I imagine when you think of the dark psychedelic bands that emanated from North Wolverhampton in the late sixties, your mind throws up two names almost immediately: Captain Untoward Impossible’s Marching Band of Death, whose double-LP High Valleys in Low Hill might have floated the collective boat of the Notting Hill set if its distribution had taken it any further south than Coseley; and Oxley’s Re. The Edam Made Ether, whose palindromic song titles got more awkward and bitter the longer they toiled in obscurity (From “Flow, Wolf”, and the instrumental “Haw-Haw’s Wah-Wah”, via “God, Yts an Nasty Dog!” and “‘Tis Cod, Doc! Sit!” to the twenty-minute “You’ve Made A Disgusting Mess and You Don’t Have To Clear It Up Puti Raelcot Eva HT Nod Ouyd Nassem, Gnit Sugs Id Aed Amevu Oy!”, which got them kicked off the stage at the Ship and Rainbow, never to return).

Nobody ever mentions The 60cwt, from Three Tuns, for some reason. Or, perhaps, for some reasons. Many contemporary hipsters found the bugle a bit of a “turn-off”, though others argued it was the military background and demeanour of the bugler, Sergeant Trevor Pearce of the 26^th Airportable Regiment Royal Artillery, that really caused the issue (Pearce is thought to have been the target of Re. The Edam Made Ether’s “Army? Y’m RA!”). Mel Mutton’s distinctive vocal style, which flattened the pitch almost to a talk while raising the volume almost to a shout (like a deaf Lou Reed, in retrospect, though no-one in Wolverhampton had heard of the Velvet Underground at that time) was not for everyone, and caused huge feedback issues in small venues (and let’s face it: they were all small venues for The 60cwt). They featured a dog, Rocky, who performed with a microphone gaffa-taped to his back and wandered around the stage barking, often tripping up the other members. And then there was the electric jug player, General Semantics.

Jug playing was undergoing something of a renaissance at this time, thanks to Tommy Hall of the 13^th Floor Elevators, who chose to vocalize into the jug rather than buzzing into it in the traditional jug-band style. By contrast, General Semantics (a.k.a. Billy Penk) drank beer from a flagon of ale with a mic pressed to his throat, sometimes belching into the empty jug with the mic by his mouth. He was also the band’s lyricist, and continually pushed for more instrumental songs.

I’d bumped into Billy while he was filling up his flagons at the Vine on the Stafford Road; I was between jobs and cycling back from Bob Beesley’s farm with some cash in hand when a heavy-ish shower began.

‘How you doin’, Billy?’ I asked, slipping Rocky a pork scratching.

‘Not too bad, mate. How’s Cerberus?’ Billy had wanted Cerberus to audition for the band before Rocky joined, believing he could teach him to bark in three-part harmony; Cerberus though, was a straight Delta-blues dog with a smattering of Merseybeat. He would have hated The 60cwt.

As the conversation continued (Martha had to change the barrel for his fourth flagon; Billy got through four or five in an average set and insisted on having a full collection as back-up) it transpired that The 60cwt were short of a roadie for Saturday.

‘Can’t make it, Bill. The Wolves are in London.’

As luck would have it, so were The 60cwt, and only two stops away from Highbury on the Piccadilly Line. Billy offered to get to the Manor House before kick-off if I promised to get back in time to unload the van at half five.

‘What are you paying?’

‘A quid, plus a pint off the rider, if there is one.’

‘I’m in.’

But barely. The van was a khaki-coloured Mini panel van with crude eyes daubed on it in black paint. The bass drum and cymbals travelled under tarpaulin on a roof rack and the rest of the kit, the backline, the guitars and jugs squeezed in the back with me, Alun Andrews (Gtr, b. vox), Chic Bellows (Percussion), ‘Gruff’ the bass player and Rocky the dog. Sgt. Pearce sat on Mel Mutton’s lap and Billy drove.

So tight was the squeeze that it was band policy not to make any stops en route because of the time required for dis- and re-embarking. When first in line at a red light, Billy would occasionally get out and open the door to release the Brigadoon of cigarette smoke; Rocky was trapped inside Chic’s upturned floor tom which was expected to contain and withstand any calls of nature until we reached N4. The three humans lay piled on top of each other in a narrow passageway between side panel and speaker cabinets, with drumsticks, fuzzboxes, a tape-delay machine, spare strings, guitar stands, harmonicas, bottlenecks, a cowbell, a tuning fork and Rocky’s favourite tennis ball, “Bally”, just thrown on top of us.

General Semantics’ driving tended towards the staccato, but the combined effects of a one-litre engine and an excessive load meant that while braking could be sharp, acceleration was gradual. The route to the M1 was meticulously planned to avoid steep inclines, but the front passengers nevertheless had to get out and walk on a couple of occasions, and the impatient horn-tooting that followed us through South Staffs. and North Warwickshire meant that Rocky wouldn’t shut up for the first two hours.

We got to the venue at one o’clock, and after a swift pint with the band, it was practically a door-to-door tube ride to Highbury.

All in all, an extremely uncomfortable ride, but worth it for an extra pound in my pocket and a wonderful 2-0 victory thanks to goals from Wignall and Holsgrove. Come on me babbies!