What Does This Button Do?: An Autobiography

Nothing in childhood is ever wasted.

Bullying happens because weak people need to prop up their ego by beating up or humiliating others.

Eddie is Iron Maiden's mascot, monster, alter ego - call it what you will. Part supernatural, part primal, part aggressive adolescent, Eddie is a super anti-hero with no backstory. Eddie doesn't give a fuck. He just is. Eddie also gets us off the hook as individuals. Eddie is far bigger and more outrageous than any badly behaved superstar. Eddie makes rock stars obsolete. This comes in handy when you get to your late fifties and rather fancy a quiet night in after playing to 25,000 screaming metal fans.

All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without the benefit of experience.

In later years I discovered the Japanese expression often used in schools to describe an individual who was overly individualistic: ‘The nail that stands up is always hammered down.

Rock stars, of course, have long had the capacity to act like babies, but have not had the sense to sing like them.

I began to think of school as a prison camp, and my duty was to disrupt, subvert and/or escape. But, of course, there was no escape. I felt I should make some kind of statement. I decided to deliver two tons of horseshit to my housemaster. Just one of those spur-of-the-moment ideas that comes with no logic in tow, but a great deal of emotional momentum.

I had memorised Deep Purple’s Made in Japan note for note. Every drumbeat, every thud of Ian Paice’s bass-drum beater, I had tried to replicate. Ditto the first Black Sabbath album, Aqualung by Jethro Tull, plus my eccentric collection of Van der Graaf Generator albums and treasured copy of Wild Turkey’s first offering.

I'd barely considered the question of whether I would sing again, which surprised me. I realised that I loved life above all else, and if singing was the price to pay then so be it.

How long before I recover?' Amen gave a good think to that one. 'I had an RAF fighter pilot sitting where you are now, with exactly the same tumour. It was 12 month before he was fit, fat and healthy again.' Twelve month? That was too long. I would be bored by then. 'I'll beat that,' I declared.

I was out of my comfort zone, a fish out of water. My life has been a continual succession of 'out of the frying pan, into the fire' moments. Deep down, I think I probably enjoy it. You are never so alive as when learning something new and overcoming adversity.

Die meisten Rockstars mögen zwar auch im Erwachsenenalter noch in der Lage sein, sich wie Kleinkinder aufzuführen, sind aber leider unfähig, auch so zu singen.

It was a heart-stopping moment, and Donington’s collective jaw dropped. Grown men fought back tears. It was a Griffon-engine Spitfire, which has a distinctive growl, as opposed to the whistling howl of the supercharger on a Merlin engine. No one will ever forget that moment. It upstaged everything.

started to read the excellent biography of Blake by Peter Ackroyd. I think it is one of the best of his books, the other being London: The Biography. I got the feeling that Ackroyd was almost channelling the spirit of Blake to rise from the pages and speak directly to the reader.

I had been asked to add a further three-hour rock show, but I protested that there wasn’t enough quality new music to sustain six hours a week.

the BBC were obliged to play short extracts of the song through gritted teeth. It’s a shame they weren’t paying more attention to Jimmy Savile instead of writhing on the hook of a tongue-in-cheek horror-movie soundtrack.

The voice is a precious instrument, an emotional instrument. There is nothing between you and your audience. There is no guitar plank to hide behind, no giant stack of keyboards, no battery of tom-toms. There is nothing and no one to blame except yourself, and an audience will murder you and dance on your grave in a heartbeat if you let them.

Where have you come from?’ she asked. ‘Sarajevo.’ ‘Why were you there?’ ‘Hey, we had a gig. We’re a rock band.’ ‘Sarajevo is a dangerous place. Never come back.

A family trip to Jersey – that’s the Channel Islands, not New Jersey, folks – netted brand-new gatefold editions of Van der Graaf Generator classics H to He and Pawn Hearts. (The latter was such a manically depressive record that you could actually empty a room with it after a couple of minutes. On the other hand, I could listen to it for hours on end in solitary confinement, probably because I am not a manic depressive.)