Andy Dane Nye - Author

Contribution to book presented by fans to founding member of Wishbone Ash, Andy Powell, on the occasion of the band's 50th Anniversary.

As I reflect on the fact that Andy and Wishbone Ash are celebrating their 50th anniversary, the most remarkable thing to me, personally, is that I’ve been the band’s UK agent for 40% of that time. I don’t mean “remarkable” from a point of self-absorbed arrogance… I mean “remarkable” in that on our first coming face to face, Andy promptly told me to “f**k off”. Well… I say promptly, but if memory serves me correctly… and it was a long time ago… I believe it took him three attempts.
      Perhaps I should explain.
      My introduction to the music of Wishbone Ash came courtesy of a rather battered stereo system inhabiting a corner of the sixth-form common room. Not only did its communally abused needle signify a rite of passage into a more privileged stream of learning, it also provided a glorious melting pot of musical tastes, as favourite albums were queued up beside it at break times, providing a great opportunity to explore a wider variety of music. My own contribution was Deep Purple’s Machine Head… its throbbing bass lines and sharp-edged grooves proving that girls weren’t the only thing that could give you a tingle in your groin. So it came as something of a shock when the opening bars of The King Will Come - courtesy of Live Dates - first introduced themselves to that particular area of my trousers. A riff slowly appeared, producing a cheer from the crowd. They obviously knew something I didn’t. What was this? Musicians playing… softly… intricately… having the temerity to tease you with the prospect of something magnificent about to happen… surely any minute now.
      Cue a military snare.
      They didn’t seem to be in the usual rush, demonstrating a confidence born of knowing that what was coming next was worth waiting for.
      An intriguing crescendo.
      What was coming next?
      Cue tantalising foreplay from a wah-wah pedal.
      Something was going to happen… wasn’t it?
      And then it did.
      The king had come.
      And that was it. As an aspiring musician, I revelled in the melodies, the riffs, the harmonies, the clever dynamics, the twin-guitar work, the delicate interplay between all four musicians, and the fact they did it to perfection live. I even forgave them the fact they didn’t have a keyboard player.
      So when the chance came to see them perform locally, I was the first to the front. Ted had just left the band - much to a large proportion of the audience’s chagrin - and the replacement guitarist - some young upstart calling himself Laurie Wisefield - was having the cheek to smile on stage. Didn’t he know our pain?
      I’d managed to get myself wedged between the front of the stage and a heaving mass behind. I was transfixed… studying everything the band was doing… trying to learn… soaking it all up… finally having the opportunity to see as well as hear the music.
      I was having a fabulous time… drinking in the experience and appreciating everything taking place in front of me. I had a grin as wide as my flares… but only on the inside. For I’ve never been the demonstrative type. I’ll happily clap at the end of a song. But don’t expect me to break from my enjoyment mid-performance by actually showing it. Even nodding my head in time with the beat seems a little risqué. Unfortunately, this wasn’t known to those on stage that night. As Andy approached the front - flying V pointing menacingly in my direction - acknowledging the hordes of baying fans jumping up and down in the packed auditorium, his eyes alighted upon the one individual amongst them who seemed a little… odd. I remember him proffering a slight look of bemusement and encouraging that individual to join in with a sharp nod of his head.
      This individual stared back in panic, the fourth wall having just alarmingly disintegrated. Didn’t Andy Powell realise the target of his bemusement was having the time of his life? Unfortunately, said guitarist wasn’t alone in such ignorance. The target’s face didn’t know it either. That was the problem.
      It was still the problem when Andy came to the front of the stage a second time.
      As I realised his eyes had locked onto mine, my brain suggested I at least offer back a smile to let him know he needn’t trouble himself with my condition. But I think it must’ve come out as something closer to a nervous facial tic, as he nodded at me again and, this time, took the trouble to mouth, “come on… dance!”.
      Now… I’m not a performing monkey… and I certainly wasn’t going to bring attention to myself by indulging in anything so common as a fist pump. I was, after all, wearing a green & brown striped tank top… good clothes being extremely hard to come by in the provinces in those days. The best I and my tank top could do was pretend it hadn’t happened.
      Unfortunately… it had. And, as Andy approached the front for a third time, I realised his second nod had been less one of encouragement and more one of command. As our eyes locked again, my heart sank. A smile now seemed wholly inappropriate, as Andy stared at me with an imperious sneer for a few seconds before mouthing the words, “oh, f**k off, then!” and skipping his way to a more receptive part of the crowd.
      I was, of course, mortified.
      I doubt Jon Lord would’ve behaved in such a way.
      I’ve tried to bear that experience in mind when subsequently finding myself on the other side of the stage and looking out at the occasional passive face in the crowd. It doesn’t mean they’re not enjoying it. Though I do take exception to a yawn.
      The problem was exacerbated a short while later when I discovered that globe-trotting Andy actually lived less than two miles from me in the sleepy wilds of Buckinghamshire. I lived in a village so small it was designated a hamlet. Andy - when he wasn’t doing his trotting - lived in the one next to it. We didn’t even have a bus route, for heaven’s sake! So what was a rock star doing in the vicinity? Was the Universe having a joke at my expense? What was it suggesting I do… go round and knock on his door to explain?
      I never did.
      It would take twenty-two years before I got the opportunity to do that. Bob Skeat had kindly put my name forward when the band were looking for a change of agent and I went to see them at what I considered to be a far-too-small-for-their-status venue in St. Albans called The Horn Reborn. After the show, and on recounting the story, Andy merely shrugged and said, “sounds like something I’d’ve done at the time”.
      I’m still waiting for my apology.
      So… what else can I tell you about Andy?
      In the twenty years that we have now worked together, it has been an absolute pleasure and always an honour to represent him and the band. I regularly tell clients that Wishbone Ash are the nicest individuals they will ever get to work with in this business… and the guys never let me down. You don’t reach such an impressive milestone without being ultra-professional, dedicated, hard-working, consistently at the top of your game and, most importantly of all, loved.
      So, to the band as a whole I say thank you for your music for the last 50 years and for being so easy to work with for 40% of them.
      To Andy as an individual I say… thank you for your trust and friendship all these years, which I greatly cherish, and that you are, in a business that sometimes seems to have a shortage of them, a true, true gentleman… if you ignore the initial expletive, that is.

Andy Nye
UK Agent