Adios Kid Chaos.

Obviously we couldn't see it at the time.

But with the dubious benefit of that ugly four eyed beast; hindsight, it was obvious that things were going horribly wrong.

Horribly, bumshiveringly, terribly, excruciatingly, wrong.

 I'm referring of course to our dreadful visit to Richard Branson's opulent recording studio, The Manor, and it's subsequent repercussions.

God, even the name, The Manor, what does it conjure up? 

Horrible visions of charmless David Coverdale sitting in the back of a Bentley enjoying cognac and cigars doing energy work with his attractive young ambience roadie.

Elton John and Freddie Mercury giggling like schoolgirls, throwing faux Marie Antoinette parties, hoovering up state lines of cocaine and buggering newspaper delivery boys dressed up as poodles.

Well, maybe not the poodle bit, but you know what I mean.

That whole bogus rock aristocracy theme, buying up stately old piles that the genuine aristocracy had wisely abandoned and lording it over the bemused local bumpkins. Autistic millionaire rock monkeys dressing up in 1930's tweedy things, shooting semi flightless birds and driving rollers into swimming pools. That or trying to save the starving of Africa through some psychopathic personality ego aberration charity thing and wondering why every one else in the world thinks that there a complete and utter tosser.

You know what I'm talking about.

So what were your low life heroes doing in this belly of this beast in the first place you may ask?

Well the truth was that we had been offered the Devils coin, we had signed a recording contract with a major label, Phonogram to be precise, and like a thousand young Faustian rockers before us and a thousand more to come no doubt, we thought that we were different, somehow thought that we were the ones that somehow would be able sidestep the payback and keep our delicate unspoiled souls intact. 

Unfortunateley it doesn't work like that.

Your soul is not purchased outright but in ever increasing payments, one small piece at a time.

Our trip to the Manor was the first temptation.

From Scumbag alley to Sir Richards private little Zoo.

Phonogram had booked us into the Manor with producer Steve Brown to work on demos for our first album.

Steve was the first and not the last producer we would find it impossible to work with. This in all fairness I hasten to admit was more our fault than his, Mr Brown had and still does produce great records with all kinds of bands, but just not with this curmudgeonly little outfit.

Mr moneybags producer boy turned up in his humongous Kensington tractor, dripping hideously expensive Johnson's leathers, the real wanky ones with too much chrome detail and ghastly tassels. Rich boy wanna-be rocker gear, the kind of tat that Jagger and Bono wear. 

First impressions are important, I mean you would have thought he would have made a little effort, The Love Reaction, did we look like we would be impressed by big cars and rockish bling. Well, it was the eighties I guess, and it did impress one of our members, a particularly ignoble bass player whose heart proved to be slightly the wrong shade of black, but more of that later.

It eventually turned out that Phonogram were determined that we were to be the English version of Bon Jovi, I know, I nearly shat my pants laughing as well when I found out, and for poor unfortunate Steve that was his task, to take this unwashed scumbag alley mess of drug and alcohol problems and turn them into an international rocktacular success.

For two weeks he persevered, making us run through the songs over and over again, bringing in session musicians and backing singers, whole fucking negro spiritualist choirs to wail away on Holy gasoline at one stage if I remember correctly.

 The thing was that the incredible opulence, the swimming pool, the trout lake, the brothel and funfair in the grounds of the manner, the promises of fabulous wealth if we just got our heads down, gave up any artistic integrity that we thought we had, castrated ourselves, got a bath, stopped swearing for five minutes and maybe didn't have whiskey for breakfast and maybe made a record that sounded a bit like Bon Jovi was never going to happen.

That record wasn't in us, old Scratch himself could offer us the moon itself on a silver platter and we wouldn't be able to give him it.

Steve eventually threw his hands up and gave up but not before himself and his satanic masters wrought a major blow upon the core of the Love Reaction soul.

As I said earlier there was one among us whose head was turned by the Devils silver.

Kid Chaos had been impressed by Steves Satanic bling and had cultured a creepy kind of friendship with Cult producer Mr Brown.

Although Haggis was a mere slip of a girl at eighteen years old, the little snake knew what he wanted.

And what he wanted of course as any stupid fucking eighteen year old hick wandering into Las Vegas or Hollywood or The Manor wanted was that same hoary old chestnut the Devils been selling at the crossroads since Robert Johnson and beyond; a short cut to wealth and fame. 

 Kid Chaos left the band to join the Cult a week after we left the Manor.

 It took us twenty years for us to forgive him.

Twenty years and more tears than anyone deserved to shed over such a banal and facile answered prayer.

The Love Reaction?

They did prevail.