I was rather lucky to be one of Robin Trower's guests at the Reading 
 Festival in 1975. This fortunate turn of events came about due to a chance 
 meeting with a guitarist called Dave - he was in a pub band who had a 
 residency every Wednesday night in The Kings Arms in Chelmsford, Essex (a 
 small city some thirty miles outside London). We'd chatted to him on a 
 couple of previous occasions, when suddenly, on this particular night, he 
 announced he was a mate of Robin Trower's and he'd introduce us to him if 
 we turned up again the following week. Much to our surprise this turned 
 out to be true and we got to meet Robin and watch him jam with the house 
 band on several occasions over the course of the following weeks. At this 
 stage of his career Robin Trower's star was rising at a phenomenal rate in 
 the USA, so you can imagine how thrilling it was to see him up close in a 
 tiny pub - his playing was just as exciting in jam-mode - blasting out 
 some old classic rock'n'roll and blues numbers with just drums, bass and 
 acoustic piano backing him. He was playing Dave's Strat, which he'd 
 actually given to Dave several weeks earlier! Dave tended to get a 
 thinnish tone through his Marshall amp, but with just a cursory amount of 
 twiddling with the controls, and no effect pedals, Trower instantly 
 delivered his famous thick shake tone at the drop of a hat. Proving, 
 beyond doubt, that you've either got it, or you haven't!
 So that August Bank Holiday Sunday four of us set out for sunny Berkshire 
 in Dave's clapped-out car (more of which later...). It didn't take long to 
 find ourselves outside the guest entrance of the Festival site, we were 
 quickly and expertly ushered in by Robin's brother - who also happened to 
 be his road manager at the time - and our party of four were soon kitted 
 out with splendid Robin Trower T-shirts, badges and guest passes. We were 
 then promptly whisked up to RT's backstage trailer, which turned out to be 
 locked and unoccupied - as well as being covered in large posters of the 
 man himself. They were actually ads for a Swedish gig that had yielded 
 'Robin Trower: Live'. It was the same photo that was used on the back 
 cover of 'For Earth Below', except instead of being just a head-shot, ala 
 the album, this was the complete photo from head to foot, pretty 
 impressive too - pity I never blagged one, they'd have made an excellent 
 souvenir.  
 It was just as the final strains of Caravan's penultimate number were 
 rolling out of the PA system that we literally bumped into another guest 
 who was also 'locked-out' - it was none other than that erstwhile, 
 quintessentially English gentleman-about-town, Mr Robert Fripp, who was 
 then late of King Crimson. He was idly biding his time in the backstage 
 area until someone from the Trower camp materialised... and lo... it 
 turned out to be a quartet of oiks from Essex.

  I have no idea if Mr Fripp was either prepared or equipped to deal with a 
 quart of blokes who resembled asylum inmates, all I can report is, after 
 his initial shock, he turned out to be a very affable sort of soul; 
 articulate, entertaining - with a nice line in droll humour - as well as 
 being a rather amusing raconteur. Consequently, the other three completely 
 ignored him, so it was left down to me to attempt to engage him in some 
 sort of meaningful conversation. I resisted the urge to question the 
 wisdom and validity of releasing 'Earthbound' on an unsuspecting public 
 and decided to concentrate on more mundane issues. As the reason for all 
 of us being there was Robin Trower this seemed to be a sensible point of 
 entry into any form of dialogue. It was soon obvious that he rated Trower 
 very highly as a guitarist but, more importantly, a highly gifted musician 
 as well. He spent quite a while explaining it was the spirit of the man 
 that manifested itself through his playing, allied to his incredible 
 vibrato and signature tone, it was a lethal combination and one that Mr 
 Fripp found irresistable. Bearing in mind they had recently toured 
 together across the States - as Crimson finally began to disintegrate - he 
 obviously knew what he was talking about.
 Whilst preparing this article I located some old photographs I had taken 
 that day (rather poor by today's standards and equally faded I'm afraid). 
 Now then, the urbane sophisticated socialite who is writing this piece 
 bears no resemblance whatsoever to the 19 year old oddball in the snaps. I 
 had intended to include a picture of yours truly standing next to 
 Crimson's main man. Sadly, with the passage of some thirty years, I was 
 horrified to discovery that the entity standing next to Mr Fripp looked 
 like the result of a night of passion between Godzilla and a Yak. Did I 
 really look like that three decades ago? I could easily have been mistaken 
 for an escapee from Whipsnade, long shaggy locks and an expression like a 
 concussed Meerkat. On the grounds of taste and decency I have elected to 
 omit the offending Kodak from Hell. Meanwhile...back at the Festival...

 ...Mr Fripp had skilfully extricated himself from my interrogation and 
 headed off to watch Soft Machine, who had now taken to the stage. In the 
 meantime I had spotted a vision in white, effortlessly gliding between the 
 backstage trailers, hands clasped in a prayer stance; bowing and smiling 
 at everyone. It was none other than that devoted disciple of Sri Chinmoy: 
 John McLaughlin.

 Big John radiated charm and bonhomie, whilst skilfully 
 posing for anyone clutching a camera, he looked like a forerunner of 
 Gilderoy Lockhart, though he eyed my puny instamatic with a certain amount 
 of caution; experience had obviously taught him to spot the professionals 
 from the rank amateurs! His gleaming white teeth and attire were 
 immaculate, not a hair out of place, one suspected, judging by his 
 sartorial elegance, he probably had matching undercrackers and socks as 
 well, though I never found out for sure. Anyway, I thought he looked more 
 like a forties movie star than a six-string gun-slinger armed with a 
 Gibson twin neck (which, alas, he didn't use at Reading). 

 After my brush with the ghostly Mahavishnu man Robin Trower arrived and 
 entered his trailer, no sooner had he disappeared inside than his brother 
 emerged through the same door and beckoned me over. 'Can you find Bob and 
 tell him Robin's here?' I stumbled toward the stage rather nervously, up 
 until this point I'd merely been an excited passenger, suddenly I was on 
an errand, part of the team! I showed my pass and walked under the stage 
 and out into the guest's enclosure, it was at that moment that the full 
 impact of the Festival hit me, viewed from beneath the stage the crowd 
 looked enormous, noisy and threatening. No sooner had I stepped out from 
 under the stage when Soft Machine struck up something from 'Bundles', it 
 was deafening! They had been between numbers whilst I was making my way 
 through the maze of scaffolding that supported the twin-stages, it 
 wouldn't be until later that I found out how loud it was underneath the 
 boards as a certain three piece thundered their way through 'Day Of The 
 Eagle'... in the meantime, I was looking for Mr Fripp, I spotted him - and 
 to my amazement he waved me over, I sat next to him and shouted out Robin 
 had arrived, he nodded and we sat and watched the conclusion of the Soft 
 Machine number. I had never heard of Allan Holdsworth prior to this; he 
 looked like a vagrant; tatty old pullover and gardening trousers, the 
 complete opposite of Johnny M. As he widdled his way around the fret board 
 I couldn't help thinking he was a poor man's Ollie Halsall (I still do), 
 he certainly seemed to think he was, as each solo seemed to echo Ollie's 
 magnificent playing from 'Hold Your Fire' The most criminally underrated 
 guitar album of all time! Mr Fripp and I soon upped sticks and wandered 
 back to the guest area, a loud cheer emitting from inside of the trailer 
 as the Twentieth Century Schizoid Man entered.

 I found my three associates once more and we began chatting with Robin's 
 brother (whose name, after such a long passage of time, completely escapes 
 me) and he informed us that SOUNDS (a popular music paper of the time) had 
 sent a female journalist over to the States to tour with them earlier in 
 the year, she had remained pretty mute during the few gigs she was with 
 them and he confessed they had been pretty tense as to what she would say 
 in her article, I remembered reading that article where she had described 
 him as being more like the owner of a garage, a posh garage, than a tour 
 manager. Although the review wasn't overtly hostile, it wasn't that 
 favourable either, just goes to show it takes all sorts. However, I also 
 recall Robin's brother excitedly announcing some time later that they had 
secured the front page, again with SOUNDS, for the following Wednesday's 
 issue. Sure enough, when I picked up my copy later in the week there was 
 Robin, complete with hat, along with James and Bill on the front as 
 promised. In the meantime Mr Fripp had reappeared and wandered over for 
 another chat (I realise now he must have mistaken me as really being part 
 of the Trower set-up) 'Did you know', he enquired, 'that Fripp and Eno 
 were booed off stage in Paris a few night ago?...' he then sauntered off 
 again. It took me a few moments to realise he was talking about himself in 
 the third party. It was a very honest confession - but lightly tinged with 
 that wry sense of humour! 

 It's at this point we should mention two acts that never materialised: Lou 
 Reed and Richard and Linda Thompson. This was a shame really as Reed's 
 live album from the previous year - 'Rock'n'Roll Animal' - was something 
 of a guitar feast; Hunter and Wagner stealing the show from under the very 
 nose of their leader. However, no one can have been prepared for Metal 
 Machine Music; surely the most dire drivel ever commited to vinyl? For 
 this fact alone I would have been quite happy to have pelted old Lou with 
 frozen bananas from the side of the stage - you see - I was the twit who 
 purchased the only copy ever sold! Well, so I assume, if anyone out there 
 also made the same mistake I suggest we should start a support group...how 
 I listened to Metal Machine Music... and survived! 
 Richard Thompson was also a loss, but for very different reasons, his 
 sublime playing and songwriting would have undoubtedly been a highlight. I 
 was particularly enamoured with 'I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight'. 
 The rumour backstage was that Linda's nails hadn't dried in time; we shall 
 never know, but a small consolation was provided by the late John Peel, MC 
 for the weekend, dispensing music and myrth from the rear of his Range 
 Rover. I still retain a vivid memory of Robin's brother trying to coax 
 Peelie out of his beloved Liverpool FC T shirt in exchange for a Trower 
 one, he was on a hiding to nothing, wild horses couldn't have removed it. 
 But Mr Peel, being the sport he was, did don a 'THINK TROWER' badge for 
 the rest of the day. It was about this time James Dewar and Maggie Bell 
 drifted by, arm-in-arm and chatting amiably, one can only speculate on 
 their topic of conversation, but I'm sure it had nothing to do with 
 Peelie's obstinancy! 

 I strolled out front once more and watched the whole of the Climax Blues 
 Band's set, I though Pete Heycock's slide solo was rather good, as was his 
 playing in general. They went down well, but after they left the stage the 
 crowd suddenly became restless, it was now drifting into late afternoon 
 and the Mahavishnu Orchestra were about to take the stage. I can't say I 
 was a real fan, but a friend of mine was heavily into them so I was 
 familiar with some of their material, not that it did me any good, as they 
 were now trimmed down to a four piece and hardly resembled the 
 multi-talented five-piece of yore ago. Cobham had been replaced by Michael 
 Walden and the violinist had been dispensed with completely; this was a 
 new-look orchestra, well, quartet anyway! To my surprise I was refused 
 entry into the guest arena at the front of the stage - it was full - I was 
 curtly informed, this didn't bode too well, so I wandered onto the ramp at 
 the back of the stage and tried to catch a glimpse of the action, mindful 
 of a large sign ominously proclaiming 'No guests on stage', so I was 
 momentarily stumped. However, all was not lost, as Robin and Mr Fripp 
 ambled up the ramp to check out the Orchestra, never one to miss an 
 opportunity I simply sidled between them and got to the side of the stage 
 unchallenged, and there I remained for the rest of their set, long after 
 the two Rs had retreated back to the trailer. Looking out onto that vast 
 crowd, as the band thundered through their impossible-to-tap-your-foot-to 
 music, the Mahavishnu Orchestra both entertained and confused the masses 
 in equal measure. Something was up though, John McLaughlin didn't look 
 overly happy, the beaming sage from backstage had suddenly become slightly 
 cross - and at one point he physically threw his beautiful gold encrusted 
 Gibson across to the stage, it made a dreadful clunking noise as it hit 
 the floor once and bounced into the arms of his waiting roadie, hardly the 
 act of a happy performer! They were refused an encore by the powers that 
 be, even though the audience demanded one, Mr McLaughlin took it 
 philosophically, in fact he smiled at me once more as he turned and made 
 his way down the ramp, it was now dangerously close to Trower time, the 
 reason why we were here...

 Dave, the man who actually knew Robin well, was nowhere to be seen, he was 
 propping up the hospitality bar, this was the same dude who was going to 
 drive us home!!! Hmm, ominous, to say the least! 
  I was eventually reunited with my travelling companions and we watched as 
 scores of professional snappers photographed the Robin Trower Band on the 
 steps of their trailer backstage, moments before they were about to begin 
 their set. We followed them toward the stage, they went up the right hand 
 side ramp and we then tried to enter under the stage into the guest 
 enclosure out front, once again we were thwarted, this time by some overly 
 aggressive oaf. We were now halfway under the stage, surrounded by 
 scaffolding and going nowhere, suddenly the deafening strains of 'Day Of 
 The Eagle' blasted through the floorboards and we beat a hasty retreat, 
 only to run into Robin's brother. We told him of our plight and he sorted 
 it out in seconds, barking roughly at the prat who'd denied us entry - he 
 informed him in no uncertain terms we were all personal friends of Robin's 
 and we must get through. It worked, and we eventually made it out front as 
 'Bridge Of Sighs' blasted across the Berkshire countryside.

 

  
Robin Trower delivered a blistering set, it was several notches above 
 anything I'd heard previously that afternoon. James Dewar's soulful voice 
 filled the air and Trower's signature tone carried through the ether in 
 wave after wave of emotionally drenched, wah wah and univibe saturated 
 joy. His colossal Marshall stacks were pumping at full throttle, yet his 
 touch and tone seemingly ebbed and flowed between two unseen worlds, the 
 heavenly tenderness of 'Daydream' to the hell-and-back neck-wringing 
 brutality of 'The Fool And Me'. This was classic Trower, driving his 
 audience to a frenzy, like some carnival-crazed matador taming the bullish 
 moans and wails glowing from the over- driven valves (tubes - for any 
 Americans reading this) in his amplifiers, there was no going back now, 
 this sunshine toboggan ride had no brakes, and we were on a crash course 
 to nirvana, via Berkshire! Three encores later and it was all over, the 
 crowd on their collective feet, hollering and baying like demented souls 
 in the Coliseum at Rome, but instead of demanding blood, they were 
 demanding guitar-driven blues saturated rock, as delivered by one of the 
 all-time-greats - Robin Trower - surely one of the finest players to ever 
 come out of these shores. 

 We assembled backstage after the performance, everyone seemed happy, even 
 Trower's grumpy manager, a rather offish, surly, guy named Wilf. The 
 general consensus was that it had all gone well - a fact I can vouch for - 
 it was a great performance and a tremendous audience reaction. Believe me, 
 if you've got the bootleg tape of the show, it really doesn't do the gig 
 justice, the sound on the day was superb, something that seems to have got 
 lost on the magnetic tape and tiny microphone that must have been used to 
 record it.

 In conclusion it was a great afternoon, met some fantastic folks, saw some 
 great bands and heard some wonderful music. We left in darkness at the end 
 of Trower's set, we didn't get far, a few miles outside London Dave's 
 dodgy motor finally gave up the ghost, with an almighty bang the big end 
 went, fired through the bottom of the engine like a bullet. We split into 
 two and had to hitch home, we walked for several hours before we got a 
 lift, it was Dave, he'd phoned a mate and he came and picked us up. An 
 ignoble end to a glorious day.

 The following morning The Guardian (a daily British broadsheet) gave both 
 Trower and the Mahavishnu Orchestra a senseless drubbing. I can't recall 
 the full content of the review, but it was venomous and completely 
 inaccurate. So, although thirty years late, let's hope this piece can go 
 some way to redressing the balance!

 Ian Ellis