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Not exactly the best gig I've seen the Willis play, but one that sticks out in my memory as being one of the most eventful. The venue was Oriel College, Oxford, a bastion of traditional education, and inhabited, it appears, by drongos who know as much about rock music as I do about brain surgery. But then that's typical of the sort of gig they've played time and time again, as much out of necessity as of a mischievous and healthy pre-occupation with the absurd and unexpected. Indoctrinating middle and upper class students to the pleasures of American country music is not the sort of task that can be taken too seriously if you're going to have any hope of retaining faith in human nature.
The occasion for this particular expedition is what Oriel College optimistically advertised as "A Paradise Regained" ... a May Ball (even though it's June). A chance for the local populace to forget their textbooks, dress up in their Sunday best, adopt their most sophisticated airs and graces, and then get pissed out of their brains and act the idiot. For the Willis it's yet another trek up yet another motorway to be hassled by yet another promoter who hasn't got a clue about what is and what should be happening. But knowing himself what was likely to happen, Jake, the Willis manager, had planned, with foresight and an admirable policy of mixing business with pleasure, to make the whole thing as much of a crazy, enjoyable party as possible. On the way there, spirits were, as usual, high. The shining white brand new 12-seater transit, already littered with beer-cans and other necessity left-overs, careered along the M4, Glen Colson at the wheel. Wild Tales, by Graham Nash on the 8-track, and a chaotic free-for-all discussion about what their forthcoming album should be called ... Adolf's Up Your Bum, Blood On The Girdle, maybe even Bongos Over Balham.
The whole mood for the day was established ... weird, humorous, wild rock 'n' roll madness. We arrived at the College at about 3pm and as the band weren't due to play until something like 2am in the morning it meant either waiting around in the dressing room watching TV, smoking and drinking, or venturing out into the town and taking in the local scenery.
Most of us had plenty of time to do both, so it was later in the afternoon that a group of us, by now graced with the presence of Pete Frame replete with two cases of Newcastle Brown, made our way to the nearest cafe in Oxford. Our leisurely stroll through the cobblestone streets was conducted with great humour and wit by Glen Colson who, it must be said, is never lost for words. Just an evening spent with this maniac is enough to put you in a state of permanent shock for about a week and on this occasion he was at his most hilarious best, taking the piss out of everybody and
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