mostly david ephgrave

I mentioned a little while ago that I'd rediscovered a cassette of my old band Big Day Out's early demos and was struck by the songs and their energy. One such track was I Get High: a burst of musical sunshine that's very evocative of the time and captures what those first few years of BDO were all about. David Ephgrave · I Get High The demo comes from a session we did with our then-manager Martin Goodrich in 1997ish. Martin was one of the first people to buy into the band and support us. He was a lovely guy with a fair bit of musical knowledge, who also owned an analogue 8-track recorder, which was a dream come true for the band's two songwriters, Rich and me, to get to play with. My friendship with Rich must have seemed unlikely at the time - he was one of the cool kids at school whereas I definitely wasn't - but it was a sparklingly productive thing. We first got chatting in Design Technology classes (when we should have been working) when we found out we both ...

While sorting through some old things today, I stumbled across a cassette of early Big Day Out demos I haven't heard for years and, after putting magnetic-tape-to-tape-head using my first HiFi (which I rescued from my garage last week), I discovered they're still bloody good. The songs were recorded using our friend, one-time band manager and adopted-father-figure Martin Goodrich's 8-track in around 1997ish, and sound remarkably polished considering our tender age and the technical limitations. The joy and energy bursts from the speakers like the band are playing in your front room today and, while there are inevitable Britpop-style musical quotes we'd soaked up at the time - like the odd Oasis-Esque vowel sound - something sparkling and original still comes out the other side of it. And the songs - which are unashamedly out-and-out pop - are catchier than coronavirus. (Too soon?) Before I sound smug, I should point out the driving force at that time wasn't me, but ...

The song that turned things around when my old band Big Day Out became a three-piece and told us we could continue without our lead guitarist (and one-time driving force) was this: Prior to his leaving, I didn’t have much confidence in my ability as a songwriter or a front-man. While I’d co-written a lot of the material with him, I'd never felt comfortable with our partnership, mainly because I was intimidated by his ability. He was always coming up with ideas he was hugely cocksure about (which is intended as a compliment), and while there was a crossover in our musical taste, I was more into songs that were truthful while he was more motivated by a good riff.   His leaving was ultimately a good thing as it cleared the field and took away my fear. The three of us who remained were on the same page and shared the same sense of humour. It gave us a burst of energy that could have driven us to great things if the tours I took when I left drama school hadn’t got in the w...

We played one of my old band Big Day Out’s songs on Glyn's and my radio show on Sunday, which has been in my head ever since. Chocolate Filled Frown was one of the first things I wrote with Mark Smith back in 1999, when our lead guitarist Rich left the group and we became a three-piece. I have a very clear memory of the two of us sitting around a table in the kitchen of my old house in Stotfold, finishing it off. Mark had arrived with the verse riff and the first few lines in his mind, which we fleshed out in a single session, with him on guitar and me on bass. I suggested the bridge (which I sing) and we both came up with the chorus. It was an exciting time for the group. While we’d had a fair amount of local success as a four-piece (winning the ‘coveted’ prize of Best Band in Hertfordshire 1998, no less), things had started to go slightly skew-whiff. Rich wanted to steer us in an unconvincing musical direction he termed ‘Happy Metal’, which ...

Whenever anyone asks me what my favourite accidental barbershop harmony is – and let’s face it, this happens a lot – I point them toward the 45-second mark of the secret track at the end of my old band Big Day Out’s Seven Heavenly Lemony Lemons From a Seven-Eleven in Devon album. (Listening to that just cheered me up.) The scene where the above recording took place was colloquially known as the Red Room in my old flat (appropriately above a Barbershop in Hitchin) and the date was late 2001. The personnel behind the doo-wop were me, the band’s drummer Chris Hollis, and my flatmate, the actor David Garrud – and the inspiration behind it was McDonald's now long-defunct Supersize Deal. I can’t remember what brought the song about, but I suspect we'd just had McDonald's takeaway. Whatever the reason, one thing led to another and I picked up my acoustic and started to chug my way through a simple 12-bar blues riff. It wasn’t unusu...

Today, I thought I’d share another one of my old band Big Day Out’s more obscure songs, Smiling On. It didn’t feature regularly in our sets, or on any of our CDs, but it was a fun song to play when we did it. It’s gentler and more introspective than a lot of the stuff we’d perform at our gigs, without quite falling into ballad territory. Listening to it now, I’m struck by its simplicity – and while the lead vocal irritates me, I like the groove of the main riff. While I always thought it was a bit ‘throwaway’, Roger King (who ran the local music fanzine Live Circuit) used to say it was his favourite Big Day Out song. Its funny how these things stick in your head. It goes to show you: one man’s meat is another man’s poison (or insert another maxim that makes sense).

Today, I thought I’d share a demo of one of my old band Big Day Out’s songs that, while never available on any of our CDs, was synonymous with us live from the moment we became a three-piece. The track – which is more of a jam, if anything – is called So Bad. It kicked off nearly every gig we played from 1999 until we split in 2002, before being briefly reinstated in 2008 when we reunited for one night only, to raise money for Glyn’s and my first Edinburgh show, The Balloon Debate. We were always fond of onstage gimmicks; in fact, The Supernaturals’ lead guitarist (who we occasionally gigged with) once said that if all our instruments packed up mid-set, we’d get by with half an hour’s stand-up (which was pretty prophetic). This song was no exception. I’d change the words of the first verse every night to incorporate the name of the venue (e.g. “Come on babe, now you’ve seen the flyers; the music’s playing in Bedford Esquires”) and we’d usually plan some comedy bu...

Most people think the robot in Short Circuit was fictional, but I know different. The date was Friday 14 th September 2001. My band Big Day Out were supporting Slade at Plinston Hall in Letchworth. Well, technically they were Slade, though the fact Noddy Holder was no longer a member called the whole thing into question. I got a lift to the gig from our drummer, Chris Hollis. We pulled into town to find the area surrounding the venue had been cordoned off by the police. We couldn’t get anywhere near it. After circling a few times to no avail, we were flagged down by a policeman. “What’s the problem?” I asked. “There’s been a bomb scare, We can’t let anyone through.”  It was just a few days after 9/11, so things were undeniably tense. “We’re playing Plinston tonight and are due there for a sound check. Is there any chance we could be let into their car-park?” At first, he was unconvinced. Then Chris mentioned that hi...