Cash in the Attic 
A story of rags to riches

If you have ever been unlucky enough to be stuck at home on a weekday and without the energy to escape  inane television along the lines of ‘Bargain Homes Under the Hammer whilst Car Booting in the Sun’, and a variety of daytime programs that encourage you to squander your life savings by investing in some derelict slum in the back end of beyond in the hope that house prices will continue to increase in an ever ridiculous and soul destroying fashion and make you a quick and easy fortune, then you will be familiar with the equally brain drying program of ‘Cash in the Attic’. 

If this televisual delight for the terminally bewildered is to be believed we are all are sitting on an absolute fortune in household junk that is worth a mint if sold at the right auction. (I suppose the inspiration for this shameless display of unbridled greed was from a guy who took along an old urn that he had retrieved off of a skip to The Antiques Roadshow, only to be told that it was worth 65,000 quid.)

In reality, like most people, all I have in the attic (apart from a frightening amount of dust) is an array of tat that should have been binned a long time ago. An old betamax player (not working) with a couple of hundred tapes to go with it. An old fire guard (why?), broken baby chairs, mountains of bank statements going back to the dawn of time. An old motor bike jacket that I will never in my wildest dreams be able to fit into ever again. Christmas decorations (of course) and my aged collection of worn out cassette tapes.

Not one single item in my attic is of any value to anybody, including me. 

So you can imagine my delight and amazement when something was pulled, from this mountain of discarded junk that proved not only to be rare, but was worth something, and better still somebody wanted it.

Back when I was 18 years old, and I had managed to lie myself into my first band (“of course I can play bass guitar!!!! What do you mean it only has four strings”), I had gone to Biggles Music in old Market and had bought, for the princely sum of £100, a Hiwatt DR130 Custom 100 watt guitar amp.

I didn’t know much about it apart from the fact that it was made in Britain, and Jez, the guitarist, who came along with me, also owned one. It was a thing of beauty as it was as loud as hell, and perfect for the bass guitar.

That Hiwatt stayed with me over many years, always being used as a bass amp, through thick and thin. Across Europe, in large venues and small. It was used with a variety of different cabs and speakers, but it never let me down. 

However, family commitments and common sense finally caught up with me in 96, and the Hiwatt was stored away in the attic, and there it lay undisturbed for 8 years. 

By the time I had reformed The Mudheads, and had pulled the amp out of the dust, it had the distinct appearance that a large family of weasels has taken up residency in it. With mould and dust clinging to every aspect of the thing I wasn’t sure whether to plug it in or skip it. 

As it was, it was probably just as well that I didn’t just plug it in as it contains something called smoothies (yes that’s what I thought, I’ll have a blackcurrent one please) and these smoothies can get quite volatile after a while. They also contain a chemical called PCP, which as any chemical head will tell you is used in making Angel Dust. Now The Mudheads are off the wall at the best of times, have those things blow at a gig and it would have been stoner chaos. 

So, having cleaned off the worst of the mould with hot soapy water and bleach (I can hear the purists screaming as I write) and scrubbing the inners with a toilet brush. I took the amp to the professionals (a wonderful couple of gentlemen, brothers, called the Bailys) and having replaced the smoothies, made up a new power cable (it was so old it was round), they gave the amp a clean bill of health. 

Now I firmly believe that equipment like this have personalities, and the Hiwatt was no exception. Have you ever heard the expression “hell hath no fury like a women scorned”. Boy did my Hiwatt feel she had been scorned. Neglected, ignored and forgotten. Then in her frail dotage, ripped out of retirement and put back to work. 

The old girl had never let me down as I said, but at out first headline gig at The Fleece in many years she threw a hissy fit that frighten the drummer let alone anybody else. Sparks flying everywhere, and a grinding noise that was akin to the Titanic scraping down the side of the iceberg. I couldn’t get to the off switch fast enough. 

That was the very last time I used the Hiwatt. Call it disloyalty, but I just didn’t want to take the chance. 

The Bailys identified that I had simply blown a valve, which was easily replaced, but she was none the less laid to rest in our practice room. The wall flower that was never again asked to dance. 

Then I had my ‘Cash in the Attic’ moment. It turned out that not only was the Hiwatt old ( by that I mean vintage) but it was also one of the first ever made, by hand, by the original manufacturer, in his garden shed, and it contained his signature to prove it.

In terms of amplification what I had gathering dust was the equivalent of a Stradivarius, and very much sought after, especially by the Americans.

I agonised over what to do next as I have never owned anything of value before. However, as my band mates pointed out to me, I had nothing more that an expensive brick sat there gathering dust and beer can marks. 

Thanks to those very nice people at Sound Control, I found a buyer, a professional bass player who had been looking for just such an amp for ages and as I could verify its providence a price was agreed. 

Now I probably could have got a heck of a lot more for the Hiwatt had I held out on the American market, but hey, the guy was Bristolian, a proper bass player, and I know that he will love and cherish the old thing in a way that I hadn’t for a while. 

In a mark of respect for my former procession I didn’t squander the money, but converted it into a Fender 60^th Anniversary limited edition P bass. A real thing of beauty (whipped off the white scratch plate and replaced with a real rock & roll black job).  It even has a diamond in the head stock. Hey yeah! Classic bling. 

The point of this ramble is to encourage you to have another look at the old gear you have getting damp in the back of the garage, or under the lawn mower in the shed. Its days of use may be long over for you, but it could be really valuable to somebody. The guy who bought the Hiwatt off me phoned to say that it is the most beautiful amp he had ever played…the love affair has truly begun. 

All I know is whenever I play my new bass guitar, I am reminded of a classic piece of kit that was left to rot that has been given a wonderful new lease of life that has also allowed me to own the guitar I have wanted ever since I first said…”What do you mean they only have four strings?”