Reading time: 10 minutes (15 if you read the awesome bonus features scattered throughout). Words: @whisperednothin

 

 

Richards Mill is a crumbling building that’s towered over Ann Street for as long as anyone can remember. Despite repeated attacks from arsonists and ambitious councillors, it’s resisted attempts to topple its red bricks and replace them with something more soulless.

 

In the shadow of Richards Mill lies Captain Toms, a studio and practice facility that’s clung to Ann Street for a mere 15 years. It doesn’t have listed status and it doesn’t attract the ire of pyros and politicians. Nevertheless, the fact that it’s still standing is something of a miracle.

In an infinite number of infinite universes, there is an infinite number of Ann Streets. An infinite number of them don’t have Captain Toms sitting on them. This is our world however, and in our version of reality, Captain Toms is very much alive. Not just alive, but in rude health. Both the studio and its proprietor – Captain Tom himself – have never been better.

There’s a second live music event to be streamed across the globe. There’s a record to release by The Voice USA finalist Terry McDermott. There’s tours to schedule across Europe and LA and there’s reasonably-priced confectionary to be sold to starving musicians.

Make no mistake though: it all could have turned out so very different.

Small beginnings

“I was studying Applied Physics at uni,” muses Tom, “and I sometimes wonder: “What would have happened if I’d just ended up working in a physics lab?” Would I have become yet another physics teacher in a school somewhere?”

The physics world’s loss has been the music world’s gain, even if the music world was a little unsure at first.

“In all business – and specifically in the music industry – when you say you’re gonna do stuff, people just say “Yeah,”” notes Tom in the most sceptical tone he can muster.

“And then they wait for you to do it. And even once you’ve done it they go “Mmm…nah, that was alright, but I’d have done that better.””

Naysayers aren’t the only obstacles Tom’s faced over the years.

Were there ever any rocky patches when our Captain considered calling it a day?

“Oh fuck, dude, you’ve no idea man.”

He toys with a loose thread on his sweater, wrapping it around his finger.

“The day they came to cut the water off. That was a laugh….”

“The day they came to cut the electricity off. That was a laugh…”

How bad did things get? Our first bonus feature, How Captain Toms Came To Be, recounts the full story. Click on the tab below to read.

The reluctant entrepreneur has seen it all, and yet he’s emerged, still smiling and still trading.

“Captain Tom?”

An African gentleman leans over the counter, interrupting our chat with an anxious holler.

“Captain Tom? I’m disappointed.”

There follows a long-winded and fast-paced explanation as to why £50 for PA hire is still unpaid.

Tom listens patiently to the cool story and then brushes off the whole affair with one of his “Don’t worry about it dude” shrugs that instantly defuses the situation. You could be driving off a cliff in a stolen Ferrari with a barrel of nitroglycerine in the back and so long as Tom was smiling in the front you’d be convinced that everything was gonna be OK. And that’s the thing – it probably would.

He’s the sort of guy who would keep grinning if you spilt a pint on him*. (*Don’t test this theory at a gig.) Tom is calmer than a dead body in a bathtub. You cannot rustle his jimmies.

We’re sat in Captain Toms’ office-cum-man-cave, a space that couldn’t be more more alpha if Bear Grylls was to pull up a stool and start drinking his own piss. There is a knife embedded in the wall, a stage pass for King Tut’s, a statue of Yoda wearing a party hat and battle of the bands press clippings: Tom Still Loves Making Music. There are drum parts everywhere, a sea of cables and a carpet fixed with duct tape.

“I’ve got one of everything in the loft,” admits Tom.

I nod. “If the zombie apocalypse ever hits, you’re sorted.”

His hands gesture freely, but otherwise Tom sits rock steady atop his stool, the captain of a ship that is finally steaming through open water. In his black ribbed sweater and non-designer jeans, Tom’s been wearing the same outfit for so long it’s in danger of coming into fashion.

While we speak, the laptop on the desk sporadically chirps new notifications. Emails arrive from American promoters seeking to book Fat Hippy artists. The phone rings steadily. Musicians pop into the office to linger and bands exit rehearsal rooms to borrow gear.

Everyone wants a piece of the Captain.

“I have to kinda do everything myself,” admits Tom. “I have to be the promoter and the guy who cleans the toilets and the guy that does the VAT return and also the guy that sells you the tin of juice and, you know, it only works cos I wear lots of different hats and so do all of the other people that work here.”

The first break in proceedings occurs 56 seconds into our interview.

Someone wants to borrow a plug extension. This will later be followed by:

“Could I borrow a mic box?”

“Have you got a large cable?”

“I’ve forgotten my tom. Do you have an extra tom?”

Of course Tom has an extra tom.

Every hour on the hour Tom is summoned like a bellboy to the front desk. Bands to book in. Bands to book out. Fees to collect. £12.50 here; £25 there, split three ways, four ways, five. Like the barman who knows the exact change for a nip and pint, Tom doesn’t need to do the math. He’s done it 1,000 times before and he’ll do it 1,000 more.

For the live events (the second of which will be streamed on 24th May), the man in the black wool sweater has had to pass some of those hats around.

“With Live at Captain Toms and the streaming gigs, there’s just far too much to do – you can’t do that all yourself. That’s what’s been really exciting for me: bringing together this creative group of people and going “Right, what can you do?””

A few days after our chat, the first Live at Captain Toms goes out.

I arrive at the studio at 12pm – just as the show is finishing. Men – men with beards – and heavily-inked musicians mill about outside, smoking and talking animatedly. Inside, the air hangs heavy with sweat and elation. It is the air of a practice room just vacated – three practice rooms and a studio to be precise. Stout-chested drummers lift out travel cases stowed with gear.

The production crew, who have been running on Red Bull and no sleep, are flushed with success. Save for a two-minute technical problem, the event has passed without a hitch.

The show (which I stream later) is like a Doric Jules Holland. But without Jules Holland. Pretty good then.

There is a commendably diverse line-up. There are earpieces to pipe viewing figures directly to the presenters. There are video titles announcing the artists and songs. There are even pre-recorded storyboard sections that are actually funny. It’s all highly professional. And free. What on earth is going on in Aberdeen?

Later, at Captain Toms’ evening gig (which is also live streamed), a similar pattern unfolds. It’s 8:30pm and the Lemon Tree crowd is milling about while a rock band strut their stuff. Two cameramen, shoulder mounts strapped on, closely follow the action, while a third cameraman is stationed behind the mixing desk. Meanwhile, burly bikers, matching in leathers, no hair and big beards, drink pints and snap selfies.

The event may not win a Multicultural Britain award, but it’s a diverse crowd nonetheless: teen emos staring sultrily at their phones; middle-aged women staring less sultrily at their phones; skinny bloggers scribbling on scraps of paper (a gym cancellation letter to be precise) and occasionally playing with their phone. Hey, it’s 2014. Don’t judge.

The gig is not a sell out. There aren’t queues snaking around the block. It’s still a clique, an esoteric event for an underground scene.

It’s seamlessly organised though – these days Captain Toms is a slick gigging machine.

The band let the last power chord ring out and the cameramen rush to the other side of the Lemon Tree to capture the songstress as she launches into her acoustic set.

A week earlier in Tom’s office, the sounds aren’t quite so harmonious.

A screamo band bleeds angst and finger-tapping from room one, while in the studio a blues band rattle through their greatest hits, the harmonica dancing merrily.

It’s remarkable that Tom is still so enthusiastic about live music, given the ungodly sounds that have permeated his ears 12 hours a day for the past 17 years.

“It’s like being in jail and having to listen to your cellmate take a shit,” I reflect. “It’s better for them than it is for you.”

Before our conversation can begin in earnest, there are bands to be served, the bread and butter whose rehearsal fees keep the lights on at Ann Street and allow Tom to reinvest his time in other barely profitable ventures such as the Live events, which are being broadcast for free.

Behind the counter, Tom patiently sells guitar strings and confectionary to musicians blessed with big dreams and small means. Those Space Raiders and Lion Bars have sustained countless Aberdeen bands through the noughties. If cinemas were as reasonably priced as Tom’s tuck shop, we could all afford to eat candy without requiring a second mortgage.

On a white brick wall hangs an unassuming cork noticeboard; back in the day it served as the pre-social media hub for bands looking to exchange goods, services and members. Today, in a hashtagged internet of everything, the notice board still performs a pivotal role.

Blood Stained Notes are looking for a bass player, “age and sex not important”.

An experienced death metal vocalist is touting his talents, “ask for Max”.

Above the counter, a white neon sign announces that this is Captain Tom’s, the apostrophe conspicuous by its presence.

“I grew up in this household where everybody was enormously pedantic about apostrophes and the correct pronunciation of things and people being able to express their disappointment at being part of a disenfranchised anthropocentric oligarchy,” riffs Tom, “…when I came to naming it I thought “No, I’m not having an apostrophe”, just to say “It’s got fuck all to do with that, it’s just a name. It doesn’t. Fucking. Matter.””

“But the sign up the top there has an apostrophe cos my old man got it for me as a present and put an apostrophe in it and I’m pretty sure the only reason he made it was just to prove a point.”

Everything happens for a reason, even if the reason isn’t immediately apparent. As a case in point, consider How Fat Hippy Came To Be, our second bonus feature, which can be found lurking within the tab below.

I’m not here to quiz Tom about grammar though (even though I do). Nor am I here to discuss arachnids (even though I do. Tom: “Oil has completely changed this corner of Scotland. The north-east now has the highest percentage of millionaires per square foot in the world apparently. Although interestingly the north-east of Scotland also has the greatest variety of spiders per square foot in the world.”)

I’m here to ask Tom why.

Why is everyone suddenly talking about Fat Hippy and Captain Toms?

Why now?

“In a lot of ways I feel like I’m still doing the same thing that I’ve been doing every day for the last 17 years,” he concedes, “but at the moment it’s in the paper all the bloody time and in a way nothing has changed.”

“But the reality is that a lot of things have changed and there are people that I met 15 years ago in music who I went out of my way to help for no reward – and in fact often lost money and time trying to help – but many many years later, everybody comes back.”

“It sounds like a stupid thing to say, but you would almost have to say as a sweeping generalisation that everybody comes back to Captain Toms. The thing that sparked this particular round of press was signing Terry McDermott just after he’d been runner up on The Voice USA, the final of which goes out to 18 million people.”

“What’s important is that Terry coming back and [playing at the second live event on 24th May], I earned that about 11 years ago. I just had to stay in business for 11 years to get my credit. It’s almost like a pension or something. You put in £50 a week.”

“I’ve been trying to tell people this for years but none of them have ever bloody believed me. My approach to doing things is “I don’t fucking care what the music industry is doing, it’s got nothing to do with me. I’m not part of the music industry, I’m in fucking Aberdeen where there is no music industry, so rather than having the same panny music industry as everybody else, we can have our own one. I don’t care if it says in some stupid book somewhere or on somebody else’s motherfucking wall that this is the way it has to be done because it’s us at a tiny little level and we can do whatever we fucking want.”

Even when he swears, Tom never sounds threatening. He could tell you your mother was a cunt and you’d thank him for the compliment.

With the studio and label having successfully navigated troubled waters, does its Captain feel a sense of vindication?

“Oh yeah, absolutely man. Completely. In every single way. I mean, obviously the way I do it, it takes a lot longer, that’s for fucking sure.”

So the moral of the story is “Work your ass off for 17 years and you might actually have something to show for it?”

Tom laughs. “No, the moral of the story is “Be careful what you wish for because you may well get it.”

A couple of weeks later, my drive across town is rerouted by a phalange of emergency response vehicles. Richards Mill is ablaze again. Across the road from the beleaguered building, a different kind of fire is burning bright, fuelled by good music, good vibes and a generous dose of fuck you.

He’s already vanquished the sceptics and naysayers. When the apocalypse arrives, Captain Tom should manage to see off the zombie hordes without any trouble. The man’s a survivor.

[tweet httpss://twitter.com/ingandable/status/455036304640995328]

Live at Captain Toms can be streamed live here from 10am on Saturday 24th May. For more information, check out Toms on FB and Twitter. Click the tab below for the final bonus feature: Bands That Won’t Die.