it worked.

2001

French Polynesia · Early 2000s

The Pearl Ceremony at Marae Ta'ata

In the early 2000s, I was invited to Tahiti to record a unique ceremony held at Marae Ta'ata, one of the island's ancient sacred sites. Representatives of the pearl industry, local officials and members of the community gathered for an event centred around baskets filled with imperfect Tahitian pearls.

After a blessing at the marae, the pearls were carried aboard a large traditional Polynesian va'a. The canoe then headed out onto the lagoon, where the pearls were ceremonially returned to the sea in the hope that the coming seasons would bring a better harvest.

As sound engineer for the event, I was concentrating on capturing every word and every chant with a boom microphone. At one point, while the blessing was taking place, I became aware that mosquitoes were happily feasting on my legs. It turned into a real test of concentration. I could see them biting me, but with all eyes on the ceremony, I had to remain perfectly still and continue recording as if nothing was happening!

The occasion was a fascinating blend of spirituality, symbolism and tradition, and remains one of the most memorable experiences of my years in French Polynesia. More than twenty years later, I can still picture the baskets of pearls, the great va'a crossing the lagoon, and the solemn moment when the sea reclaimed what it had once given.