At least that’s what Nude Magazine thought, who printed this brief version of my ‘I Was a Swivel Chair’ story:

Name: Swivel Chair. Town: Edinburgh, Scotland. Years: 1999-2004

Influences: KLF, Pet Shop Boys, Joy Division. Career Highlight: Our third triumphantly drunken gig.. Lowpoint: Our fourth disastrously drunken gig. Line Up: Craig Low (bass, samples) Milo McLaughlin (vocals, guitar) David Robertson (99-2002): madness, Dave Burnett (2002-2004)- lead guitar, production

I met Craig working in a miserable till-monkey job at HMV on Edinburgh’s Princes St.  He had already started recording Swivel Chair as a joke, using the recording software Acid, and he handed me a CD on which he had used a recording of the store manager giving him a bollocksing over a Led Zeppelin sample.

I was impressed and when he suggested I come up with some lyrics/ideas for a Swivel Chair track, I jumped at the chance and our first collaboration, The Man Who Listened to Planes was recorded, wholly based on the A-Team theme.

A few more sample based comedy recordings (with original vocals) and a friend agreed to sell our CD in Fopp Records- to our surprise we sold quite a few. We were even more surprised when our second EP got us some brief record company interest. However we were stumped when they asked when we were playing live as neither of us could play an instrument.

Our egos inflated, we decided to stop using samples and learn instruments. Third member David Robertson, who lived in Dundee, was also cruelly ejected from the band as egos ran riot, and a new member, Burnett was reluctantly recruited. The only one who could play his instrument, there was a lot of pressure on Burnett as we started rehearsals.

Finally we played our first gig using a computer to provide backing tracks. It was an entertaining spectacle and a few drunken girls danced, but we were barely competent and doubt set in for Craig and Burnett. There was a significant break in which they both refused to play live and we half-heartedly agreed to split up before we were approached by a band called Quantum Ho Ho. Unbeknownst to us they had bought our CDs and it had inspired them to start their own band.

We reluctantly reformed and played three more gigs in support of them. One was mediocre, the second was a triumph, despite full drunken arrogance and a stand in guitarist who we’d only had one rehearsal with; the night before. We were high as kites as XFM Scotland (then Beat 106) DJ Jim Gellatly proclaimed our set “Fuckin’ Mental”. Unfortunately underlying tensions and alcohol led to a bust up after the gig in which punches were thrown but no-one except pride was hurt.

A week later and the final gig was an utter disaster due to lack of a soundcheck and this time being the wrong side of wasted. I threw a tantrum at the soundman. The others laughed at me. Our bonds were broken. Craig and I are still in contact now and again and have joked that we would reform if 1000 people demanded it. So far 8 people have expressed a vague interest.

Read the first 4 parts of the full tale below (originally published on the first Gaseous Brain blog in 2005 but extra video and mp3s have now been added)

• I Was a Swivel Chair – Part 1
• I Was a Swivel Chair (Part Two)
• I Was a Swivel Chair (Part 3)- Witness No.1
• I Was A Swivel Chair (part 4)

The Man Who Listened To Planes 

One night after work and a couple of drinks in the pub Craig and I walked home along Fountainbridge. We passed a group of neds hanging around a car who shouted something at us but we ignored them and carried along the road. Craig lived on Viewforth whilst I lived further along on Bryson Road so he took a left. Strangely, given what was to happen, he asked me if I wanted to walk the long way, due to the presence of the neds. I was blasé though and insisted I would be fine going my normal route.

I continued along but the neds were gaining on me. There was quite a big group of them, girls and boys. They didn’t look that old and I was completely oblivious to any danger they might pose. I had the illusion of youthful invincibility, increased to overconfident stupidity after a couple of premium lagers. After all I had never gotten into any serious trouble prior to that, despite a few close scrapes. I decided I wasn’t going to let them change how I would ordinarily behave and so I popped into the phone box and called home to check if we had any milk. The neds circled the phone box. They slammed their fists against the glass and shouted some abuse. I remember saying to Mel something like “there are some wee idiots banging on the glass so I’m going to go now, see you soon”. I still didn’t feel the necessary survival signal of fear which would have made me act sensibly and run away.

I emerged from the phone box and the little bastards danced round me making unintelligible taunts like a cross between the thugs in a Clockwork Orange and the monkeys in 2001. Then I made the fatal mistake, although whether anything I did at this stage would have made a difference to the final result I don’t know. I turned round and shouted at them to fuck off. I only remembered that part later on and can still barely remember the next few minutes but I remember them coming towards me. The rest I only know for sure as it was later told to me by the Police, as reported to them by someone who was watching from the safety of their flat several storeys up, and by the Fountainbridge brewery’s CCTV cameras which were whirring silently and recording the whole thing. Two of the blokes whacked me round the head, and I must have fell to the floor. (needless to say, I was never a fighter). Then at least two of them kicked me in the head repeatedly and with great gusto until my jaw broke in two places.

I came to a while later. I was lying outside the Fountainbridge pub- how come no-one had seen what was happening and come out to stop it? I could barely see for the blood, and even then only out of one eye. I managed to get up and staggered along the road to my flat. I rang the buzzer and Mel let me in. She was obviously horrified by the sight of me, one eye completely closed over and blood everywhere. As far as I remember she called a taxi and I was taken to hospital.

I was eventually taken to St. John’s hospital in Livingstone where I had to have an operation on my jaw, and two metal plates were inserted. The incident gave me a massive kick in the arse creatively. I’d been scribbling lyrics for a while and other bits of writing but I’d never dared to share them with anyone. Now that I’d randomly faced, if not death, at least, unpredicted pain, I felt my own mortality for the first time. I had to do something with all the ideas floating round my badly battered head.

As mentioned in part one, the sheer misery of my experience working for HMV was to lead to my joining Swivel Chair, and was a major influence on the Swivel Chair anti-work ethos. Now for (probably) the first time, I can reveal some of the horrors involved in music retail.

Slave Labour

We were hired before the Princes St branch re-opened after a refurbishment, and were used as slave labour to fit out the store. This involved a large amount of heavy lifting, the repetitive peeling off and reapplying of promo stickers to CDs, and the unenviable task of filing the massive A-Z of albums. All this while the smug management, most of whom were barely out of school and had only got the job because they were willing to suck cock for a living, took great pleasure in abusing the little power they had by ordering us around like a van full of refugee workers. Thus by the time the store was opened the majority of staff were already bitter and cynical and fed up to the back teeth of working there.

Pete Loaf

A celebrity was roped in for the grand opening: Meat Loaf. A few desperately out of touch fans turned up, including his number one fan, the even fatter and hairier Pete Loaf. I had to stand beside Meat and hand out signed CDs to the gimps who still thought he was a relevant musical force. When Pete Loaf (who actually had his name changed by deed poll) turned up the 80s rocker obviously recognised him and not with joy- he blanked him, which suggests he was not pleased with this excessive fan worship, and being reminded of his hairy fat era (now he had lost a couple of stone and had a no.2 haircut).

As they were snapped together by photographers from local newspapers (must have been a slow news day) our manager who will simply be referred to by his nickname “Bell-End” was asked by Meat Loaf how he felt. “Very nervous” he said in his broad Hull accent. His voice was to become a much imitated one, with the staff shouting his various catchphrases at each other throughout the day, although not as much as the Geordie team leader Pilchard (see prologue) He would always greet any group of male staff with the hilarious “Hello ladies” and frequently referred to Pilchard as “Beavis” in a way which would have undermined the little fuck’s authority, had he had any in the first place.

Getting on with the Management

My motivation was nil and the full time hours were killing me, after four slothful, drunken years at college with only the odd part time job. I was admonished by Pilchard for regularly turning up late and, horror of horrors, unshaven. I was told never to turn up again without having a shave. I laughed this off, realising what a pathetic power hungry twat he was. He also began to make the odd reference to me being a stoner, presumably because of my lack of energy and enthusiasm. I rarely smoked but he had me labelled as a heavy consumer of the mari-joanna.

I pissed off Bell-End too. He was a real prick who did nothing whatsoever to help the shop floor staff in the running of the store as far as I could see. He repeatedly refused my requests for shelves in the back room rather than having CDs piled up chaotically on the floor, making life hell for the staff. Eventually, about 6 months later, shelves were put in there as if it was management’s idea.

Then I called in sick on Boxing Day. We didn’t know what days we would get off at Christmas until it was announced by Bell-End. He posted the days up in the staff room and to my delight I had been given Christmas day and Boxing Day. I made plans to visit my mum in the Borders. A week before Christmas Bell-end announced he had changed his mind and altered these days off. I was now expected to work on Boxing day. I told him this wasn’t possible as I had already made plans but he wouldn’t budge.

However Christmas day was a disaster and I ended up having a barny with my mum. Tired from over-work during the hellishly busy Christmas period (HMV earns most of it’s profits in the four weeks leading up to Christmas) and the stress of family arguments on my only day off for weeks, I called in on Boxing Day morning and said I couldn’t come in as I was physically exhausted. Perhaps understandably, Bell-End thought I was taking the piss because I’d made a fuss about getting the day off. He used the example in staff meetings, admonishing staff for taking unnecessary sick days and using me as an example, saying I had called in because I was “too tired” to come to work…

Probation

We were on a 6 month probationary period, after which we would be made permanent members of staff. I assumed this to be a mere formality, and despite my hatred of the job, I did work relatively hard and was good with customers etc, and besides, you’d have to do something really stupid to get sacked from such a menial job. So imagine my shock when I was told I was being let go due to my lack of enthusiasm. Obviously Bell-End had held a grudge from the unfortunate Boxing Day incident. I was told I had 2 weeks to shape up and turn over a new leaf or I’d have to get out. I was horrified. I had a degree for God’s sake, how could I get sacked from a Sales Assistant job in an overpriced music store? Okay, it was a 2:2 in Communications Studies, probably the most useless degree ever dreamt up by the academic world, but it was the principal. I couldn’t let it happen.

So for two weeks, I had to pretend to give a shit. I sucked up to the little fucker Pilchard and went about my work with a new vigour and determination. I was kept on- just. I was taken in the office and told that I had completely turned myself around to the extent that I even appeared to be “standing up straighter”. I would be kept on, but I’d better not let them down. The fools.

Coming up soon: The Man Who Listened to Planes