Once upon a time, between two mountains high above the sleepy north Wales village of Llanfrothen, there was a magical hidden valley – the sort of hidden valley that, once left, is never found again, no matter how hard one might try to retrace one’s steps. Almost at the top of that valley - after a long and precarious upward trek along a winding track with perilous overhangs that could, if not traversed with great care, send you plummeting to your death - there was a gaggle of semi-ruined farm buildings, set in lush countryside that was shared only with the badgers and foxes and birds and rabbits that had made the place their home.
Lying slightly higher than the crumbling buildings was a shrub-covered mound, and if you were to skirt around it you would find carved into its side a horseshoe-shaped seat and a stone table, facing the Irish Sea and thus the sunset.
Even as far as fairytales go, this one sounds pretty fantastic, but this is no fairytale. It’s not even a dream: the hidden valley really exists. It is a piece of heaven on earth, and Anweledig, the lucky bastards, live there.
Enter their house and although comfortable it’s not as idyllic; all visitors to Chez Anweledig are warned on entering, “Beware of the bathroom – it’s alive!” The kitchen is a large room with a table in the middle and not a lot else. If it weren’t for the scraps of food scattered around, you possibly wouldn’t realise it was a kitchen at all. The living room walls, for the most part, are festooned with posters and Sunshine Dan The Bongo Man’s paintings. One wall has been magically transformed into a larger-than-life address book and diary following the cunning employment of a magic marker, and pride of place on the coffee table is given to a pickled mouse.
“We found it drowned in a glass of water,” I’m informed, “so we thought we’d preserve it forever!”
But Anweledig are boys and, as we all know, boys and housework are not often found hand-in-hand, and are less often bedfellows. From a woman’s point of view the house has enormous potential – a quick visit from Carol Smillie and Lawrence Llywelyn-Bowen would transform the place into a slice of paradise with almost as much charm as Ceri Cunnington’s beguiling smile.
To begin recounting the evening’s adventure let’s backtrack a couple of hours to the boys’ local pub, The Ring in Llanfrothen. I arrive as various members of Anweledig and their friends tuck into some pub grub, having been on the road most of the day travelling back from the Parti Ponty festival in Pontypridd. It’s a couple of hours before we leave there – the band all pissed as farts and carrying a crate of beer – and in little groups of three and four start making our way to the house. The beer goes with Joe and Ceri, and I become taxi driver to Rhys and Gai. As we drive up the twisty mountainside Gai lets off one of the smelliest farts I’ve ever been witness to, and I spend the rest of the journey with my head hanging out the window.
Parc Newydd is entered via a wooden gate, which is closed when we arrive. Immediately in front of the gate is a cattlegrid. A flock of sheep (or ‘mountain rats’ as Dan calls them) seem to be watching something and as we approach the flock disperses so that we can see what’s been holding their attention: one of their number is stuck in the cattlegrid, its little legs going frantically in a running motion without the poor animal actually getting anywhere. As it stares into the car headlights the sheep’s face is a picture - I can almost hear it mutter: “Oh my GOD, you’re going to eat me aren’t you?”
We stop the car.
“We’ll have to move the sheep or it’ll break its legs trying to escape,” says Rhys, concerned. No problem. As Rhys watches open-mouthed, I march up to the sheep, grab two large handfuls of fleece and haul the animal out of its prison, setting it on its merry way. I don’t know who was more surprised – Rhys or the sheep – but the sheep gives me a relieved glance as it belts off up the mountainside with its pals. Rhys collapses in fits of giggles.
“No way! Hahaha! Did you see what you just did? You just carried a sheep! Hahaha! You’d make a natural farmer’s wife!”
When we reach the house we find that only Dan and a couple of the band’s friends – Gwydion and Mark – have beaten us to it. I unpack my bags to reveal my contribution to the party: a bag of donuts, a bottle of vodka, two litres of lemonade and two litres of cream soda. There’s still no sign of Ceri and Joe, so Gwydion phones his sister’s mobile (she’s on the missing list with Ceri and Joe) and we all start singing “Bring the beer! Bring the beer!” down the phone while Gai plays a flamenco tune on his guitar.
By the time the others arrive it’s pretty late, we’re all pretty wrecked, and we’re clearly not going to get any interviewing done. Eventually we agree to leave the interview until the morning, and instead spend the rest of the early hours talking, laughing and occasionally singing.
Gradually we all start drifting off to sleep. I’m asleep upright in the armchair when I awake at 6.30am to find Ceri on his knees cuddling my legs, the famous grin still intact, and a choir of sheep singing its morning salutation outside the living room window. I grab the dictaphone and record the song of the sheep; you never know when the Ovine Octet might want to release a record. After a while Ceri goes back to sleep and I crawl onto the floor and pass out.
Several hours later the boys start awaking, one by one. Ceri is first up, looking very becoming in the complimentary white slippers he’d liberated from the Jury’s Hotel in Cardiff where the band had stayed the night before the Pontypridd gig. He tells me off for sleeping in the armchair.
“You slept sitting up? You should’ve come to my room!”
Yeah, thanks for that, Ceri – would’ve been nice if you’d mentioned it before I fell asleep…
Apparently Anweledig’s trip to Pontypridd was not without incident. The Love Bus (their preferred mode of travel) decided to break down on the journey to Cardiff and even the usually mild-mannered Sunshine Dan managed to lose his temper.
“Normally he wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Ceri explains, “but he got a bit violent yesterday. He was talking about scraping the skin off my kneecaps and making a sandwich out of it! That was after he punched my head in! He’d been driving for too long, it was like road rage…”
Joe joins us in the living room. “Whenever he gets road rage we just laugh ‘cos it’s so unusual!”
Ceri: “One morning he was like, ‘Why do I always drive? I want to get pissed!’ But he’s a star, a gentleman.”
All of you seem to be happy, cheerful people though.
“We put on an act for you, Debs!” Joe laughs.
Ceri: “Once you’ve gone we’re like: [growls] ‘All she fucking left us was cream fucking soda!’”
Joe has a point, though, about putting on a happy face in public. It doesn’t take much probing to find out that the boys are unhappy enough to want to take a break from the band in September. Are they getting sick of each other?
“In the nicest possible way,” Joe grins.
“We haven’t really been enjoying gigs,” Ceri explains. “We’ve been trying to make a living out of it but it’s not easy. But last Saturday in Conwy it was a totally different crowd and the old vibe was there, we were just buzzing off it.”
“People were there to hear the music and they appreciated it,” Joe adds. “There was less drinking. Usually people get there and start drinking and by the time we go on, everybody’s pissed.”
“That’s good sometimes,” Ceri points out.
“Yeah,” Joe continues, “but it’s nice to get a different reaction for a change. We’re going to Liverpool on Thursday and it’ll be another new crowd.”
“The last two months we’ve not really enjoyed the gigs,” Ceri admits. “We’re not getting any dole, it’s just Anweledig that’s supported us over the past two months.”
Why no dole?
“Because we’re supposed to be a business,” Ceri explains. “We had this grant off the Prince of Wales…” He collapses into fits of ironic laughter.
Did it come as a nasty surprise to you that it’s not easy to live off the proceeds of the band?
“Well, not ‘nasty’, but yeah…” Ceri says.
Dan is now awake and joins in the conversation.
“It was bad luck in a way, that as soon as we decided to do that, we suddenly stopped getting the radio and telly gigs which we would normally have every month or so,” he explains. “We’re just starting to get some now, but it’s been pretty lean times. A lot was cancelled due to foot and mouth. We seemed to do a lot of charity gigs as well, more than we’ve ever done before, and they sort of drained us a bit, doing gigs and not making anything on them. But now we’ve decided to have a bit of a break, things are starting to get easier again.”
“I think we all felt for a while that it wasn’t working,” says Ceri, “but nobody was prepared to say it. Then suddenly we all just said we wanted to do our own thing. We’re going to really, really enjoy this summer, then come September we’re going to have a break. Clear our heads and see what to do. ‘Cos it was really strange going on stage and not having that feeling. When you first started coming to see us you saw ‘Wow, these are really enjoying themselves’. But the last few gigs haven’t been the same. Me and Gai were constantly arguing in every gig, I was arguing with people… I personally wasn’t enjoying myself, I’m just pretending. But then Conwy – totally different crowd – fucking brilliant night. We were all really smiling.”
The band plan to find jobs in September, once they’ve got their summer gig schedule out of the way. I’m told that Gai will be a ‘thespian’ and the job Ceri has lined up sounds intriguing:
“I’m starting a job on Monday,” Ceri grins. “Taking down a jail in Rhuthin! I thought we were building it from the inside – a scam from Tony Blair to get statistics down for the dole: build the jail from the inside and keep them in there!”
Anweledig had hoped to do more gigs outside Wales and increase their following to include a few English fans, however they won’t be persuaded to sing in English, although they reckon this is not for political reasons.
“We’re not going to change our principles,” Ceri insists. “We’d like to change other peoples’. It’s not political though. It gets on our nerves a bit, like when we played in Aberystwyth a few weeks ago, people were going ‘You’re the only band left who sings in Welsh’, but it’s not about that, not at all. Maharishi and Topper played there and some guy chucked bottles and stuff because they sang in English. Our new single is about that sort of thing. So when we played there, we asked ‘Who’s the guy who bottled Topper?’ and then we had a go at them… it was fucking mental. Then we started singing God Save The Queen at the tops of our voices, full of passion, all of us! They were going mental… they were waiting for us outside…”
“It was that close to kicking off!” Joe grins.
So singing in Welsh, to you, is not a political thing? You just do it because Welsh is your first language and it’s therefore natural for you to do it?
“Yes!” Ceri agrees. “But people turn it into politics… someone was saying to me that singing in Welsh is a political act in itself by now, because Welsh is such an important language. But to us, it’s just us talking naturally. [sings] ‘Here’s to you Mrs Robinson, you can stick your foot back in your mouth, you fucking cow…’”
Some of their lyrics seem to offer politically conflicting messages though. Hunaniaeth and 6.5.99 seem to preach tolerance, while Graffiti Cymraeg calls English a ‘rude language’.
“Graffiti Cymraeg isn’t intolerant,” Ceri explains. “Where we grew up, in Tanygrisiau, was this housing estate and graffiti’d on one of the walls was the word ‘SLAG’, really big. Gai wrote the song. It’s a comment about us growing up in Tanygrisiau, listening to Marley… it’s a comment on what the graffiti actually said, that’s all. We’re not really anti-anything, except maybe anti-establishment,” he grins.
On the subject of lyrics, I can’t resist a reference to Ieithydd Cyfrwys (Cunning Linguist) – those lyrics are so naughty!
Ceri chuckles. “Kate Crockett thought it was a protest song about people not writing about porn in Welsh! It’s good she thought that. Did you see the review she wrote? ‘Better than Stereophonics and more important than Catatonia,’ she said.”
Kate’s views reflect those of many young Welsh gig-goers - for many of their ten years together, Anweledig have been one of the most popular live bands in Wales. You’ll rarely see an Anweledig gig that’s not packed with sweaty teenage bodies, and these events have become a way of life for many young people who will be disappointed to hear that the band want to take a break, however well-deserved.
The more dedicated of these fans make regular visits to the band’s guestbook at anweledig.com, where many are asking the band for a gig where under-18s will be admitted. But as any regular attendee at Anweledig gigs will tell you, their average crowd is made up of drunken 15 year olds. They’re obviously getting in somehow…
“When we played in Conwy last Saturday there were loads of kids there,” Ceri muses. “They just didn’t serve them at the bar. The atmosphere was amazing. They weren’t pissed 15 year olds, more like my little sister’s age, about 12. It’s easy really – let them in, but don’t serve them!”
The band themselves have been known to post on the guestbook, giving snippets of news and confirming or denying rumours, and telling their tour stories such as Ceri’s sandals being stolen off the side of the stage in one gig (the sandals later sent e-postcards to the guestbook from various exotic locations) and a member of another band breaking into the Love Bus and defecating on the band’s belongings. Some of the most interesting (and perhaps disturbing) entries have been from a young fan who pops in from time to time and says she’s been following Ceri.
“I’ve met her,” Ceri laughs. “She followed me from Penrhyndeudraeth to The Ring in Llanfrothen, wolf whistling all the way. She’s only about 16. Then she wrote about it on the guestbook: ‘I followed you! You know who I am now!’ Another time, I went to Porthmadog and had my hair cut, then went up to my mum’s house to look at the website. Within a couple of hours she’d posted on the guestbook: ‘Oh, I like your hair now… you’ve cut it and it’s really nice!’ Fucking hell! I’m only just back from getting it done!”
Although the band are taking a break from September, they’re planning a lot of fun and games for the summer, including a few appearances at the Eisteddfod, a week-long tour of Brittany and a special treat for those coming to see the band at the Miri Madog festival in August.
“When will this interview come out?” Ceri asks. “After Miri Madog? Well, I can tell you then… we’ve got a surprise lined up. We’re getting a hundred nudists on stage with us! Not exhibitionists, but proper naturalists, people that would walk around naked naturally.” He chuckles at the thought of this spectacle.
Didn’t you play naked at last year’s Sesiwn Fawr?
“No, two blokes jumped on stage naked,” Ceri explains. “We were in the middle of 6.5.99: ‘All this Welsh shit is a waste of time…’, and people were like, ‘Yeah! Woo!’ I thought, ‘Yeah, great, they really get it…’, turned round and there were two naked blokes behind me!”
“That’s probably the main reason we’re not playing this year’s Sesiwn Fawr,” deadpans Dan.
Missing clothing seems to play quite a part in the Anweledig story, one way or another. When I first met Ceri he had to borrow my shirt to leave the shower block at the Eisteddfod because his bandmates had hidden all his clothes. At the launch gig for their album Gweld Y Llun in Betws-y-Coed in March this year, the band tried collecting money for Comic Relief by playing the gig with their trousers round their ankles, with Ceri yelling “Pants to poverty! Pants to poverty! Throw us a few pound coins and we’ll take our pants off!” A couple of gigs later, the same tactic cost Ceri a night in the cells – he was arrested for indecency and was locked up just as he started to come up on an E. Ouch.
Anweledig may not be able to see it themselves at the moment, but they are good fun, and they are 24-hour party people. Maybe it’s as Ceri and Joe have jokingly said: it’s all an act and behind closed doors they’re not smiling and they’re not half as happy as they make out. If this is the case though, they’re doing a bloody good job of pretending. Any time spent in the company of Anweledig is time spent with a perma-grin stuck to your face.
I doubt I’m alone in saying that I can’t think of any way I’d rather be. |
