Actors who become singers — we all know the story, huh? Quite often, when an actor achieves a certain level of notoriety—and gathers subsequent wealth—the temptation to blow some cash on studio time, some expensive session musos and put out an album is immense.
And the results can expose some harsh truths, particularly the one that says, ‘stick to your day job’. The production is usually world-class, as is the band. But the weakest link is often the star spearheading and financing the project. And the summary of its parts only add up to thirty-odd foot of well, you know what.
It was some time in the late 90s. It was maybe a Foreday Riders gig, but more likely a Whose Muddy Shoes Gig. It was definitely at the smelly old Oxford Tavern in Wollongong. Without a shadow of a doubt, it was Ray Beadle on guitar.
Me, I was a slightly cocky young guitar shredder hanging out at my favourite pub in the Illawarra, checking out as many bands as I could, sometimes 3-4 nights a week. On this night, a guy who was not too much older than me was sitting in with veterans, and tearing the blues a new backside on his beaten up black Paul Reed Smith.