Earlier in the afternoon the clouds had gathered as the crew set up our lights and sound. There was no cover. The omens had been bad as one of the lightning crew, while attempting to adjust a par can on the truss, which was in the process of being raised, had his wedding ring hooked by a safety chain, and he was lifted screaming into the air by his finger. Thankfully he was OK and the damage wasn’t critical.

As the thunder broke and the rains started to fall, we were sent back to the hotel to await the news. The weather reports were bad and the call from the site an hour or so later came as no surprise. The view from the bar was spectacular, and as the White Russians slipped easily down our throats, I was looking on the cancellation with mixed blessings. As always, the management had decided that it was a great idea to make the last date of a European tour in a filmed event. No pressure on the singer then? Lyon would have been the end date of a three in a row before a day off, and our appearance at Loreley, Freilichtbühne, our own headline open air, and the biggest we would play in Germany. I now had a two day recovery window thanks to some heavenly intervention.

It had been a though tour with a mish-mash of indoor and outdoor shows which had taken their toll. My relationship with the band and the management wasn’t going well, and only a week before, I’d been up to the early hours of the morning in a Parisian hotel going through my troubles with Tony Smith, the Genesis manager, who as our publisher had flown in for the show at the Zenith. For me the fun was going out of it all. There was too much powder around, too much alcohol and not enough control, especially from the management. There was a lot of money being generated by the Marillion machine, but it didn’t seem to be filtering down to the band that was on an endless rolling road. We were selling millions of records and playing to thousands of people, but the talk in the back of the tour bus was about struggling to pay mortgages on less than extravagant homes. The lightning crashed around us in Lyon. The respite before the German shows was the good news. The bad news was that the sound and light equipment had been battered by the storm and the rain had soaked the electrics. We didn’t know if it could be dried out by Loreley. The crew wouldn’t know until they could empty the trucks in Germany.

I knew the history of the Loreley from my schooldays. I’d scrap a German O level, failed a Higher grade and had ignored the language until European touring in the 80’s and the residency in Berlin during the recording of “Misplaced Childhood” necessitated something a bit more that “ein Bier bitte!”. I’d also met a German girlfriend, who at the time of Loreley was now my fiancée, and the wedding was scheduled in Scotland for the week after the show on the 25th July. She was at home helping my parents with last minute preparations. This would be my “bachelor” gig.

We drove along the side of a glittering Rhein river, ploughed by barges and tourist boats below the spectacular valley walls bedecked with vines, where fairy tale castles perched on cliffs high above fairytale villages, with toytown stations served by trains threading their way through tunnels and along the bustling valley floor, giving the impression of being part of some immense model railway installation. It was spectacular and slightly surreal. The Loreley rock sat in the surge of the river and the legend of the beautiful siren whose song lured lonely sailors to their doom in retrospect was slightly ironic. As we strolled around the concrete amphitheatre that swept round the stage, with it’s striped overhead awning resembling the sails of a dhow, you couldn’t help but wonder at the events that had occurred there in the 30’s. It was enhanced by the discovery of brutalised stonework amongst the undergrowth where carvings of swatikas had been removed to eradicate the true history of the site. The galleries overlooking the Rhein valley took our breath away and added to the impression that we were gazing down on an intricate model. A helicopter flared overhead and made a number of passing runs up the valley. The film crew were already at work.

Our own crews were busy with hastily gathered hairdryers patiently trying to dry out the sound and lightning desks as the speakers and other gear warned in the sun. We were running late but the gig was on. The distance from the town below and the narrow roads now congested with arriving fans meant we were imprisoned on the site. It was a long boring and dangerous shift as non performers revelled in the sunshine and partook of dalliances, wines and beers in Dionysian fashion. I could but flirt with the edge. It was tough breaking up the endless hanging around. We all fancied a flight over the site but even though we were paying for the helicopter for the overhead footage (around 40 seconds was eventually used on the DVD) we weren’t allowed a trip as we weren’t covered for insurance.

Sound check broke the tedium after a long wait on eliminating all the glitches from a waterlogged system. After that it was more hanging around and shooting the breeze with the guys from Magum and It Bites, who were supporting us on the day. (It was at this gig that I met my present day production manager Kelvin “Yatta” Boys Yates as he was then working with Magnum).

I couldn’t wait till the gates opened and the entire circus could get underway. We were all anxious to hit the stage and as the crowd built and the supports rattled through their sets I began to hit the curve of the night.

I had stolen looks at the crowd from the side of the stage while Magnum were on and admit to having a slight anxious tremor seeing the wall of people crammed on the rake of the amphitheatre. They spread into the horizon and to be honest to this day I have no real idea of how many were there. The place allegedly holds around 18,000 but in the spirit of our German promoter there were quite few more in that official estimates. There were rumours of 30,000. As I couldn’t see above the brow of the hill from where I was O wouldn’t have been surprised if that were true.

I warmed up and raised the adrenalin level as the strains of “Thieving Magpie” awakened the crowd. We walked on to a huge roar and directly into the assault of “Slainthe Mhath”. The place erupted like a volcano and all I could see were upraised hands in perfect rhythm moving to Steve’s hypnotic riff. The stage was in effect low in comparison to the crowd and I was only 5 steps higher and 20 yards away from the first ranks crushed behind the barriers. The sight of fans desperate for breath and trying to push back at the hordes behind them had become all too familiar in the last couple of years, but especially in Germany where promoters deemed it acceptable and suggested “the fan enjoyed it”? I hated the whole scenario and, as people were dragged out the morass of flesh by the Red Cross and security, you can’t but let it affect your mind on stage. The surrealism was added to by the fact that most of the front ranks were wearing full face make up with the “assassin” death faces accompanied by headbands and playing cards. Watching them being extricated over the barriers and being taken to the sides where they once again joined the melee had a perverse comedic value especially as we fired into “Assassing” as the second number. The place went wild and the waves descended on the barriers throughout. We navigated through a set peppered with a “best of” element. “White Russian” and “Incubus” were perfect in the open air theatre of Loreley, “Russian” even more poignant than usual as it resonated with history. “Fugazi” had the terraces on fire and the choral work by the crowd was stunning in it’s ferocity. As a band we were in full attack mode and kept pushing the envelope and reaching ever higher. The “Clutching” material was now sitting in well, and with a female backing vocalist in Cori Josias, there was an added dimension to the vocals. I’d asked for a backing vocalist (bv) at the start of the tour and although the others were a bit reticent at first they agreed. I was still singing songs from the first two albums in the same keys and sometimes I was struggling to reach notes especially once the tour started to grind me down. Pete was doing a great job when he could but his intricate bass lines meant his concentration was often elsewhere and having a dedicated BV meant I had a back up when I needed it. It didn’t go down well with some fans but it helped me out. The crew liked it as they had a short frilly skirt to look at although Ian found it a bit disconcerting and distracting sometimes when she was on the podium above him. On the “Clutching” material it was, in my opinion, aided by the presence of a BV.

We had decided to play only one side of the “Misplaced” album and it was obvious we had to go for the one containing the “hits”. It was a mesmerising performance and when we hit the peak in “Heart of Lothian” the voice of the crowd blew me away. The “out” contained the full of rock tilt with “Last Straw” and our new addition “Incommunicado”. Mark had been the quiet commanding wizard all night but finally we had a chance to blaze. And the field caught fire. Pete was bouncing around the stage like “Tigger” while the audience reacted as it had been a stalwart of the set for years. Everyone was jumping. The last encore was the by now traditional duo of “Garden Party” and “Market Square” and the night was most definitely ours.

Loreley was in rapture and we took our bows with smiles the width of the Rhein. It was an incredible and unforgettable night and to have captured it on camera was an added bonus. On stage any animosity was left behind and for 2 hours we could forget about all the other issues that were clouding our dream and threatening our future as a band. There was a closeness no one could dispel and a high others will never reach. We stood in a straight line and took our bows.

It was one of the last open airs we played together.

The “Clutching at Straws” tour was about to launch in North America in less than 2 months. Everything was about to change and those omens were not good. I’d just performed my last gig as a single man and was on my way up the aisle in 7 days time.

As we left a now deserted festival site empty of adrenalin and full of fine wines I swear I could hear the siren calling. She sounded beautiful and dangerous. I hadn’t then realised I’d already changed my course to follow the call.

And the river still flows.

© D.Dick – Fish 2009