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officer, Creation Records

      Ian Mahoney

      SFA tour manager 1995–8

       PROLOGUE

      There, blinking in the darkness, were five shaggy-haired individuals in dressing gowns. The Super Furry Animals had woken up in a rural cottage at four in the morning, with only half-remembered instructions to help themselves to coffee. As they all sat around a large oak table, the one with dark hair suddenly flopped onto its surface with a primeval groan. He was shaken awake again.

      A sixth man swaggered in wearing only boxer shorts, smoking a pipe and ticking off the final checklists from his notebook. His name was Ian Mahoney. He was the tour manager.

      ‘Right!’ clapped Mahoney, joining his comrades at the table. ‘This is where we are.’

      He placed a cornflake over a small village in South Wales called Penybanc.

      ‘And John is waiting for us on the farm … over here.’

      He placed another cornflake two centimetres below.

      ‘John has got the armed vehicle. We will rendezvous with him at 0600 hours – which gives us one hour – then we will mount the vehicle and drive across here …’ he slid the cornflake north, ‘and the festival is over here!’ It landed over a small village called Llandeilo. ‘Any questions?’

      The singer tilted his head like a curious dog.

      ‘Good. Now let’s go! Go! Go!’

      It was getting light as their car skidded up the muddy banks of the farm. The kitchen lights blinked on, then John Andrews of Creation Records stepped out of the cottage in a dressing gown, pulling it over his head to avoid the drizzle. He smiled into the headlights and waved the car along through a small flock of sheep.

      The car finally parked in the corner of a field, twenty feet away from another vehicle: this one considerably larger, and covered by tarpaulins. John cackled to himself and threw some wellies on, then trudged over to greet the band.

      ‘Glad you could make it,’ he said, fist-pumping them one by one. ‘The beast is waiting patiently!’

      ‘Good to hear it, John! Do you think the media suspect anything?’ asked tour manager Ian.

      ‘I’ve not heard a whisper, Ian, and I don’t expect to – at least until we reach the A4.’ He suddenly looked quite thoughtful. ‘Then we will probably be arrested.’

      Twenty miles away in a huge green field, the annual National Eisteddfod was creaking into action. Tents were being raised, harps were being tuned, and the sun was shimmering through the bright blue sky.

      The Eisteddfod festival is said to have its origins in the druidic rites of the twelfth century, and its stated purpose is to turn artists into bards, under the judgement of the Arch Druid. Renowned as a patriotic event, the Eisteddfod enforces a Welsh-language-only policy for its artists, and on this particular day, it was enforcing the policy in the fields of Llandeilo.

      Down by the side of the main stage, a television crew dressed in Hawaiian shirts were interviewing the festival’s spokesperson.

      ‘So what can we expect from today’s festivities?’ asked the young presenter, grinning through his sunglasses.

      ‘Well, as usual the Eisteddfod festival will be priding itself on the very best in Welsh-language arts and entertainment,’ said the spokesperson, ‘plus, hopefully we will be anointing some bards into the druidic order, which – as you know – dates back centuries.’

      ‘And what do you make of the controversial decision to invite the Super Furry Animals to play?’

      The spokesperson’s eyes misted over, as if he had detected a subtle change in temperature. ‘The Super Furry Animals? Well, of course they are a matter of national pride too. And what’s more, we’re delighted to have them!’

      ‘But haven’t they been known to sing in English on occasion?’

      The spokesperson folded his arms. ‘The Super Furries will be on their best, Welsh-speaking behaviour today. I can assure you of that!’

      Eight miles away, the army tank rolled over the hill. Attached to its missile turret were twin speakers pumping out a steady techno groove. The tank had been painted bright psychedelic blue, with thick yellow letters spelling out a simple question above its headlights: ‘A OES HEDDWCH?’^fn1

      The manhole lid flipped open and Gruff appeared, squinting through the sun at the tents on the far horizon. The techno was loud up on top, and it seemed to phase left and right according to the direction of the wind. ‘Festival wind!’ he thought, making a mental note of this strange audio phenomenon.

      Down below, his bandmate Cian was cueing up ‘Sail On Sailor’ by the Beach Boys on the decks, while Daf tapped his drumsticks against the gun controls, raising nervous eyebrows. The other band members sat in the darkness, dimly lit by flickering neon light.

      ‘It’s fucking dehumanising down here!’ shouted Guto over the tumbling noise of the engine.

      ‘What do you mean?’ yelled Daf.

      ‘Well, it’s pretty cramped, isn’t it? – I keep banging my head!’

      Daf lit a cigar and leaned into Guto’s ear. ‘They are pretty cramped,’ he yelled, ‘but at least they scare the shit out of the other cars!’

      John and Ian of Creation Records were in the front compartment – and feeling increasingly uneasy. In the far distance they’d noticed a police van parked by the festival gates, and John had begun impulsively stroking his chin.

      ‘Let’s not do anything to make them feel nervous,’ he said.

      ‘Such as driving up to them with a military-grade weapon?’ asked Ian.

      ‘Mmm,’ said John.

      Ian stopped the tank, looked again at the map, then made an announcement. ‘Well I think we’re going the wrong way anyway. Take a look at this.’ He sprawled the map onto John’s knees and pointed at the festival region. It showed that although they were heading for the main gate, the artists’ field was significantly closer: two fields to their right.

      ‘That’s interesting,’ said John. ‘Can we turn around?’

      Half a mile ahead, a small group of police officers were starting to hear traces of the Beach Boys in the air. One security officer stepped forwards, looked through a pair of binoculars, and began muttering obscenities.

      ‘I can’t turn around, John, there’s traffic all around us,’ said Ian.

      ‘Well … we’ll just have to drive up to the police then. Maybe they’ll be nice. In fact, I have definitely heard that the police are nice around here.’

      As John said those last words, a strange smell began leaking into their compartment. Ian looked confused for a second, then suddenly terrified – as a trickle of smoke wafted up his nose. John jumped up and pulled back the curtains, but he couldn’t see the passengers: the dope smoke was too thick.

      ‘Holy mother of Moses,’ uttered John.

      Up the road, the Celtic harp recital was just beginning. Lime cordial was being served, while the festival spokesperson stood to the side of the stage, preparing to make his final TV appearance of the day.

      ‘Ah, those lovely harps,’ he sighed. ‘Did you know that this festival dates back to the druidic ceremonies of the twelfth century?’

      ‘Yes, I had heard something about that,’ smiled the presenter. ‘Right – shall we begin the filming then?’

      ‘Hang on!’ interrupted the spokesperson. He narrowed his eyes, as if sensing a distant threat. Then he whispered: ‘What

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