My journey began, like many aspiring rock gods, in the unglamorous confines of a garage. Or a shed. Or possibly my mum's spare room, much to her chagrin. I remember my first guitar, a cheap, plywood affair that sounded less like rock and roll and more like a disgruntled badger being throttled. But I loved it. I attacked it with the ferocity of a starving wolf, convinced that if I practiced enough, eventually it would transform into a glorious Gibson, spewing forth torrents of molten rock.
The early bands we mostly played covers, badly, but with enthusiasm where our stage presence involved a lot of head-banging and not falling over and then came Thin Lizzy. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a kid in a shed anymore. I was playing with the Thin Lizzy. Talk about a step up. I remember the audition
with Phil Lynott, a man absolutely dripping with charisma, watching me tear through some exercises. I was sweating bullets, convinced I’d trip, or my guitar would spontaneously combust. But I didn’t. And I got the gig.
Those years were a blur of incredible music, endless touring, and the kind of rock 'n' roll antics that would make your average health and safety inspector faint. Phil was a genius, a poet with a bass guitar, and Scott Gorham, well, he was the calm eye of the storm. Me? I was mostly trying to keep up, soak it all in, and make sure my guitar didn't sound like a badger again.
We played some legendary shows. Some less legendary. I recall one particularly boozy night where I almost walked straight off the front of the stage but it was only the length of the guitar lead that just stopped me. Then Whitesnake. Ah, the 80s. The decade of excess, of power ballads, of hair that defied gravity and probably required its own post code. Slide It In and 1987 were huge. Suddenly, we were MTV darlings. Meaning, we had to wear a lot of eyeliner and look intensely serious while miming along to songs in front of green screens but that's part of it, the ability to look competent on camera despite feeling like an absolute muppet.
The tours were insane. Stadiums packed with screaming fans, pyrotechnics going off, and the sheer joy of playing those riffs. It was everything I’d ever dreamed of until David Coverdale went mental and thought i was trying to take over the band and fired me.
After Whitesnake, there was Blue Murder, a band I poured my heart and soul into. That was a different beast altogether, a chance to really explore my own vision. Then solo work, guest spots, the never-ending pursuit of the perfect tone, the elusive riff that makes the hairs on your arm stand up.
I mean, let’s be honest, the music industry is a fickle mistress. One minute you're lauded as a pioneer, the next you're vaguely remembered as the bloke who was in that band with the bloke who wasn't the bloke, just the one who always seemed to be wearing leather trousers, even in summer
So, what’s my conclusion on this grand business? Honestly, I don’t know. And maybe that’s the point. I never set out to create a legacy, I just wanted to play guitar, make some noise, and hopefully not have to get a proper job.
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