Chapter 1

It was under a sky the colour of gunmetal that I'd arrived at the town of Grange Villa in the North East of England. Grange Villa was the last night of a tour I'd started eight weeks previously as support to a superb English blues singer-songwriter called Johnny Dickinson. We'd travelled the length and breadth of Britain playing in small to medium sized venues in some of the bleakest towns in the country and Grange Villa was no exception. As I manoeuvred my way through the streets of the town it became all too apparent that like many small towns and villages throughout the country that the closure of the adjacent mines had savaged the towns' economy and decimated any lustre that it might have possessed. It seems that Grange Villa had once boasted a thriving coal industry until the 1980's when Margaret Thatcher had, in her infinite wisdom, closed mines throughout the country wiping out thousands upon thousands of peoples livelihoods. As I continued through the narrow cobbled streets, Elmore James blasting out of my CD player, I scanned both sides of the road searching out the venue where tonight's gig was. Out of the corner of my eye a sign caught my attention and there before me was the Working Man's Club. I grimaced when I saw it...

The Working Man's Club was certainly not the most salubrious venue I'd played on this tour. Stepping out of my car, a battered red 1985 Ford Sierra, I screwed a cigarette between my lips and lit it, inhaling deeply. The club was a dimly lit establishment and like many of its ilk it had probably been built in the 1930's with functionality a premium and aesthetics but a minor concern. It was an ugly venue and on approaching it I noticed that the club sign was hanging at a crooked angle and was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. God only knows what it would be like inside. Wearily I went back to my car and started getting my gear out.

It came as no surprise that the main hall was in no better state than the club exterior. The walls and ceiling were coated with thick tobacco stains and a fetid stench of mildew mixed with stale smoke hung in the air. Off-colour white paint was peeling from sections of the walls which were also littered with large jagged cracks. The stage looked to be just a large piece of plywood perched on numerous plastic crates. It didn't look as if it would be able to hold an amplifier never mind a fully-grown man. I tell you the places we struggling musicians have to play! Looking at my watch I saw I didn't have long to get set up and sound check for the gig.

Less than two hours later I was climbing on stage to be greeted with a muted applause. I scanned the room. It was three-quarters full with a healthy mix of men and women. Most of them seemed to be middle-aged or older but I had noticed some younger people sitting in several places and as I played I noticed them nodding their heads or tapping their feet along with my playing. It was great to see younger people into blues and roots music.

Time flies by when you play live. As I stared out through the haze of smoke I caught sight of the sound engineer who pointed at his watch and held up two fingers. I'd played for nearly forty minutes and it was time to wind down the set. Nodding in his direction I struck the opening notes of the Scottish folk song 'The Lass of Loch Royale' the fingers of my right hand picked the notes the glass slide on the little finger of my left ghosted up and down the fretboard. Once I heard my own voice kick in I closed my eyes and became lost in the story. I imagined I was the sailor gone overseas leaving behind the love of his life pledging her his return, physically sitting alone on a makeshift stage in the North of England in the 21^st Century but mentally traversing the South Seas on a frigate bound for the Indies in the 18th. When the last notes of the song had sounded I opened my eyes and was greeted with a warm applause with a few enthusiastic whoops and calls for an encore thrown in for good measure. I thanked the crowd profusely and made to get off stage only for the calls of encore to grow louder so I reached down beside me, took a quick swig from my pint, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and addressed the crowd;

"Thank you very much. Thank you... I'm going to play one more song and then get off the stage so you can all see the amazingly talented Johnny Dickinson who is guaranteed to knock your socks off."

Taking another quick slug of beer I reached for my lap steel guitar and positioning it across my knees adjusted the mike causing it to emit a high-pitched squeal of feedback. Grimacing I spoke as I tuned up:

"This next song is for anyone who has ever worked in a job and found one day that their livelihood had been taken away from them. I wrote it for my father who sadly passed away last year and who worked for thirty-three years in a Sheffield Steel Mill before being made redundant. This song is called 'The Mill', my name is Alan Rogers and I hope you've enjoyed the show as much as I have playing it."

Clearing my throat I began to sing...

Ten minutes later I was standing outside the club smoking a cigarette and watching the first drops of rain splatter on the pavement debating whether or not I should try and drive back to Sheffield tonight. It was going to be late by the time this gig wrapped up and the weather forecast had predicted a sharp drop in temperatures tonight. Rain and a sharp drop in temperatures. There'd probably be ice on the roads then which meant that getting home tonight was going to be extremely hazardous. A night in Grange Villa? Great...

My train of thought was interrupted by the heavily digitised sound of Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries'. Reaching into my pocket I fished out my mobile phone and checked who was ringing. Raising my eyes to heaven I answered;