The rocky road from ruin. A potted histoire. by Jon Bandit. Picture the scene. A plucky young buck from the streets of Derry in a band arriving in the UK for his introduction into the semi-closeted world of mid 80’s indie pop. In the beginning this guitar playing, organ grinding, pleasure seeker leads from the front. He sings. It’s a melancholy delivery that draws him away from his guitar, that area of attack to which he needed to give all. The observers agree. This band needs a front man. It gets one and then the front man becomes that man in black to the left of the stage. It’s that edge to the chords. It’s the manic pop thrill that gave the first major recording its bite. It’s the whirling dervish of movement. On stage he’s a catalyst. He lives and the set lives. He sits back and the bottom falls out. In every way he drives the stage presence. Who are we talking about? That Petrol Emotion boy genius Reamann Gorman. And was there an earlier band? Of course there was. Bam Bam and the Calling; the genesis of the boy and the root of the group's name.

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The tours come and go and our man Reamann discovers the wilder side of life. The drink and the rest. No matter for on stage there is that steely focus. His song writing is always there as a counterpoint to John. Deadbeat is a crowd pleaser. The tours show Ray to be the maverick. The laugh. The "where the f*** are we?" The reply was always Kennington, until the gravy train reached Baden Baden. It was in Europe that wheels began coming off and hinges loosened. The band flies to Sicily. The festival is a ramshackle affair and Reamann bounds on stage to find an hour's slot reduced to 20 minutes. Roadies throw drum peddles across the stage. Police line the perimeter. The catalyst is lost, the band are lost and after the affair there is the first of many ‘Right that’s it’ quitting arguments that rumble right on to the next day when the promoter dumps the band and gear at the airport with stand-by tickets. AAARRGGHHH. There were occasions where sanity held by a thread and YET while it dangled there were the moments. Moments were inspired by this guitar player. Madrid. Hot, steamy Madrid. A tiny stage. This writer is standing watching, mouth open, aghast. The sound created and the reciprocity he enjoys with his side of the crowd has to be experienced. Chemicrazy was but a germ of a tune until Madrid. There is a point where ‘I can’t go on, but I’ll go on’ becomes ‘I can’t go on’ and we reached this point with our guitar man in Liverpool. If this didn’t rip the gut out of the band then it ripped out the soul. The tour continued but without the bite, without the attack. Reamann and his tortured mind rested up in the Betty Ford clinic. This was a ghost tour. Where are we now, 1988? Is it only the truly genuine who can get so screwed up? The archetypal heart on your sleeve merchant. Everywhere to go but nowhere to turn to. Honesty, integrity and high expectations run aground in a cynical business. His band have now reached the point of mass appreciation. The search for the live sound on long playing record (now CD) seemed to be lost. The Manic Pop Thrill feel had only fleetingly been recreated despite the song writing surpassing itself in style and rhythm. Abandon hope all ye who enter the studio. By the end of this bands life the live experience was perfected just as the recorded sound had seemed to always remain a yard short. So now our man is fighting to get the Final Flame released in as perfect form as it was created. This thrill will shake the memories that form the pillows of life. Wavewalking is the new sport, the new phase. This phase began with an ensemble and has been resurrected recently as the one piece, the seated one piece, the wisecracking, beaming one piece. As the devoted flock in their dozens to the tiny upstairs bar month after month they are graced with the new Summer 2000 collection of Saturn, Let Colour In, Seed of Soul and Radio Free Derry. The hem of his flowered garments is still sought out by the pleasure seekers. Let us rub shoulders they may wish. The guru of matters musical has now given fair warning. Let me in. I’ve got hair on my head and a twinkle in my eye. I’ve got lyrics in my pocket and tunes between my toes. The pleasure seekers note the relaxed, quiet, soulful touch on the songs. The AAARRGGHH is still there but disguised as ‘pprrrrr’. The pussycat with retractable claws. The sanity claws. Gone is the drink and drugs and in is the contemplation and meditation. The laughter remains just as it was on the night he was carried off a Helsinki stage in fits. Smart fits mind. With that hem. So this meander of reminisces ends with five words to capture our man Reamann. Honest, Talented, Significant, Magnificent and Mananga.