Inside Out by Nick Mason

fantasy. So when asked to
     pose for photographs, our sense of euphoria meant that we gleefully fell into gambolling about in the most shameful way.

 
     
     
    F OLLOWING THE exuberant celebrations after signing with EMI it was time to get down to some serious work. Unlike many other bands, we had
     not paid our musical dues. In fact, we had barely put down a deposit. We had invested no serious time on the road, nor spent
     a year playing the clubs on the Reeperbahn. Our performances through the autumn of 1966 had taken place at a few favoured
     venues and within the comforting cocoon of a largely partisan audience. We had yet to confront the unknown civilisations that
     lurked beyond the confines of the psychedelic village.
    Transportation was – and probably still is – a major problem for new bands. Borrowing a parent’s car was an option with limited
     scope, especially with the almost immediate depreciation caused by cramming it full of drum kits and band members. Acquiring
     a van represented by far the biggest capital outlay – yet had none of the glamour of spending a student grant on a new guitar
     or bass drum. But though it was possible to muddle through a show with a mishmash of less than perfect or borrowed equipment,
     the band – and the ever-increasing pile of equipment – still had to get to the gig, and safely back home afterwards.
    Before landing the record deal, travelling outside London had usually been restricted by the limitations of our Bedford van.
     We had become the proud owners of this vehicle back in the days of the Tea Set, when we bought it for twenty quid off a dealer’s
     forecourt late one Saturday evening. The salesman couldn’t believe his luck – the van was probably awaiting delivery to thescrapyard. In a fit of generosity he announced that he would sell it ‘wiv new boots and blood’, used-car parlance for a fresh
     set of tyres and road tax. The Bedford was unbelievably slow (my old Austin ‘Chummy’ could have overtaken it); its lack of
     speed was only surpassed by its unreliability.
    We did encounter an additional obstacle when our equipment disappeared. Rick often used to earn an extra fiver by unloading
     our equipment at Blackhill’s offices after gigs, but on one occasion he shirked his duties after a particularly late night,
     simply leaving the van overnight in Regent’s Park. By the morning, all the expensive, portable gear, such as the PA amp (the
     one bought for us by Andrew King) and the guitars had been liberated. The management had no funds left, and no charitable
     institution stepped forward to bail us out, so it must be recorded for posterity that my mum, to her eternal credit, lent
     us the £200 we needed to replace the most important elements. Rick used to suffer an occasional, momentary twinge of guilt
     about the incident, although he never actually offered to make any reparation.
    Shortly after the EMI deal, we acquired a Ford Transit, which was seen as a serious status symbol, the Rolls-Royce of band
     transportation. When the Transit was introduced by Ford in October 1965, it was in such demand that it was not unknown for
     thieves to unload a band’s equipment and then steal the van. The Transit’s specification included a three-litre engine, twin
     rear wheels and a modified cabin to take all the equipment in the rear compartment while roadie, lighting man and four band
     members travelled in considerable discomfort up in first class. By this time, running a decent van was imperative – because
     at last we were getting substantial amounts of work through our agent Bryan Morrison, who’d been so influential in setting
     up the EMI deal. Our first encounter with Bryan had taken place during a rehearsal session for ‘Arnold Layne’ at Studio Techniques.
     Peter and Andrewhad warned us to expect a visit from a music industry heavyweight, and we awaited his arrival with some trepidation. The door
     to the studio swung open, revealing Bryan