From the outset, Praying Mantis were more melodic and tune-conscious than their rivals in the New Wave Of British Heavy Metal. In an era when blood, studded wristbands, bullet belts and thunderous riffola were king, co-founding siblings Tino and Chris Troy understood – fittingly for a group formed at no less a place of learning than the London College Of Furniture – the value of luxurious upholstery. “We’re more like a chaise longue than a flatpack picked up at IKEA,” Chris Troy says today, grinning. “Melody has always been innate in us.”
Born into a Spanish-Greek family with the surname Neophytou, Chris had started playing music on a Spanish guitar, so in the spirit of one-upmanship a jealous Tino came home from school one day with a self-made electric guitar. “When things got a little more serious I converted it to a bass for Chris to play,” recalls the elder sibling. The brothers were inspired by Status Quo (Chris recalls Caroline being the first song they played), as well as the twin-lead melodic guitars of Thin Lizzy and Wishbone Ash, whose song Throw Down The Sword was covered in early sets.
It was guitarist Bob Sawyer who first referred to Konstantinos as Tino. “The Troy part came from my love of Greek mythology,” the guitarist says. “The name Tino just stuck. I’ve been looking for a future wife called Helena ever since,” he quips.
With the nascent Praying Mantis making steady progress, the Troys visited NWOBHM’s home the Heavy Metal Soundhouse in Kingsbury, north-west London to hand DJ and scene guru Neal Kay a three-track demo that comprised Lovers To The Grave, Captured City and Johnny Cool, and soon those tracks featured in Kay’s playlist in weekly music paper Sounds.
“On one week all three were included, I think,” Tino remembers. “It was exciting. I thought: ‘This is it – our springboard to success.’”
With Iron Maiden having signed to EMI, and the NWOBHM gathering pace, record labels and band managers identified potential targets. With both Maiden and Mantis having tracks included on the EMI-released compilation Metal For Muthas, in February 1980 the two bands set out on a massive UK tour. Maiden headlined and Mantis were ‘special guests’, but they appeared on what was still pretty much an equal footing.
“There really wasn’t a great deal between the two bands, and on some nights we went down better than them, to the extent that they nicked our sound engineer Doug [Hall], and after the second tour they tried to get our drummer Dave Potts to join them,” says Tino. “Dave passed, saying: ‘I think Mantis will be the bigger band.’ I haven’t seen Dave since!”
Praying Mantis’s costliest mistake was going with management company Fireball, who began displaying poor judgement.
“Bob King was a former business partner of Rod Smallwood, who had taken on Iron Maiden. Maiden had Rod, we had the runt of the litter,” Tino sighs. Mantis later signed to a record label, Arista, that had negligible experience in marketing and selling hard rock bands. Both moves would cost them dearly.
“We were in the right place at the right time… but with the wrong ingredients,” Tino says ruefully, looking back. “Sure, we had some brilliant moments, but I’d like to go back and do it all again – properly.”
Things could have turned out very differently indeed. Neal Kay remembers two hot-shot American managers, Peter Mensch and Cliff Burnstein – who later would make megastars of Metallica and others – tuning up at his front door at 11pm one evening with the immortal words: “We were too late for Iron Maiden. What else have you got?”
On hearing the Praying Mantis demo, they saw dollar signs. But there was one proviso. For a deal to be struck, Mantis had to bring in a specialist lead singer, freeing up Tino to concentrate on guitar, while a keyboard player would accentuate their rich bedrock of melody. According to Kay, the group turned down the offer flat.
However, Praying Mantis insist that they did try to follow Mensch’s advice. “Peter had been right in what he said,” Chris Troy says. “Keyboards would have added depth, and we did need a frontman to really deliver those songs. Everyone in the band agreed with that.”
“When I met Mensch at an Iron Maiden after-show party, I told him the band would consider his proposal, because it wasn’t working with King and his silent partner,” Tino adds. “Bob had asked: ‘Why would you want to go with these Americans? We can do anything for you that they can.’ Eventually we sacked them, but it was too late.”
“Meanwhile,” Chris continues, “Bob had told Peter we wouldn’t do what he suggested, so Mensch and Burnstein went away and signed another band, called Def Leppard, instead.”
Praying Mantis released their debut album, Time Tells No Lies, in 1981. Sporting an eye-catching Rodney Matthews-drawn sleeve and comprising breathtaking multilayered songs such as Children Of The Earth, Flirting With Suicide and a re-recorded Lovers To The Grave, it has become acknowledged as a classic of the NWOBHM, although a review in Sounds by Paul Suter at the time blew hot and cold, praising its “power and class” but lamenting: “The [problem] is that none of Praying Mantis can sing.”
Seeking the elusive hit single, Mantis began to record a cover of the Russ Ballard-written I Surrender, only to learn that Rainbow had beaten them to it and had taken the song to No.3 in the UK chart.
“Everything that could go wrong did go wrong,” Tino Troy remembers. “However, all these years later the current line-up has included I Surrender on our new album, Defiance. Better late than never!”
The band added lead singer Tom Jackson, but he proved unsuitable. It took a year to reach that conclusion – further time wasted. Finally they brought in former Grand Prix and eventual Uriah Heep frontman Bernie Shaw, plus roadie-turned-keyboard player Jon Bavin.
Despite signing to Jet Records for a last-ditch single, Turn The Tables, and a well-received appearance at 1982’s Reading Festival, Tino Troy admits: “The name of the band had gone cold. After ten years the train ground to a halt.”
The Troys and Bernie Shaw resurfaced alongside former Iron Maiden drummer Clive Burr and keyboard player Alan Nelson in Stratus (a name that brought to mind a rather naff brand of aftershave advertised on TV at the time). Their album Throwing Shapes, despite being very creditable, snuck out rather than being released.
It was the Far Eastern market that lured Praying Mantis into action again in 1990. “The idea of a hybrid supergroup featuring [former Iron Maiden singer and guitarist respectively] Paul Di’Anno and Dennis Stratton came from Masa Itoh, the grand fromage of rock’n’roll in Japan,” Tino explains. “We did a live album that was so well received, that impetus continued until around 2015.”
On Live At Last a five-piece band revisited Mantis gems as well as material from the first two Maiden albums and Stratton’s post-Maiden band Lionheart. Musically it worked, though Di’Anno’s involvement was short-lived, due largely to a tension with Stratton that simmered from their days in Maiden. Things came to a head with a violent altercation between the pair in a hotel in Japan when Stratton punched the singer and, during a second fracas, Tino dragged the comatose Di’Anno from the room.
“Unfortunately I caught his hair extensions under my armpit and several came out,” he says, chuckling at the memory. Di’Anno headed for the exit (via the hairdresser), but Stratton remained with Mantis for several high-quality albums over 16 years. Regrettably, they were largely unheard outside of Japan.
A pattern developed: the band would come together to record, play prestigious venues in Tokyo, and return to their lives in London. While the band played warm-up gigs in pubs in the UK, almost nobody knew they were superstars on the other side of the globe.
An inability to hold on to a singer didn’t help. Doogie White, Tony O’Hora and Damian Wilson all at various times headed to Japan to take the Mantis mic.
“As much as the situation was frustrating, it was our own fault,” Tino reflects. “With those record deals we could have spread our tentacles across the world, but we didn’t. Everybody had day jobs and there was no time. Somebody should have taken the bull by the horns. It annoyed me that singers used Mantis as a stepping stone, though I can’t really blame them too much as we weren’t really doing anything [of substance].”
A second hiatus followed the ironically titled album The Journey Goes On, before the appointment of Andy Burgess, a long-standing fan who over the following two decades helped to restore the twin-guitar sound that was such an early cornerstone.
“As a schoolboy I remember drawing the Praying Mantis logo on a bus stop in Sutton,” Burgess says with a laugh. “Captured City, the track from Metal For Muthas, was what made the younger version of myself fall in love with them – its mixture of melody and power.”
Assisted by a pair of formidable Dutchmen, singer John ‘Jaycee’ Cuijpers and Hans In’t Zandt on drums, slowly but surely Mantis have put in the work and rebuilt their reputation. Their latest record, Defiance, is the fourth from this impressive line-up. Mantis had spotted the duo on the international festival circuit, and after some jamming the penny dropped that a hook-up would suit all parties.
“We weren’t really looking for a drummer, Tino explains.
“Buy One Get One Free,” Chris interjects.
“But Hans was a great drummer, and when we approached them they agreed,” Tino adds.
The switch meant sacking existing singer Mike Freeland and drummer Gary Mackenzie, also something of a pair, which brought accusations of skulduggery.
“Sorry, but are you actually in this band?” Tino retorts to the internet trolls that became involved. “This is my career. And everything worked out for the best.”
The Troys are overjoyed that Praying Mantis have now lasted for a half a century. “It feels like a bit of a miracle, but it also makes me very proud,” Chris comments. “At our level it’s tough to keep a band going for this long.”
“I’ve a continuous squeal of tinnitus in my ears, also arthritis in my hands,” Tino confides. “I’ve had shoulder and knee operations, but I still jump off drum risers if they’re not too high. I still love writing music and playing live. Each time, I say: ‘This is the last album.' But a couple of gigs later that negativity vanishes.”
Satisfaction is tainted with regret, though. Understandably, the pair still wish they’d followed their gut instinct and sacked those former managers sooner than they did. Chris ponders what might have been: “Had we had the current band back in 1981, this would have been a very different interview.”
“But then I might not have had my two beautiful daughters,” Tino says, smiling. “What life takes away with one hand, it gives with the other. So… sorry, but not sorry.”
