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.

 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.

 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