For those of us not familiar with Nick Rayns' contribution to the musical life of the UEA - this is a blog piece written in April 2013 by a former student -Tim Dawson.
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Rayns’ end: a long career that preserved the best of live music
If a university education has any point, it is surely this. By exposing those seeking to learn to exceptional individuals, students may well pick up something of their knowledge and the craft of its creation. More important than facts, or intellectual techniques, however, is that aspirant scholars be inspired to go and strive for greatness themselves.
I reflect on this now by way of a guilty admission. Only in his death do I realise that I was fortunate to learn at least a little from just such an individual during my own time as an undergraduate.
Nick Rayns, who died earlier this month, was the entertainments office at the University of East Anglia’s students’ union. By the time I arrived in the mid-1980s, he had been in this modestly-salaried position for five years and was promoting a big-name act nearly every week. Looking back on the list of gigs that he arranged, it is hard to believe that he brought such talent to the campus – not least as, to a casual onlooker, Norwich appears to be rather off the beaten track.
In the year I arrived, The Smiths, Billy Bragg, Aswad, Everything But The Girl, Elvis Costello, Orange Juice, Marc Almond, Richard Thomson, Roger McGough, The Pogues (twice), Madness and Siouxie and the Banshees were among the dozens of acts who played (there is a full listing here). Rayns also booked U2’s first gig in the UK, Robbie Williams’ first solo gig and more than 30 appearances by Jools Holland.
My dealings with him were not profound. For a while we had adjacent offices. From mine, I edited the student newspaper, next door, he and his band of hangers on ran a rock-and-roll empire. It always sounded like they had more fun that we did, and the fug in that office was of a rather more exotic variety than the cow-gum cloud that hung over ours.
He was a colossus of a man – thickly bearded and fat as a barrel. If Giant Haystacks bore Rasputin a love-child, he might have looked something like Rayns. His dealings with me were somewhere between business-like and brusque.
It did not occur to me that he might have been unusual until I left Norwich.
My first job as a journalist was to set up and edit a magazine intended for the employees of students’ unions. Its initial print run was in three figures – but only just. The magazine’s stock-in-trade was articles by union managers explaining how they had invested lavish funds student drinking facilities – inevitably hitherto known as The Mandela Bar. Now tricked out in the style of a commercial night club, and rechristened ‘Oil Can Harry’s', or similar, the rejuvenated facilities were enabling twice the previous number of teenagers to squander their grants on inexpensive beer.
To leaven this mix, I suggested profiling the generally colourful individuals who ran students’ union entertainments. With a neophyte’s naive enthusiasm, my first subject was Nick Rayns. His story was not atypical. He had arrived at UEA as a student in 1973 with dreams of becoming a rock star. The union gave him the opportunity to immerse himself in music, albeit in an off-stage role. Thereafter, at least in outward expression, his interest seemed to be for the business of music, rather than the music itself.
I gushed about his strike rate with big name acts, and he shrugged his shoulders and said that his only secrets were common sense and good organisation.
To my surprise, my launch edition had scarcely left the printers, when angry missives began to arrive. They came from Rayns’ counterparts in much, much bigger students unions who clearly hated him, and were furious that I had given him a platform.
The case against him went like this. Rayns, in Norwich, had no real competition as a promoter, unlike those in Leeds, Manchester and Nottingham. Not only that, but acts liked being able to fine-tune their sets – within a couple of hours of London, but beyond critical attention. Elvis Costello’s frequent appearances were, apparently, because he would always do a UEA gig to hone his performance before a foreign tour.
The charge sheet went on – Rayns was lucky with his facilities and had patently failed to understand that the college gig circuit was dying on its feet. They also hinted at a view that was widely-held belief at UEA itself, that Rayns’ business practices were not entirely above board. He certainly operated in a less strictured environment than many of them, owning much of the stage equipment himself, and leasing these to his employer, thereby, it was assumed, substantially supplementing his income.
But the simple truth was that his Redbrick counterparts did not like him. He disdained their cosy club, had a track record at which they could only marvel and was perfectly happy flaunt his success.
I was embarrassed to have to publish some of this correspondence – but there was a point on which they were right.
Profound changes were unsettling the way in which music was performed and consumed. Throughout the 1970s and for much of the 1980s, bands – generally four or five men with guitars – regularly went on tour. They would do this once or twice a year, generally after releasing an album. Fifteen or twenty dates on a tour were typical, forty-date cirumavigations of the land were rare, but earned a band extra credit with their fans.
Students unions provided the venues for a great many of these performances. At least some young people chose their place of study because of its reputation for live music. Famously, the DJ Andy Kershaw went to Leeds university because The Who’s legendary live album was recorded at its students union.
Dance music, rave culture and the spiralling cost of carting musicians and their amplification around the country eroded the scene little by little. Not until the noughties and the rise of music festivals were the joys of live performance rediscovered.
Having earned my first professional stripes, I moved on and gave students’ unions little further thought. Nick Rayns troubled my mind not once, until six weeks ago.
I noticed that the Eels were playing UEA. Close to the 30th anniversary of my ‘going up’, it seemed an auspicious moment for a trip down memory lane.
Out of curiosity I looked up the students’ unions staff list, and to my amazement found that Rayns was still there. I sent him an email, but was not surprised when a reply was not forthcoming.
The band, however, did not disappoint. The venue, known then and now as the LCR (Large Common Room – initials and acronyms are in UEA’s DNA) has a standing capacity of 1,500, the perfect size for this kind of gig. The audience space is slightly stepped, which gives the auditorium the effect of an amphitheatre and the light and sound are a perfect marriage of clarity and understatement.
The band were blistering, delivering a driving set which included pulsating, full-on rock, affecting introspection and occasional moments of comedy. For the hour and a half, I was mesmerised. My friend, who accompanied me, declared it the best gig that he had ever been to.
The experience certainly reminded me of the dramatic power of live music. As well the devotional aspect of travelling to a venue and waiting for the musicians to take to the stage, the assault on your senses in a confined space is hair-raising. It was evidence of just how short rock music is sold by open-air festivals. The range of bands you might see over a weekend is fantastic, but the experience is weak beer compared to the high-octane magic achievable in an intimate space.
I glanced over UEA’s list of coming attractions and now, as 30 years ago, it is possible to see sometimes two top quality acts a week. For a city of scarcely 100,000 residents, it is a staggering resource, and might go some way to explaining why its university currently tops national ‘student experience’ ratings. How much of this is down to the ents package, I can only guess. The audience at the Eels was, at most, only half made up of students – which is much how I remember the crowds of the 1980s.
Perhaps such a program is an anachronism. But whereas Shakespeare’s Globe is a recreation of the way that the Bard’s drama was experienced by his contemporaries, Rayns has been packing the same hall since the heyday of the college gig. His is an unbroken tradition and should be revered as such.
Whether it will survive his demise, I don’t know. Many of his acolytes from the 1980s are still involved in the organisation he built. Having served an apprenticeship of three decades, surely they should be able to pick up the reigns? Whether they will have the force of personality to maintain such singularity of purpose amid the fast-churn vagaries of a students’ union remains to be seen, however. As a vital piece of living heritage, I certain hope they do.
In the meantime, I simply offer thanks to have had the chance to observe such a phenomenon at close quarters. Perhaps if I had paid £9,000 a year for my education, I would feel differently, but at this distance, exposure to such a singular talent was a rare privilege.
I reflect on this now by way of a guilty admission. Only in his death do I realise that I was fortunate to learn at least a little from just such an individual during my own time as an undergraduate.
Nick Rayns, who died earlier this month, was the entertainments office at the University of East Anglia’s students’ union. By the time I arrived in the mid-1980s, he had been in this modestly-salaried position for five years and was promoting a big-name act nearly every week. Looking back on the list of gigs that he arranged, it is hard to believe that he brought such talent to the campus – not least as, to a casual onlooker, Norwich appears to be rather off the beaten track.
In the year I arrived, The Smiths, Billy Bragg, Aswad, Everything But The Girl, Elvis Costello, Orange Juice, Marc Almond, Richard Thomson, Roger McGough, The Pogues (twice), Madness and Siouxie and the Banshees were among the dozens of acts who played (there is a full listing here). Rayns also booked U2’s first gig in the UK, Robbie Williams’ first solo gig and more than 30 appearances by Jools Holland.
My dealings with him were not profound. For a while we had adjacent offices. From mine, I edited the student newspaper, next door, he and his band of hangers on ran a rock-and-roll empire. It always sounded like they had more fun that we did, and the fug in that office was of a rather more exotic variety than the cow-gum cloud that hung over ours.
He was a colossus of a man – thickly bearded and fat as a barrel. If Giant Haystacks bore Rasputin a love-child, he might have looked something like Rayns. His dealings with me were somewhere between business-like and brusque.
It did not occur to me that he might have been unusual until I left Norwich.
My first job as a journalist was to set up and edit a magazine intended for the employees of students’ unions. Its initial print run was in three figures – but only just. The magazine’s stock-in-trade was articles by union managers explaining how they had invested lavish funds student drinking facilities – inevitably hitherto known as The Mandela Bar. Now tricked out in the style of a commercial night club, and rechristened ‘Oil Can Harry’s', or similar, the rejuvenated facilities were enabling twice the previous number of teenagers to squander their grants on inexpensive beer.
To leaven this mix, I suggested profiling the generally colourful individuals who ran students’ union entertainments. With a neophyte’s naive enthusiasm, my first subject was Nick Rayns. His story was not atypical. He had arrived at UEA as a student in 1973 with dreams of becoming a rock star. The union gave him the opportunity to immerse himself in music, albeit in an off-stage role. Thereafter, at least in outward expression, his interest seemed to be for the business of music, rather than the music itself.
I gushed about his strike rate with big name acts, and he shrugged his shoulders and said that his only secrets were common sense and good organisation.
To my surprise, my launch edition had scarcely left the printers, when angry missives began to arrive. They came from Rayns’ counterparts in much, much bigger students unions who clearly hated him, and were furious that I had given him a platform.
The case against him went like this. Rayns, in Norwich, had no real competition as a promoter, unlike those in Leeds, Manchester and Nottingham. Not only that, but acts liked being able to fine-tune their sets – within a couple of hours of London, but beyond critical attention. Elvis Costello’s frequent appearances were, apparently, because he would always do a UEA gig to hone his performance before a foreign tour.
The charge sheet went on – Rayns was lucky with his facilities and had patently failed to understand that the college gig circuit was dying on its feet. They also hinted at a view that was widely-held belief at UEA itself, that Rayns’ business practices were not entirely above board. He certainly operated in a less strictured environment than many of them, owning much of the stage equipment himself, and leasing these to his employer, thereby, it was assumed, substantially supplementing his income.
But the simple truth was that his Redbrick counterparts did not like him. He disdained their cosy club, had a track record at which they could only marvel and was perfectly happy flaunt his success.
I was embarrassed to have to publish some of this correspondence – but there was a point on which they were right.
Profound changes were unsettling the way in which music was performed and consumed. Throughout the 1970s and for much of the 1980s, bands – generally four or five men with guitars – regularly went on tour. They would do this once or twice a year, generally after releasing an album. Fifteen or twenty dates on a tour were typical, forty-date cirumavigations of the land were rare, but earned a band extra credit with their fans.
Students unions provided the venues for a great many of these performances. At least some young people chose their place of study because of its reputation for live music. Famously, the DJ Andy Kershaw went to Leeds university because The Who’s legendary live album was recorded at its students union.
Dance music, rave culture and the spiralling cost of carting musicians and their amplification around the country eroded the scene little by little. Not until the noughties and the rise of music festivals were the joys of live performance rediscovered.
Having earned my first professional stripes, I moved on and gave students’ unions little further thought. Nick Rayns troubled my mind not once, until six weeks ago.
I noticed that the Eels were playing UEA. Close to the 30th anniversary of my ‘going up’, it seemed an auspicious moment for a trip down memory lane.
Out of curiosity I looked up the students’ unions staff list, and to my amazement found that Rayns was still there. I sent him an email, but was not surprised when a reply was not forthcoming.
The band, however, did not disappoint. The venue, known then and now as the LCR (Large Common Room – initials and acronyms are in UEA’s DNA) has a standing capacity of 1,500, the perfect size for this kind of gig. The audience space is slightly stepped, which gives the auditorium the effect of an amphitheatre and the light and sound are a perfect marriage of clarity and understatement.
The band were blistering, delivering a driving set which included pulsating, full-on rock, affecting introspection and occasional moments of comedy. For the hour and a half, I was mesmerised. My friend, who accompanied me, declared it the best gig that he had ever been to.
The experience certainly reminded me of the dramatic power of live music. As well the devotional aspect of travelling to a venue and waiting for the musicians to take to the stage, the assault on your senses in a confined space is hair-raising. It was evidence of just how short rock music is sold by open-air festivals. The range of bands you might see over a weekend is fantastic, but the experience is weak beer compared to the high-octane magic achievable in an intimate space.
I glanced over UEA’s list of coming attractions and now, as 30 years ago, it is possible to see sometimes two top quality acts a week. For a city of scarcely 100,000 residents, it is a staggering resource, and might go some way to explaining why its university currently tops national ‘student experience’ ratings. How much of this is down to the ents package, I can only guess. The audience at the Eels was, at most, only half made up of students – which is much how I remember the crowds of the 1980s.
Perhaps such a program is an anachronism. But whereas Shakespeare’s Globe is a recreation of the way that the Bard’s drama was experienced by his contemporaries, Rayns has been packing the same hall since the heyday of the college gig. His is an unbroken tradition and should be revered as such.
Whether it will survive his demise, I don’t know. Many of his acolytes from the 1980s are still involved in the organisation he built. Having served an apprenticeship of three decades, surely they should be able to pick up the reigns? Whether they will have the force of personality to maintain such singularity of purpose amid the fast-churn vagaries of a students’ union remains to be seen, however. As a vital piece of living heritage, I certain hope they do.
In the meantime, I simply offer thanks to have had the chance to observe such a phenomenon at close quarters. Perhaps if I had paid £9,000 a year for my education, I would feel differently, but at this distance, exposure to such a singular talent was a rare privilege.
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