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PAUL HARTNOLL

(Orbital)

Brothers Phil and Paul Hartnoll were fathers of the early UK rave scene and are one of the most enduring sibling partnerships (save for a short split in the 2000s). This is also the only chapter to prominently feature a waterslide.

 

This one was painfully awful. In 1996, we were touring Europe, and for some reason, we weren’t popular in Germany, and I don’t know why. They like their techno music, but they didn’t care for us. We got an offer to play a gig by a rich kid whose father owned a resort somewhere in the Black Forest. We arrived, and there was this beautiful, rotund restaurant space, but the kid didn’t want us to play there. He said to us, “I’ve got a great idea for where I want you to play.”

He led us down to this massive swimming pool with two really tall waterslides connected to a gigantic tower. He pointed at the tower and said, “That’s where I want you to play.” We agreed, as it was a nice, sunny day with lovely weather. It really was a massive tower, and we had to lug all the gear to the top, which was a real chore. We had these blunderbuss, analog synths that didn’t take well to European power, so we couldn’t use those. I spent most of the day trying to reprogram the synths, so it was shaping up to be a really unpleasant, stressful day.

Everybody went off to dinner, and I was stuck with the goddamn synths on top of the tower. I finally managed to get some dinner in the lovely, round restaurant building, and all I could think about was how much I’d rather be playing in there. The waiter told me that it was asparagus season and that I had to try it. He came back with this horrendously over-boiled asparagus and an awful cup of tea. I left, hoping that some of the crowd would have arrived by then. I kept waiting and waiting, but no one was showing up. When we were set to play, to say that twenty-five people were there would have been excessive.

As we were getting ready to play, the sky absolutely clouded over with really ominous, black storm clouds. At that point, I decided I’d had enough and started drinking, which is not something I’d normally do. Occasionally, I’d have a nip of vodka before going on, but this time I was properly having a drink. I kinda staggered up the tower again, and we started playing, with the synths still broken. I never got them fixed after all that time.

We were playing for the twenty-five people below, hanging around the swimming pool. Way up on the tower, it was like we were playing to nobody. We watched as thunder and lightning rolled in from the distance. It seemed to be the exact height as our tower and was hitting these pylons a few fields away. My bandmate Phil started nudging me, saying that we needed to get down immediately.

I was drunk and starting to feel like Dr. Frankenstein at that point. I started yelling at Phil, “I’m going to finish this fucking gig if it kills me! I’m not fucking quitting now!” We were playing our track “The Box,” which is kind of gothic anyway. I’m still ranting, and I had brought a plastic bucket up there for a toilet, because I was so sick of climbing down the fucking tower to use a proper restroom. Since I was drinking, I was peeing in the bucket during the show, and I accidentally knocked it over.

At that point, it was about as bad as it could get, and then we started getting pelted with rain. It was pouring down on the equipment, even though we had a small roof over our heads. Phil finally grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “You’ve got to get the fuck off this tower. You’re going to get hit by lightning.” He had to drag me down the thing, kicking and screaming. They finally pulled the plug on it when we got to the bottom of the tower.

When we finally got all the gear down, the weather turned nice and peaceful again. We left all bedraggled, wet, and tired. We walked into the lovely, rotund building, and found a room full of people with a separate gig going on. It was transformed into a really nice little club. We were thinking, “Where the fuck is that little idiot who put us up on the fucking tower?” Here was this brilliant place, and he had stuck us on the back end of his land, where no one even knew we were playing.

It wasn’t like there wasn’t room for our gear in there or anything; we obviously could have played inside. Thankfully, we didn’t get hassled from the rich kid about quitting early. After all, I bet it wasn’t his money anyway. He was actually a sweet guy, just a little daft. I think he was quite horrified by what had happened.

Being in a band with my brother hasn’t always been a bed of roses. Thirty years of working with any one person is going to be difficult, but thirty years of working with my brother, who is four years older, gets really annoying. I think we’ve gotten off lightly when I look at the in-fighting between the Kinks, Oasis, or even Dire Straits. Look at UB40! God almighty! They’re still at each others’ throats. Those are my cautionary tales, and I’ve always told myself, “Don’t end up in those situations.”