Billywint

By

Anna Gupta

 

I first met Billywint when they were grubbing around for lyrics – trying to be depressed so they could come up with something profound; of course they haven’t managed yet (they’re a cheery bunch) but they settled for something a bit strange and complicated instead, it’s enough to pull the wool over most of the punters’ eyes. In fact very few of the lyrics have been written since 1997; they stand as a time capsule of gareth’s teenage years; I think he had to delve that far back in order to find some material – “I aven’t fuckin felt anything since I was 19,” he claims as his strapping figure lollops over to fill the kettle in the band’s hotel suite, his lips and teeth are brown from the all the tea and figs he seems to consume, but that, combined with the brown of Lloyd’s nicotine stained fingers as the guitarist smokes nervously in the corner while fingering the hem of the hotel room curtain, give the band a ‘brown warmth’ which pre-empts some of the cosy valley melodics that uphold most of their songs. “He misses his ‘wowow’,” explains gareth, referring to Lloyd’s fevered curtain fingering, “ee always ‘as to be touchin material when ee’s nervous – ee’s like that since ee was a boy.”

The other guitarist seems all the more together, Mark, his name is – he’s clearly the sensible one and uses the interview in order to provide me with the powerpoint mission statement and Billywint’s long term financial targets. A seriousness that is only slightly undermined by his insistence on wearing tartan: tartan doublet and hose, tartan socks, tam o’shanter, even tartan nail polish (“ee’s always wanted to be part of the celtic club like us welshies I suppose, so ee makes out ee’s scottish,” whispers gareth as I walk past him to attempt another loo visit (I had been called out to the Park Lane Hotel in London’s Picadilly on a particularly heavy painting day, if you know what I mean),”if it weren’t for ‘im, me an Lloyd would still be hummin outside the City Arms,” he sneers) It’s Mark who gives the band their edgy celtic aggro, or Swaggering Pop as he likes to call it and they are right to be grateful to him but please let’s lose the tartan….it’s just soo Noddy Holder.

Gareth loosens his grip on my arm and I make it to the loo just in time to apply another waddy. Lawks! As I wash my hands, I can hear gareth breathing outside the door, waiting for me. Hmmm, I have to be honest here; I do fancy him – I’ve always fancied him – that’s why I became a music journalist – I’ve watched his grand canine physique under his wetsuit (the band go surfing in Wales every now and then – a bit clumsily, and I think I’ve even seen Lloyd slapping his ‘wowow’ on the sea out of sheer frustration, but as I said, they look good – through binoculars anyway), I’ve been dazzled by the glare of stage lights on gareth’s gorgeous shaven head and marvelled at his mellifluous lilting voice (whoever said he sounded like a rabid dog gargling Mars Bars was being a touch harsh I think); so to be honest, this interview is a real treat for me.

“Come away from her,” shouts Mikey the amiable bass player, clicking his fingers as if calling off a dog,”pay no heed to gareth, sweetheart; he always puts his hand down on the seat before a lady sits down, he’s digusting. Come away you filthy mut,” by now, he’s threatening to remove his belt so gareth lopes away in the direction of his mug of tea. Privately, I don’t think I would have minded; if it wasn’t for my waddy, but hey, on with the interview.

Mikey, the urbane Rastafarian, joined the band in ’76. According to legend, he had to teach them all how to count, “this bunch of arse bandits could only count in prime numbers and I had a real struggle makin ‘em do bars of four. An I insisted on having a real drummer instead of a laptop – that’s why we got Terri in (I had met her while we were on the Bank of England Monetary Committee together, she’s a real find)” and indeed she is; I should point out that all this while Terri has been drumming in the corner (near where Lloyd is now almost completely rolled up in the velour curtains and shaking sporadically); the sound is deafening and the whole interview has been conducted in shouts, at one point a bit of Terri’s drum stick even snapped off and splashed into Mark’s whiskey, but even then, Terri just carried on drumming and smiling.

“Can I speak to her?” I shout over the drumming.

“Terri?! Heehee! No she don’t talk, she jus drums god be blessed!… She jus drums,” reflects Mikey proudly, “has done since that fatal quarter percent interest rate hike jus before the 2003 spring budget. She loves drummin tho’. Cant get enough.”

Lawks. I give up.

The interview now over, I make my way out into the hotel’s foyer after congratulating the band on their successes so far and promising to come along to their gig at The Lark in The Park in Copenhagen Street N1, at 11pm on Friday 18th November.

Gareth suggests I bring knickers to throw at the stage.

At this rate, I think I will; I’ll have to get rid of them somehow.

A.G.