Last Updated: Thursday, 9th December, 1999

Background & Pictures

Over the weekend of the 19^th - 21^st February, 1999, John Otway and a group of fans with more money than sense travelled to New York, New York. Photos are starting to come online: so far only a few thumbnails which link to larger versions, but with more coming soon, I promise. In addition, here is just one person's viewpoint (mine, actually) on that groundbreaking pre-millenial trip:-

Otway in New York - a personal view

"You can tell me what he's like now." A common phrase - I've dragged quite a few people to their first ever Otway gig, and in every case I've adopted the same stance that worked so brilliantly on me over ten years ago. Tell them nothing.

This time, however, there was an addition to the phrase: "You can tell me what he's like now - I'm about to get on the plane." Dave, you see, was travelling over three thousand miles to see his first Otway gig, and all at the behest of his girlfriend, Vic - a veteran of only two gigs herself.

Vic I knew from university, together with Sam(antha), the fourth member of my party. Sam had only ever been to the RAH gig, but that had proven to be enough for her to join us.Well, that and the prospect of a holiday in Manhattan.

So it was that we joined thirty-four other Otway inspired fools on a trip to see John play the Big Apple. We were due to meet at the airport at 1:30pm, but British Rail ensured that I didn't arrive until two o'clock, which meant that I unfortunately missed Dave's first sighting of typical Otway mayhem:

Knowing how indelicate baggage handlers can occasionally be, John decided to afford his gear as much protection as possible. Many of you will already know how battered Otway's equipment cases are, and there was the distinct possibility that the slightest tap could cause them to spring open - most probably by the self-destruction of the hinges. So Otway wrapped all of the cases with duct tape. Several times. There was no way they were going to be opened in a hurry.

"Do you have any electrical equipment in your baggage, sir?" enquired the airline official.

Of course, Otway was forced to cut open all the cases and offer up his guitar, drum machine, microphones and everything else for inspection. The airline official was duly satisfied, and Otway resumed his battle with the duct tape.

During the flight, Richard Cotton - the much appreciated organiser of this and the Dunkerque trips - handed out some sheets of useful information. There was a list of recommended sights, some advice on not inadvertently getting Otway in trouble with customs (we were there for a private party, not a gig), a map and some contact and emergency information. All in all it proved to be a very useful sheaf of papers, which I was still using at the end of the week, long after the other Otway fans had flown home.

There was also mention, in amongst those pages, of a film crew from Channel 5 television, who were going to be following Otway during the trip. More on them later.

At the New York end, all went smoothly. Nobody, as far as I know, was subjected to the indignities of a full inspection by customs (I thought myself and Richard Holgarth were certain to be stopped, on account of our long hair, but thankfully we were spared the rubber glove and sovereign ring treatment). There was a slight delay after we boarded the bus whilst we waited for the camera crew to recover their equipment, but we were soon on our way towards Manhattan Island, the heart of New York.

During the bus ride Richard Cotton reiterated some of the details from the information sheets, and generally did a better job than many professional holiday reps I've seen. And he was just about the only person in New York that didn't expect to be tipped for his troubles. There was also the opportunity to buy long sleeved tee-shirts which had been printed especially for the weekend, and which were being billed as "the rarest Otway tee-shirts ever." Regardless of the marketing hype, I bought one on account of the fact that it was extremely cold (over the course of the week it bottomed out at about -10°F, or -23°C).

Unfortunately the other people in my party didn't really want to partake of the whole Otway experience for the weekend, so we didn't join the others Otway fans for a meal on the Friday night, nor did we join Otway on a sightseeing tour during the day on Saturday. Consequently, if anyone can fill in these missing details it would be greatly appreciated.

That brings us to the Saturday evening, and the first half of Otway's private party. This was being held at The Mercury Lounge, and was due to start at ten o'clock, with Murray Torkildsen as a support act. As part of his introductory speech, Richard had suggested we all meet there at nine. The four of us headed down in the general direction of The Mercury Lounge sometime earlier in order to grab some food before the gig. We ended up at a superb Italian restaurant whose name escapes me, and found ourselves at a loose end thereafter. As it was almost half-past eight, we decided to wander over to the venue and await the arrival of the others.

Unfortunately our free entry passes held no sway with the less than helpful door staff. It seems that the evening was split into two halves, with the second half (Murray and Otway) not commencing until ten. And as far as they were concerned, that was it. No free entry until ten. Now it may have been indignation, a matter of principals, or simply the fact that we're cheapskate limey scum (depending on your point of view), but there was no way that we were going to part with any cash to gain entry after such rudeness from the door staff.

So we wandered round the corner to The Luna Lounge (which was to be the location for the second half of the party), where we were let in for free, and spent a while relaxing in their exceptionally-comfy-but-too-low-to-get-out-of sofa. Whilst we were there, we were treated to a performance by another band, The Fireants, who were generally quite good, but whose bassist needs to calm down a little (he looked like a cross between a nodding dog and an American wrestler, with all the dancing finesse of Tina Turner). If you're interested in hearing them, they have some music available at MP3.com.

At about 9:45 we decided to return to The Mercury Lounge, which finally reneged and let us in for free. We felt quite triumphant in the fact that the over-zealous door staff had managed nothing more than to reduce their takings at the bar. Whilst there we caught the tail end of the main band for the first half of the evening, a group called Betty. Although some of their music meandered into the realms of menopause inspired oddity, on the whole they were quite superb, finishing with an excellent version of "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds". If you find yourself travelling to New York I recommend checking their web page (follow the link above) for gig dates, and catching them if you can.

After Betty had finished there was some delay before Murray took to the stage. During this time many of the Americans left, but there was still a reasonably large contingent, not to mention the 38 foolish Brits, who remained. Murray's set was up to his usual standard, and included a couple of new songs, which will presumably find their way onto the next Sweeney CD. Any nostalgia freaks will also be pleased to know that he played the now seldom heard "On the Nickel" (a Tom Waits cover), on account of it having been written in New York. He declined to play "Bedrock."

Finally, the moment we had all been waiting (not to mention staying awake) for: Otway himself. He took to the stage with all the grace of a crash test dummy, bathed in cheers and screams from 38 Britons, and a confused burbling of transatlantic twang from the Americans. For a society so eager to cheer at the mere introduction of the guests on Oprah and Ronaldo, they seemed remarkably subdued.

"Hello. I'm Otway, and this is Richard." A typical Otway opening; we could so easily have been in the back room of a seedy pub in England - except for the roars of appreciation from the crowd. It seems that the endless stream of talk shows has had a Pavlovian effect on the inhabitants of New York, such that they are keyed to scream and shout most loudly when an artist is introduced, rather than when they walk onto the stage.

What followed was a reasonably typical Otway gig - although it had to be dumbed down a little to account for the cultural differences between us and them. Otway began, as usual, with his hit, then moved rapidly on to the B-side. The stream of "other people's hits" included The Sweet's "Blockbuster" - which was so alien to the Americans that Otway felt the need to apologise for the lack of buying taste of an entire nation (it reached number 1 in the UK, but was never heard of in the US). The classic "You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet" went down extremely well - although the comments I heard from nearby walked a line which was dangerously close to "Gee honey, these limeys really are eccentric."

By far my favourite moment came towards the end of the set. Whilst I have seen the faces of many Otway virgins during their first gig, I have never been able to scan the room and see such tangible evidence of culture shock. The first cry of "Beware of the flowers, 'cos I'm sure they're going to get you, yeh!" elicited bewildered looks. The first guitar-strumming forward rolls quite obviously shattered a few people's illusions about our austere nobility and graceful charm. But the thing which threw the Americans most was quite clearly the audience participation during "House of the Rising Sun."

As expected, those people who were new to the Otway phenomenon looked on in amusement as the Otway elite began their witty riposte, interjecting feeder lines into the middle of the song, forcing Otway to acknowledge them as an integral part of the show, rather than as passive viewers. The usual rally of lines followed, and with each it was evident that the Americans were seeing an unexpected side to British culture.

From other conversations during my time there, it was clear that many of our transatlantic cousins cling to the idea that Britain is a small island, 90% covered by London, with the remaining 10% being split between Scotland, Wales and Oxford. Birmingham doesn't exist at all, and Manchester is just a large football ground. And everyone who lives in Buckinghamshire is within licking distance of Buckingham Palace. Of the people, ten percent are royalty, fifteen percent look and speak like Hugh Grant, a quarter are London Bobbies, presumably policing the quarter that drive black cabs. The rest are cockneys, and speak like Dick Van Dyke. Apart from the East End charm of the latter, everyone is subdued and well spoken. And nobody would dream of shouting and heckling at a concert.

A few illusions were shattered that evening.

The following day's event at the Luna Lounge was an altogether more relaxed affair. Many people were suffering from the excesses of the previous night, and one person was reportedly suffering from sore nipples - having imbibed so much alcohol that he'd succumbed to the urge to have them pierced. Most people, thankfully, just had sore heads.

Richard and Jo, the leaders of our peculiar pack, had been kind enough to lay on sandwiches for everyone. What they lacked in variety was certainly made up for in quantity, and quite a few still remained at the end of the afternoon. Unfortunately most people either hadn't expected them, and had therefore eaten already, or were just feeling a little too delicate to face the traumatic onslaught of food.

Having reconnoitered the place the previous night, we made straight for our excessively low, but desperately comfortable, sawn-off sofa. This afforded us a reasonable view of the stage, but made sandwich runs an almost gymnastic affair. My own stomach wasn't ready for food - not through an excess of alcohol, but rather through fear.

Fear? What was there to be afraid of at an Otway gig (apart from low flying microphones and a man leaping suicidally from speakers)? Well, prior to leaving London, I had suggested to Otway that this trip would be the perfect opportunity to interview him for the web pages. Following the previous night's gig, he had suggested that we perform the interview before he went on stage on the Sunday. He had also said, in an offhand kind of manner, "You don't mind if Channel 5 film the interview, do you?"

So it was that I found myself sitting opposite Otway, with the dangerous end of a camera facing me from over his shoulder, and a large fold-up wok to my right, reflecting and diffusing the light from the front window. In my hands I clutched a copy of the questions from these web pages, and on a cue from the director I began the interview.

I think I managed to listen to about half of the first question before things went hazy. Somehow I managed to continue, even adding a few unplanned questions, but if anyone had asked me afterwards what any of the replies had been, I think I would have been stumped. During the course of the ordeal I remember noting that my hair seemed to be far more dynamic than usual, and had taken to wandering into my mouth at every opportunity. I also recall that the type used for the questions seemed to get smaller and smaller as I progressed - at roughly the same rate at which my hands became more and more shaky. Eventually I finished the last question (Otway's favourite sandwich filling is chicken mayonnaise) and breathed a sigh of relief. The cameraman seemed quite impressed - the interview had lasted about half-an-hour, whereas they had expected something more like ten minutes - but I still suspect (and, to some extent, hope) that I will be edited out of the final production.

Never has a low-slung settee been so appealing than after that interview. I relaxed into it, and waited for Otway's second gig to begin. It was a mixed set, covering many old favourites and a handful of request pieces. Murray played a few songs in the middle, and joined Otway and Richard for a rendition of "Bluey Green", and Otway even presented a rare outing of "Down The Road". So rare was this, in fact, that he had trouble remembering the verses, and having apparently finished the song he began to leave the stage - only to dash back up when he remembered the "Eddy the Eagle" verse. I'm not sure how well that reference went down with the Americans, but the fact that it involved Otway throwing himself around again seemed to tickle them, even if they didn't appreciate the biting satire.

After the gig there was much mayhem, as most of the British contingent prepared for their return trip to the airport, and thence to Blighty. I did, however, manage to talk to the director of the camera crew, and we exchanged email addresses so that he could arrange to send me a copy of the interview. At this point I returned to the less-than-underwired sofa, ashen faced and shocked. It seems that Otway had, somewhat uncharacteristically, made a bit of a mistake. The camera crew, it seems, were not from Channel 5 at all. They were from Live TV. For those of you who have not had the questionable pleasure of witnessing the output from this fine institution, suffice to say that I expect to be on screen somewhere between the Cello News Network (a newsreader, who simultaneously plays the cello!), and Topless Darts (which is precisely what you would expect).

Ah! The trials and tribulations of being a media celebrity...