Music

Bands are, more often than most people, products of their physical and social environment, which is one of the reasons Ugly Rumours never quite touched as many people as Oasis. It’s also why the suburban archipelago has been such a fertile breeding ground for bands. It’s not so much that it breeds genius as it focuses ambition. Just ask Hard Fi, a band who made it from the streets of Staines to playing five nights at Brixton Academy with guests including heroes Mick Jones, Billy Bragg and Paul Weller. Small town life isn’t torture exactly, it’s just that there’s a tendency to encourage the populace to be happy with their lot. It’s a bit like living on that island in ‘The Prisoner’ or being eaten by a crocodile – it’s so much easier if you don’t struggle.

‘I can see it sometimes in some of my older friends,’ says Hard Fi frontman Richard Archer. ‘They just wanna get by, they’re almost made to think that they couldn’t do something other than what their parents did. I was just stubborn enough to keep doing it, and they’re like: “Shit, they did it, maybe I can too.” Which hopefully, will be the case.’
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To better understand the roots of the nation’s biggest stadium-rock band, Hard Fi have agreed to show us around Staines. It doesn’t take long, to be honest, despite Archer’s genuinely astounding command of local history. We start out at Hard Fi’s studios, a (barely) converted minicab office fitted with luxurious 'Abigail’s Party'-esque shagpile soundproofing and complementary hand-me-down soft furnishings. For the recording of their second album, the 'Fi were lucky enough to be able to expand into the next-door unit, previously owned by a guttering company.

On one wall is a yellowing – or rather yellowed – portrait of former Page 3 Idol winner Krystle (32C-24-33), a fixture of the Hard Fi rehearsal space since 2003 and regarded totemically, in much the same way as the ravens of the Tower Of London. All in all, it’s a cosy space, despite being situated in an industrial park in the middle of nowhere.

‘Catering is the one thing we need to sort out for album three,’ says Archer. ‘Up on the reservoir there’s a boat club and we used to sometimes eat lunch there, because it’s like being on holiday if it’s sunny, sitting by this big expanse of water. Then we got thrown out by some ponce who said, “You’re not members and you’re on private property, fack orf”.’

Dotted around various parts of the studio are signs advertising Cheekees, previously Staines’ best (and only) nightclub. These were lovingly preserved by the band when the club was closed down and converted into split-level nightclub/table dancing emporium Diamonds And Denims. The good news is that this is no longer Staines’ only nightclub. The bad news is, Staines no longer has a nightclub, D&D having closed down a fortnight beforehand. Still, the band resolve to drive us over to the site to bask in its former magnificence.

As we stand outside the front of the building, Archer explains the club’s significance. ‘This the only place you could get a late drink,’ he says, ‘So everyone used to come here. During the week it was like a social club for the unemployables. They’d all come here because they didn’t have to get up for work in the morning. Plans were hatched, ideas worked upon and drinks drunk.’

‘It was like the Soho House of Staines,’ says guitarist Ross Phillips. ‘Or, if you wanted a fight,’ says bassist Kai Stephens, ‘upstairs it was all you can drink for 15 quid.’ ‘My mate used to DJ here,’ says Archer ‘And he used to play daft music , but then it changed and they started trying to make it cooler, and it was losing the point that it is kitsch. People came here to have fun, they didn’t want it to be moody.’

We leave the ghosts of the past and head for the refurbished town hall. En route, cutting through the alley where the band filmed their first video, we pass a busker, who Richard takes time to share a few words with. A display of solidarity with a fellow struggling Staines muso? Not quite. It transpires that he is actually a former member of the band, who ruled himself out of a permanent position by not having a charger for his mobile.

The old town hall was initially refurbished at an arts centre, but pressure from the local Conservative club NIMBYs (very local – about ten yards away) stifled it into submission. The building is now a giant barn-pub. An anonymous shopping centre over the road comes in for Archer’s ire as well.

‘It used to be an industrial estate and there was something real about it, they used to make shit there. At one point there was talk about making these little workers’ cottages into independent boutiques, and there were Roman ruins they were going to try and bring out and show off. But then they just flattened it, put in a massive car park and three carpet warehouses. What the fuck? How many bits of carpet do you need? Staines has always been about lowest common denominator, let’s try and make money – never about let’s try to save something or improve something.’

We walk past where Kai used to sneak off for a crafty smoke in his younger days, the Thames tributary where he used to catch chub (with lumps of cheese, bait-pickers) and the bridge from which one of his friends jumped in return for a pint of Fosters, arrriving at a refurbished pub which Archer was asked to open.

‘It was hilarious,’ he says. ‘They had the mayor there and the head of the brewery. But then they realised that when you go over that bridge, you’re actually in Runnymeade, so they had to invite the mayor of Runnymeade as well, and there was a mayor-off. Then they gave me 12 bottles of Fuller’s London Pride and some Fuller’s cufflinks.’

Hard Fi’s grip on normality, which has won them their legion of fans, is especially evident in their new single ‘Suburban Knights’. However, the artwork has already caused a stir: from drawing derision in the press for its supposed pretension to being praised as ‘bold and intelligent – a “White Album” for the digital culture’ by Peter Saville (although he was obviously forgetting about ‘Appetite For Destruction’). The cover features only a slogan reminding buyers that the single has ‘No Artwork’. Archer insists this isn’t a Le Corbusier-inspired attempt to destroy album covers – although Art Brut should give that a go – but a reaction to record company pressure to have a ‘Bourne Supremacy’-esque portrait of the band exiting a helicopter plastered on the cover. Archer has a fair point – Hard Fi don’t really look like the type of individuals you’d expect to see getting out of a helicopter. Well, not without stretchers being involved. As Ross puts it, ‘It’s just snobbery on the part of the industry. If Radiohead had come up with that idea, everyone would have loved it. But because it’s Hard Fi, we’re not allowed to think or have good ideas.’

There’s a poignant pause, which is eventually broken by Ross. ‘So shall we go and vandalise something or what?’

‘Suburban Knights’ is released on Monday on Atlantic.