FOR ONE used to rising at the crack of noon, an early call at Sam is about as close to death as you can get without actually coming face to face with the MD. And Grahame Thompson, the Tygers manager, on the other end of the 'phone sounded as dead as I felt. The rendezvous at Kings Cross at 10.00 seemed about as possible as Ozzy playing a complete tour without going crazy, but somehow we both made the train by the skin of our teeth. Three hours and as many gallons of BR coffee substitute later, we pulled into Newcastle Central Station and made the short transfer on foot to the newly built Metro terminal, which the City council claim is based on the finer points of many of the world's top underground services. Personally speaking it looks like a poor man's Paris Metro but since that's got nothing to do with the Tygers Of Pan Tang, : we'll change the subject. The band live in Whitley Bay, which is a typical Northern seaside resort, packed out with drunken Scots during the summer, and bored locals in the close season. There's nothing much to do unless you like amusement arcades (the sea front boasts one Spanish City that achieved five minutes of fame in the Dire Straits epic Tunnel Of Love' — "Girl it looks so pretty to me / Like the Spanish City to me," pretty, nah! But you know these Geordie types) or fish'n'chip shops. The Tygers do, but it was to the pub we first headed. The Tygers of Pan Tang have been around for quite a while now and, together with steady live work, and three excellent albums, they have carved enough of a following to almost pack out such illustratious venues as Hammersmith Odeon (or perhaps Hammerdown Smith?) and their local City Hall. Why then have the Tygers opted to tour as support to Black Sabbath (the actual billing is 'Special Guests' but the rewards are financial rather than prestigious)? "Basically it means that we're gonna be playing to 50,000 people in 13 days which means that the album's going to pick up sales after the initial peak in December when it hit the Top 50. Also our new singer, Jon Deverill, hasn't yet played a support tour with us and it's gonna be good experience for him." So says Rocky, the bass player and ace piss artist (but more of that later). The band are also embarking on a European tour with Gillan, and together with their own following here and abroad, which is beginning to approach a largish size, the Tygers look set to break out in a big way. But obviously it wasn't all wine and roses, was it Rocky . . .ROCKY! O.K. Rob Weir takes the table . . . "We really hit the big (ish) time by riding on another band's back, one of the local hard rock'bands who had a residency at one of the more popular rock clubs around the area. They blew out the gig, and we took over. Then a local record company — Neat Records — seemed to like what • they heard and signed us up for one single. But we spent about a year playing any gig we could get, frequently around the Tyneside working men's clubs and pubs. It wasn't until we actually got a gig in front of confirmed rock fans that things really started to take off." And take off they certainly did. The single 'Don't Touch Me There' was put out on Neat and sold 7,000 copies. MCA, the Tygers present company got to hear about Neat, and in particular The Tygers of Pan Tang and snapped up the band without so much as a how do you do. The single was put out again by MCA and sold a further 7,000. Their debut album 'Wild Cat' continued the upward trend in the Tygers appeal, hitting the charts; eventually peaking at 18 in the BRMB listing and the second platter, 'Spellbound', consolidated the dramatic change in fortune. But as far as press and publicity are concerned, the Tygers haven't exactly been making the headlines. Unlike the majority of HM bands, you don't hear about Rocky's latest drink spree or how many games of pool Rob clocks up in an average bout of Whitley Bay boredom. As we moved on to one of the many deserted amusement arcades (despite my persistent begging, nobody wanted to visit the Spanish City and anyway 'Mark Knopfler ain't gonna be there'} and Jon Deverill cued up a fruit machine, we broached the delicate subject of lack of press. "I think it could be the fact that we're not exactly part of the London 'scene', unlike the Iron Maidens, Samsons or Mantis's .and Ships of the world. Look at the gossip columns in Sounds and Record Mirror and there's always a reference to the current 'in' bands even if it's a piss take. But I don't think many of the band are really in to all the posing and backstabbing that goes on in the London H M scene." Of course the system can work in both directions and the Tygers, by staying away from the pretty posing and one-upmanship are not going to be caught up in the 'currently in vogue' syndrome which can make AND break in a matter of weeks — just look at the meteoric destruction of Priest's popularity. The band don't really shun publicity, as this humble offering proves but they don't go out of their way to be seen. Anyway, it was drawing towards the time that your man on the spot was to climb aboard his trusty steed and head back for a quick pose at the afore-mentioned hell holes. But bring Rob Weir to the rescue. Up until now the meeting had been a little on the farcical side, a pint in the pub and a number of poignant questions, but no real insight into personalities. So rather than heading back to London with the facts and nothing but the facts, Rob and I managed to persuade the record company to splash out on a hotel for the night — 10 quid and apparently a hearty breakfast in the morning (oh, little did I know what was to follow!). So that little problem fixed, we trundled off in opposite directions after arranging a rendezvous at seven in one of the 'safer' Whitley Bay hostelries.

So, seven arrived, and I was still suffering from both starvation and British Rail lag, which basically meant that the first pint started off a string of outrageous questions, none of which were answered, and none of which are worthy of any publication save Forum. But later on, after calming down a bit — i.e. nearly falling asleep, I got involved in a long discussion with vocalist Jon Deverilt about the current state of the music scene: "a bit better than it was a while ago" and generally about his home town of Cardiff (first prize goes to reader H. Banger for spotting that Cardiff is in Wales, and not as previously assumed, an obscure suburb of Newcastle. It turns out that Jon was previously in a band called Persian Risk (featured in the December Kerrang! under 'Armed and Ready) before joining the Tygers just over a year ago, and moving up permanently to Whitley Bay. Somehow we got to talking about the legendary Leighton Reece (the darts player, he of the quadruple chin and triple knee caps). "It's incredible seeing him walk down the street, he's so fat he has to swing from side to side and sort of use momentum and balance to get anywhere." Enough of this waffling, let's find out what the band think of their current album 'Crazy Nights', again causing the Tygers a piss off due to the incredible lack of press action — only Sounds and yours truly in Record Mirror actually acknowledged the existence of the album — although the proof of the pudding is that 'Crazy Nights' is, at the time of writing, leaping up the album charts like Herman Rarebelt chases birds around the bed!! "We're really happy with the way the album's turned out but next time we've decided to handle production ourselves. Dennis Mackay has done a great job on 'Crazy Nights' but all of us feel that once one has the technical knowledge, production can only really be handled properly by the artist in question." At this point, on the dreaded exclamation of "TIME NOW PLEASE," the more important business of where to continue the lubrication process was next up on the agenda. It was agreed between Rocky and myself that we should head back to sample the delights of the Croglin Hotel's 24 hour bar, where on the TV was the added bonus of the New York Dolls on Whistle Test in addition to the Crosby by-election starring Shirley Williams. But by 2.00am, all but the bass player and the hack had made embarrassed and wet excuses and skunked off home to bed. So, Rocky and myself proceeded to dry out the bar. The last thing I remember was consuming all the crisps at about 4.00am. The following morning, with a hangover I still don't believe possible, the trusty hack made his way, via the beach to Newcastle, and finally back to our glorious capital city.