Eleven
Two weeks later I am back in Newcastle again, this time with the Kevin Ayers Band. After our gig we return to the Drogenheyer Hotel, where it turns out that the group Curved Air is also staying. In short order we end up in someone's room, sharing the usual drinks, smokes, and musician bull. I sit on the floor and get into an intense conversation with a young American: his name is Stewart Copeland. He is engaging, friendly, and intense-a nonstop talker-and he gives me a long rap on how there is a guitar factory not far from Newcastle and how he has been in there and has hustled them into giving him a free guitar, even though he is the drummer in the group, and recommends that I do the same-it's easy. Easy, I think, with a mouth like that. they probably gave him the bloody guitar just to get him to shut up and go away! But I like him immensely and wonder vaguely if I will ever see him again.
At this time I retain a loose connection with the Soft Machine/Gong/ Virgin crowd. The reigning queen of this set is a woman known as Lady June. Occasionally there are parties at her large flat in Maida Vale, and at one of these I run into Mike Howlett, the former bass player of Gong, who as a group have now called it a day. We get into a conversation and he tells me that he's seen me playing around London and is complimentary, asking me if I would like to be in a group that he's putting together as a special project for the Gong reunion in Paris. The event will be an eight-hour concert in which each former member of Gong will bring his own new group, the culmination being Gong themselves playing together again. I express mild interest and Mike tells me that he has a bass player from Newcastle named Sting whom he wants to use. He's in a punk band called the Police, and maybe we could use their drummer, and he-Mike-will also play bass. It sounds odd-two basses?-but I shrug and agree to meet again.
A few days later in Shepherds Bush, Mike plays me the material, some songs of his and some by this Sting bloke. I tell him that I'm not all that impressed but think the songs are okay; we can make them work for this project.
He arranges a session for a few days later at a studio in Swiss Cottage called Virtual Earth. I make the trek across London from Putney and get up there around eleven A.M. The bass player and drummer are already there; they seem like just a couple of musicians, and I have no recollection of having met them before. The one with the bass says nothing but saw me a few years earlier in Newcastle playing with Zoot, so to him I am a well-known London musician-someone who, although scratching and clawing to survive, has already made it. We get into the rehearsal, and as it's his gig, Mike leads the way. The atmosphere is affable as we feel out one another's playing and learn sonic of Mike's material. But things suddenly come alive when we start a song by the bass player called "Visions of the Night." With a furious forward drive and a punk edge, this song pulls me out of a pleasant, if slightly somnolent, state to a fully galvanized awareness and I start playing with renewed energy.
We take a break and the drummer enthusiastically tells me of their activities as the Police, how they are out on the road with a singer from New York called Cherry Vanilla, backing her up for fifteen quid a night and then doing their own set. He speaks volubly of the punk scene, how great it is, how alive -that this is what's happening-and I find it hard not to get caught up in his enthusiasm. He then reminds me that his name is Stewart Copeland and that in fact we met three months earlier at the Drogenheyer Hotel. It comes back to me like an old black-and-white photograph-lying on the stale carpet of a hotel bedroom in a haze of beer and cigarette smoke, Stewart's words flying past my ears like arrows. And then the bass player, Sting, points out that the two of us have also sort of collided, as he was the bass player for Last Exit, the support group for the "Tubular Bells" concert. "Now I remember you," I say (or rather, lie), but the three of us are in a room together and the wheel of fortune clicks forward.
I drive back through the dense London traffic with a feeling that is different. Playing along with the kinetic fury of Stewart's drumming and Sting's soulful voice and bass playing was raw but powerful. Staring out across the standstill traffic and blare of Capitol Radio, I intuit something but try to put it to the side: this is a one-off project, not a real group; they have a guitarist and are out gigging with him; they are a band. My natural enthusiasm tends to pull me into difficulties because I find it hard to play with the necessary emotion and remain detached at the same time, but something is getting to me.
A few days later Mike gives me a cassette of the songs we recorded, and it's a letdown. Rushing and charging along with no finesse, it's the sound of a train wreck; maybe it's punk, but it doesn't sound like a band, isn't yet cohesive enough to be powerful. But despite the crudeness of the tape, there is a provocation that comes through and I decide to reserve judgment and carry on for a while. We continue rehearsing and by degrees get deeper into one another's skin as we work our way through the songs for the Paris show. This is a potent period because I am replacing Henri Padovani, their guitarist, for a while and a new bond is being formed. But underneath the groundswell of rhythm, bass lines, and chords and the conversational banter being tossed back and forth, another agenda is forming. Sting, who doesn't always verbalize his feelings, is already brooding about Henri's lack of ability, is frustrated by it; it's limiting him and his own considerable songwriting abilities. I stumble into this fragile scenario and we play; we interact; and not holding anything back, I demand more, push for musical excellence even if it's for a one-night show. Sting says nothing but sees a new set of possibilities, and the seeds are sown.
We play the show at the Hippodrome in Paris to a large crowd of Gong devotees as a group called Strontium 90. We go over well enough, but I am somewhat ambivalent about it. The two-bass thing seems wrongunbalanced-but the idea of a knockout power trio begins to take shape.
We part company the next day, as I have to get to Colmar to play with Kevin Ayers. But after the intensity of being with Sting and Stewart-the three of us playing together stays with me-being back in the Kevin Ayers Band suddenly feels too comfortable, too tame, the old world.
Back in London Mike has set up a few gigs for us as the Elevators, the name he chooses to replace Strontium 90. We play a couple of shows, one at the Nashville and one at Dingwalls, but from a musical perspective both gigs feel strange. It's okay but it's not quite coming off, the two electric basses distorting the focus of the band. The other problem is that we all like Mike but he's the odd man out. Compared with the three of us, he is mellowrelaxed-and we are all intense and edgy, as if from the same mold. After a few furtive phone conversations we decide to go on without him. He is disappointed but not devastated. But there's another problem: I am not actually in the band, but somehow I'm half in the Elevators and half in the Police, which is frustrating. But this fuzzy move to continue without Mike seems to imply that together we have made a decision, a commitment that somewhere in the future we will be a group.
The energy from Paris subsides and I am left feeling let down. Nothing seems clear. Despite all the talk, Stewart wants to carry on being the Police with Henri playing guitar, as he fits the punk image Stewart has in mind for the band. But there is a potent disabler in the form of his bass player/singer, who is wrestling with his dissatisfaction. I begin returning to the thought that it's a lost cause, but a few days later, as if not quite willing to part company yet, Sting and I have a long talk on the phone. Maybe we are reaching out toward each other, propelled by some faintly felt vision of the future, but in the grey light of an April morning it boils down to the fact that, yeah, we should play togetherthere's a natural musical affinity. The conversation goes along the lines of my joining the band. But what about Henri? How would we deal with that?
Neither of us knows quite how to get around it, but at this point in my life I don't want to play in a band with another guitarist. I feel selfish about my skills, don't want them diluted by playing with another guitar or having to drop my language clown to a simplistic level. Unfortunately, Henri has been playing for only a few months and would not be the guitarist I wou
ld choose should we go that route. It's a difficult moment, but I feel clear that I am in if it's a trio. That will have to be their decision. We both feel the circumstance, its pain, lack of resolution, potential. Sting says he'll call Stewart later, and maybe we'll speak again tomorrow. I put the phone down, my head churning. I was just about to let go of this, the idea of being in this band-and now?
A short while later I take the tube from Putney into central London. Sitting in the train, I stare up at the posters advertising holidays in Majorca and promises of a golden future if you save with the Halifax Building Society. My outlook, more like pitted brass, is uncertain. I stare at the filthy floor of the carriage, the dirt molecules of grime, dust particles, ticket stubs, the crap of people's shoes, and think, Fuck it, I've got to get past this. The past three years in London have been good, but I'm running on empty. I need the right setting to push it all the way. In my head I have written that script and acted the whole thing out, although I still don't know if it's here, staring me in the face. On a gut level I am excited by this group, but rationally there's not much to go on. How am I to know as I rattle along on the Central Line that this band will be responsible for my biggest high and my biggest crash? No one has heard of the Police; if I join them, I might be throwing myself down yet another black hole.
The train jerks to a halt, and as I get out at Oxford Circus, Stewart gets out with me. We look at each other, laugh, and make the standard remark about it being a small world. But this is the brilliant collision: one train later and it might have all turned out differently. Imagine: Sting eventually becomes disillusioned, returns to Newcastle, takes up teaching, and plays music only on the weekends in a pub; Stewart realizes his true calling and joins the diplomatic corps and at the moment is heavily engaged in the Middle East. But I have been on the train brooding about my own future, a situation now exacerbated by the talk with Sting an hour earlier, so I suggest to Stewart that we go get a coffee somewhere. We sit down with cappuccinos and begin a jocular conversation about our recent shared exploits: Paris, Mike Howlett, the gigs. But I am cooking on the inside; the dialogue with Sting is fresh in my head, pushing itself forward like a nagging pain. I tell Stewart that Sting and I have spoken and that there seem to be some unresolved issues.
Clearly something happens when we play together. Sting feels it, I feel it; the bass player thinks I should be in the band, it's obvious. I'm ready, but it will have to be on my terms-in other words, one guitar. "But that," I say, "is your decision," and take another slug of cappuccino. Instead of being cool, I probably put this over with too much intensity because what's in my head suddenly feels out of control, as if it's pushing me to seize the moment before it fades. I want to play in a trio, and here it is. But instead of embracing what I think is apparent, Stewart counters all of this with replies that I couldn't possibly want to be in the band because it wouldn't suit a musician like me. I would have to lug equipment, and what about Henri?
There are undercurrents to Stewart's simple protest, because he knows and I sense that Sting is fed up with Henri's limited guitar abilities and might leave if things don't change. The future of the band is at risk, but Stewart is loyal to Henri (or so I imagine). With a certain amount of emphatic enthusiasm, he states that Henri is authentic-a real punk (although Henri had cut off waist-length hippie hair to join the band). The look seems more important to Stewart than the quality of the music. He is the one who hired Henri in the first place, and having me come in would be a shift of power. The shadow side to this little scenario in the future legend about my replacing Henri, of course, is that I am supposed to have callously pushed him out and, as Stewart puts it, bludgeoned my way in-a parallel to the Ringo Starr/Pete Best story of the Beatles.
But there is a subtext to this tale. As the Police, Stewart and Sting have toured England by joining forces onstage with the guitarist and keyboard player that Cherry Vanilla has brought with her from New York. In the context of gigs and sound checks, they jam with these two musicians: Louis Lepore on guitar and Zecca on piano. Louis is a very good guitarist who can also play jazz and some classical guitar, and the jams have a different quality from what they are doing in the official Police trio. One night before a show in London, Stewart, Sting, and Louis go out to a little cafe before the gig. Stewart leans across the table and says brightly to Louis, "Okay, I've got the new band-you on guitar, Sting on bass, and me on drums." Louis is taken aback and, somewhat confused, tells Stewart that he can't-he's with Cherry and in fact is her boyfriend: it wouldn't work. And besides, the Police at this stage are absolutely nowhere-they're not an authentic punk group and they have no songs worth mentioning-so there is very little appeal for Louis. But as if to further compound Sting's unrest, one night Louis goes over to Sting's flat, where sits a small music stand with some classical guitar music on it. Sting asks Louis if he can play anything like that, and Louis sits down and sight-reads the page in front of him, thus pushing Sting's frustration one step further. As Stewart and I talk the situation through, I know nothing of this and so can't use it as proof that a change needs to be made-and anyway, I wouldn't bother. But as if foreshadowing my arrival with this early attempt to replace Henri with Louis, Stewart has underscored that maybe the guitarist isn't right yet. For years I have to deal with asshole journalists who like to bring out this story and then vaguely paste me with the image of a cruel bastard who pushed Henri out of the group, as if everyone else were innocent. But this is the stuff from which groups are made: conflict, desire, betrayal, and strategies that Machiavelli would be proud of.
Stewart really wants to be the Clash or the Damned, but it's a pretense because it's not where Sting is at all-in fact, it annoys him-so there's a fragility to the existing structure, with a crack appearing that has been made wider with my involvement. They have already had a conversation about my replacing Henri but haven't yet reached that uncomfortable decision.
Sting and Stewart are in the battlefield with a guy whose sword can't give them the cutting edge they really need. While Stewart identifies with the uniform, Sting is looking for the weapon. With that in place, they would have a locked unit that could become a fighting machine on all levels. In a way Sting's emotion mirrors mine. He's been writing songs for years and instinctively knows how good he is but, like most of us, isn't sure of how to push it to the top. He needs a catalyst and so do I, and maybe we have both intuitively recognized it in each other. But the demands of just trying to stay alive usually outweigh the luxury of taking a risk. The situation is compounded by the scene now in London, a moment when if you aren't gelled, spiked, and ripped, you might just as well go home and forget it. Being punk means that you might at least get a couple of gigs, so in a sense Stewart, who has leapt from the ultimate hippie band into the Police, has made what appears to be a smart move. But it is undermined by there being no real credentials for striking this pose, and the audience out there knows it.
Over the past three weeks my playing with them has put things into perspective for Sting. Something has to happen, or he is going to take off. He is in London-away from his hometown, with a baby and a wife to supportand it's a strain. He is already thinking of taking a gig with Billy Ocean for ninety pounds a week. Stewart talks him out of it, but my appearance acts as another trigger. Sting wants the dream and is prepared to be ruthless to get it. The something that has to happen is that the right guitarist has to appear.
Unaware of any of these undercurrents, I stare out across the crowded West End cafe with the doleful impression of a sad chord twanging in my gut, the sense of an effort wasted. Despite the various subplots and-to Stewart's credit-for being loyal to Henri, we don't agree on anything more than maybe we'll try it with two guitars. A weak compromise.
Stewart's cartoon version of this story will be that I absolutely demanded to be in the band, wouldn't take no for an answer. But with no idea of the sub-rosa machinations-the early attempt to replace Henri with Louis Lepore-I wrestle with a weird mix of intuition and pain, knowing t
hat I would be pushing someone out of a job. But, on the other hand, what exactly is it that I am doing? Pushing someone out of a band that right now is nothing? Although I might glimpse the potential of this group, it is not exactly a paying gig. But it is the natural resolution of converging desire and it happens, and the subsequent history justifies it so that even Henri will agree that it was right; to pretend otherwise would be blind.
But first we try a couple of gigs with the Police as a foursome, the first one at the Music Machine. Henri and I arrive at choruses and verses at different times with different chords; it feels like a disaster and I don't see much hope in this, but we try to make light of it, as if it will work out.
Our second gig is in a bullring at the Mont-de-Marsan Punk Festival in France on August 5, 1977. We travel all the way to the South of France in a clapped-out old banger of a bus with Eddie and the Hot Rods, the Clash, the Damned, the Jam, and the Maniacs. Low on the bill, we are up against bands that are already famous and have a strong following; but we go on, determined to compete. Even though it feels clumsy with two guitars, we pull off a short but intense set and acquit ourselves. After the show Sting, Stewart, and I go into the town and find a cheap cafe, and when I make some acid remarks about the waiter serving us, Stewart laughingly remarks, "Oh, so it's going to be that sort of a band is it?" It seems like a nod toward acceptance and I feel the possibility of fraternity.
One Train Later: A Memoir Page 20