Small Town Disease

By Clive O’Grady

Over the years 13th Chime’s master recordings have been mislaid and lost, but in 2009 two albums were painstakingly put together from vinyl and a collection of old cassette tapes and released by New York record label Sacred Bones. These songs, a handful of photographs and the memories of those who were there are all that remain.

From the ashes of the UK punk scene rose a new generation of bands: dark, primitive and experimental, it was a time of flux. Some continued to draw on their punk roots while others were more diverse delving into literature, film, art and beyond for inspiration. The political landscape of the early 1980s had seen a new government come to power but things hadn’t moved on a great deal since the mid seventies. The head-on collision of punk had been absorbed into societies fabric: you could buy it on the high street; punk had been watered down and made palatable for the masses. The new bands still had energy and anger but there was now a sense of theatre, and escapism.

Before the term Gothic was adopted by a generation of lost souls to describe a plethora of dark uneasy sounds, there was the 13th Chime. They never signed to a record label but instead released three singles independently. For the good part of four years they gigged relentlessly throughout the Southeast of England and built up a loyal and fanatical following until in 1985, the band went their separate ways and slipped into obscurity.

All four members of the Chime met as teenagers and like so many of their generation it was punk’s DIY ethic that inspired them to start their own band. They grow up in the Suffolk market town of Haverhill. With its sprawling Council Estates, the result of extensive developments to the town and surrounding countryside, Haverhill became an overspill destination for thousands of London families in the 1960s and 70s, all wanting to escape the deprivation of the city.

Before the Chime, there was the Anticx.

In 1978, after a few experimental line-ups that included David James as front man, the Anticx were formed with Mick Hand on vocals, Gary O'Connor on guitar, Rupert on bass and Ricky Cook on drums. The songs were short, fast and furious, and even at this early stage, Hand’s lyrics not only dealt with topical issues of Police brutality and unemployment but also the supernatural and the occult. The Anticx played several gigs but form the outset the band was marred by tragedy: just days before their first appearance drummer Ricky Cook was stabbed in the stomach whilst on a night out in Cambridge, the wound was severe and he was lucky to survive. The gig went ahead with Steve Edmunds (drummer of another Haverhill band, Wynd-ups) taking Cook’s place. It wasn’t long before tragedy struck once more: Steven Woodgate the Anticx bass player (known to all as Rupert) died from an asthma attack during a Dead Kennedy’s gig at West Runton Pavilion in Cromer on 11th October 1980. The Band was devastated. Rupert came from Ipswich; he was a lovable soul with a carefree attitude and a permanent grin on his face. He was greatly missed by all who knew him.

Hand, O’Connor and Cook had been close friends with Terry Taylor for some time. He played bass for punk rock trio, Wynd-ups, but was feeling disillusioned with the direction they were going in and eventually left to take Rupert’s place. The new line-up continued playing under the same name for a while but things were changing fast. Taylor’s bass playing was up front, pumping out melodic lead lines, a perfect match for Cook’s unique drumming style of intricate patterns and rolling toms. O’Connor’s chugging razor-like rhythms and saturated discord was the glue that held everything together. Hand’s voice was loosing its rough nasal edges and he began to develop harmonic ecclesiastical chants. The lyrical content was shifting too, Hand was now writing with O’Connor the result being a dark exploration of myth and superstition. The look of the band was also changing, the studded leather jackets and colourful hair had disappeared, now black became the predominant colour. In hindsight it’s clear to see that Rupert’s death was the unfortunate catalyst for these changes. O’Connor recalls that on that evening, while sitting with Rupert outside the venue, in between gasps for air Rupert told him that he was going to die that night. O’Connor dismissed this and along with others did his best to comfort the bass player. Now realising the severity of the situation, Hand and O’Connor ran to the nearest telephone box and called for an ambulance. When they returned Rupert was unconscious, he slipped into a coma and died in hospital in the early hours of the following morning.

Through Wynd-ups front man, Rob Shaul, the Anticx became friendly with UK Blues legend Tony McPhee of The Groundhogs, and for a short period McPhee let them rehearse in a small room at the back of his house. O’Connor’s obsession with the supernatural and the occult was gaining momentum and he began visiting a local clairvoyant. The elderly lady had two sons and O’Connor struck up a friendship with the youngest, who just so happened to be a coffin maker. Through this connection O’Connor had two coffins made and planned to convert them into speaker cabinets for the bands PA. McPhee was happy to lend a hand and fitted two 12” speakers into each coffin.

Rupert was still very much alive in everyone’s memory, but now the band felt they needed to move on and decided to give themselves a new identity. It was Taylor who suggested the name 13th Chime after reading the description of clocks striking the thirteenth chime in the opening pages of George Orwell’s 1984.

Although the Chime were from Suffolk their adopted home was Cambridge. They played in the city regularly at venues such as the Sound Cellar: a small dingy night spot beneath the Great Northern Pub on the corner of Station Road, and the Sea Cadets Hall, Riverside. It was here that the band caught the attention of Tim Cole one of the venue’s promoters. Cole took up the position of pseudo-manager and went onto finance all three of the Chime’s singles. The first studio session took place at Spaceward Studios in Cambridgeshire in 1981, where Coffin Maker, Cuts of Love, Dug Up and Cursed were recorded. Once again the intervention of misfortune struck at a pivotal moment: Spaceward Studios was set up in a Victorian Schoolhouse in the sleepy village of Streatham. Late into the recording session there was a tremendous thunderstorm, a lightening strike cut all power to the studio throwing the place into darkness. The session had to be abandoned and finished at a later date. The two first singles were released in the same year, just 500 copies of Coffin Maker/Cuts of Love and 1000 of Cursed/Dug Up. The records were distributed through regional music outlets and Rough Trade Records in London. They had airplay on local radio stations and John Peel played all three singles on his Radio One evening show, recounting on one occasion the time he picked up Mick Hand in his Land Rover whilst Hand was hitchhiking through Cambridgeshire. The single releases took the Chime to a new level, their audiences was growing, they were being offered gigs further a field and played support to a number of established bands. They did several dates in London and Cambridge with wild psychobilly trio, The Meteors. They also gigged with Ipswich punks the Addicts and ironically played with The Dead Kennedy’s in Stevenage. Through their friendship with Theatre of Hate’s bass player Stan Stammers the Chime played several tour dates with them and their later incarnation, Spear of Destiny, but it wasn’t until the spring of 1983 when they were offered a UK tour supporting The Enid that the Chime got real experience of being on the road. During this period The Enid had a studio called the Lodge in the village of Clare in Suffolk. The Chime booked the Lodge and recorded their third and final single there: Fire, along with B-side tracks, Hide and Seek and Sally Ditch. Robert Godfrey of the Enid attended the session and although suffering a suspected heart attack and taken to hospital by ambulance, he was so impressed with the band that he invited them back to re-mix the tracks. This was welcomed as the recordings sounded thin and lacked energy. The re-mix was an improvement, guitar and vocal overdubs were added and the outcome was far more dynamic but took the songs dangerously close to being overproduced and detached from the edgy rawness of the band’s live performances. A fourth song called Radio Man was also recorded along with a drug fuelled vocal improvisation, latter to be called Pigs in a Monastery, or Pigs. It was at this stage The Enid offered to handle the affairs of the band and attempt to get them a recording deal.

Musically the Chime and the Enid were poles apart, The Enid’s progressive strain of classical rock jarred with the Chime’s post punk macabre, so the offer of a tour was a surprise. Over all the Enid’s fans greeted the Chime with indifference and at times, hostility. Towards the end of the tour they had had enough and decided to pull out. This signalled the end of their relationship with the Enid.

13th Chime performances had become theatrical affairs, the imagery was as important as the music: they were both intrinsically linked. There was also a strong sense of sincerity and belief in what they were doing. The stage would be adorned with banners depicting strange creatures and pagan symbols, a backdrop displayed the monochrome face of a screaming witch, that also appeared on the labels of their second and third singles. They used props such as tribal masks, bones and animal skulls – even illuminating the stage with candles on one occasion. Projections of cartoons, an old valve radio used for the intro to Radio Man and of course, the coffin speaker cabinets. They themselves had evolved into sexually androgynous creatures, smeared with greasepaint, charcoal and lipstick. Wrapped in leather and bleached black cotton they looked as if they had just crawled out of a car wreck.

A tape of the bands recordings found its way into the hands of Miles Copeland at IRS Records in London. Copeland was interested enough to come and see them play at the 100 Club in Soho, shortly after which they were invited to make a demo at the IRS studios in Kensington. Seven songs were recorded: Radio Man, Fire, Sara’s got a Chainsaw, House of Laughter, Tinker man, Help me Street and Two as a Couple. They had the luxury of spending a week in the studio at the record company’s expense. This allowed them time to experiment and develop ideas, the result was more representative of their true sound. IRS gave the impression that they were about to sign them, it was everything the Chime had been working towards but the deal never materialised and they were dropped. This marked the beginning of the end, they continued for a while working on new material that had become overworked and progressive: a far cry from the short melodic anthems they were known for.

Mick Hand was the first to leave. He had become distant from the others and eventually acted on his ambition to go travailing the world. David Middle (ex vocalist of Cambridge Goth rockers, Final Scream) was recruited to take Hand’s place. There were several rehearsals with Middle but apathy had set in and before long the band decided to call it a day.