by Paolo Hewitt
‘Davey Boy, how are things? Cool?’
‘Alright there, Mr. DJ. How’s tricks or don’t you see her anymore? You know William, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
I shook off the notion to doff my hat and bow, and we exchanged polite nods. As you already know my feelings on the subject I will refrain from going into one, although I was somewhat surprised that some 18 months after our first encounter, these two unlikely lads were still hanging close.
‘Yes, William and I are in business together,’ Davey Boy suddenly sprung on me. ‘We’ve gone into management. Pop group management. A band from round my way, in fact. Isn’t that so, William?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I believe they’re going to be rather large.’
‘You’re managing a group?’
‘Yeah, you know, like the ones you see on telly holding guitars and singing. They’re called On One. Top boys if you ask me. Going to be big. Actually,’ Davey Boy added in a bit of a whisper, ‘they’re a bunch of herberts. Lead singer, if you can call him that, has been on the glue since he was 12 and the drummer’s got his case coming up tomorrow. GBH against a British Rail guard. It’s the second time this year we’ve had a night out for him. Last time he got away with a fine. Tomorrow could be different. Do you want to meet them? They’re over there.’
I followed Davey Boy’s finger to a group of young guys, slumped against the wall, staring up at the lights above them and not moving an inch. The psychedelic lights swirled across their young faces, tattooing their skin in such a way that they instantly looked twenty years older. Thin and blank eyed, it was not a pretty sight.
‘They’re a bit tired, tell you the truth,’ explained Davey Boy. ‘Been in a crappy little studio down Hackney all day getting a demo together. Smashing record. “Happy Rave,” it’s called. This crowd will love it. Right up their street. I’ll get you a copy when it’s done. I’ve already got a few record companies sniffing around but I’ve told them all the same thing. You want to hear the record, fine. Just don’t forget your cheque books or you’ll be wasting your bus fare, know what I mean?’
‘Where does Lord Haw Haw fit in?’ I enquired.
‘William? Bought all the equipment. Great gear, it is. You can do what you like with it. It’s un-be-fucking-lievable some of the stuff. Does everything for you. Push a few buttons and you could have my granny, and she’s 89 if she’s a day, sounding like Pav-a-fucking-rotti. Just as well really. Those boys couldn’t string two fucking notes between them. Fancy an E, by the way. The boys will sell you some. They supply their estate.’
‘Nah, I’m off that shit.’
‘Here, I heard you had a bit of trouble last night.’
‘News travels fast in this town.’
‘Sounded nasty to me. I mean, call me old fashioned but it’s not on is it? Bringing a sprog down to a club. You know what I would have told her? Darling, I don’t come and disturb you when you’re working at McDonalds, so don’t come here and disturb me when I’m working. Still, things will sort themselves out. They always do. By the way, you going to help us out when the record comes out?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Give it a few spins down your club, get the hillmans worked up, know what I mean? I can sort you out a nice little tonic number.’
‘Davey, how long have you been sorting me a nice little tonic number out?’
‘I know, I know, but hand on heart I’ve got a few new contacts in that department. I’ll see what I can do. By the way, don’t let this baby malarkey get to you, son. You don’t look good on it.’
The Sandra business was precisely what I had come out to avoid and, knowing Davey’s predilection for parlaring endlessly on the same conversation, I switched the talk.
‘Lord of the manor don’t say much, does he?’
‘William? He’s just dropped an E. Doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. You should stick around for when it gets him dancing. Looks like an ostrich having a shit!’
I don’t know how but it suddenly struck me there that Davey Boy’s relationship with William might actually go a bit deeper than just management but it was not the kind of thing that you bring up in polite conversation, if it needs to be brought up in the first place, and, despite his entertaining patter, I knew it was time to split.
Homeways was the bestways for there is a time in everybody’s runnings when you simply have to disappear from view, take stock of all your inventory, so to speak, and, like a master chess champion, plot out the next moves.
‘Davey Boy, I’m gone. Check you soon.’
‘Alright, sonny boy. Don’t forget, they’re called On One and they’re going to be huge. Ain’t that right, William?’
That night as I lay in my yard in a deep Nina, the window flung open and the world silent around me, I looked towards the moon beaming down as if the Lord Above was holding a torch and throwing a light into all our lives, and realised that for the first time since they jumped bail, I truly missed my P&M.
I don’t know the runnings you have with your family, but with mine it got to be like sharing a house with two close friends that you could always go to for the words of wisdom that you need from those older tha n yourself, the ones who have already navigated the deep waters we all find ourselves in, and there they are to point you the right way. In my mind, I couldn’t blame them for doing a Houdini but, to be God’s honest, in my heart I badly wished they hadn’t jumped ship, because right now their little boy blue needed them. Unable to kip, I wandered into the front room with the express intention of playing some tunes when I noticed the answer machine flashing. I pushed the play.
‘Yeah, P. here. Heard about last night. If it gets too mad, bell me or try Kind Of Blue by Miles. It helps. Believe it. Go well.’
I did just that and awoke on the sofa at about ten the next day, the thought of belling Sandra and the kiddiwink uppermost in my mind. This I did and we made an arrangement to meet but, like St. Peter, three times I failed them, covering my tracks with fake stories of illness or a malfunctioning public transport system.
That terrible night at The Unity had shaken me more than I can say for I still felt a huge grievance against her for creating single handedly that nightmare of a scenario which was now all over town, distorted in a rush of whispers. Not showing up was my way of getting back at her although I knew, deep in the heart, that I was just playing for time, clinging fast to my world which was now spinning faster than ever I wanted it to.
Luckily, beautiful summer had really kicked in by now, covering this boss city and its inhabitants in a warm, hypnotic haze, and, when you woke up and saw that glimpse of blue sky through the crack of the curtains, you could not help but be inspired to get busy. Summer that year was special and it threw up two tunes that will always take me back, when I hear them, to those days, that bitter-sweet time when I lost my youth and had no idea where to find it. Everywhere I reached, those tunes seemed to follow me, thumping out of shop doorways, open car windows, council blocks, radios and any club you ventured into.
One of them was Public Enemy’s ‘Fight The Power’, perhaps the best rap tune yet to be concocted in that cauldron they call New York City, a lethal, charged up tune that was every bit as vital as the film, ‘Do The Right Thing’, it appeared in.
When the group’s leader, Chuck D., literally pulled down one of the white west’s biggest statues with the lines, ‘Elvis was a hero to most/But you know he didn’t mean shit me,’ everyone in the know, didn’t matter what colour, felt the power of the new breed. It was a call to arms, a declaration of war against the old guard who control the strings, and it felt like the birth of a new nation.
The other tune that dominated the summer was Soul II Soul’s ‘Back To Life,’ the breakthrough sound of a funky, street spirituality that was far too black for the union jack and the best example yet of the New Briton’s creative powers. Brothers and sisters, I don’t know what the world is coming to but I have to let you know how I l
oved up those tunes. They fired up and caught in motion a new optimism, because, soon enough, everyone you met was onto something, such as making records, scripting films, designing clothes, starting up magazines, and all with the attitude that no longer were people prepared to wait around for those with the cashola to take note of their talents. Ideas came together and the people linked up to sow the seeds of a cultural revolution.
That summer anything and everything seemed possible, the promise of potential filled the air and I responded by going and doing the one thing that nobody, least of all me, myself and I, thought possible. I fell in love. Chickaboo and Chickabee, I had not planned for this latest development and how could I? Love is the most unpredictable element there is, always striking when you least expect, and so when it hits, all you can do is close your eyes and hope and pray that the journey you are about to undertake is a fruitful one.
As you know, I had traversed this road before with Tuesday and, after being led into an emotional maze of hurt and pain, had no desire whatsoever to repeat the experience, and can you blame me? What I didn’t know was that you can only run against the flow for so long, so consider, if you will, the following plotline, which not even a top Hollyweird writer would dare submit, which, before I knew it, had led me back to love.
Early one Saturday evening, two hours before I was due to check in at The Unity with the Brother P. in tow, I received a call from an agitated Costello, asking me not to reach that night. A disgruntled customer who had been forcefully ejected by Charlie for caveman behaviour, the night before, had returned to the club in the dawn hours and exacted his revenge by starting a small fire outside the front door. Although the flames had not licked up too much, the damage was enough for the local powers that be to insist that the club close for the night, until the neccessary could be done to it. I belled the Brother P. with the news and we both agreed to take a breather and both stay in that night, agreeing to check each other later on that week. I sorted out my tunes and began cleaning up my yard when at 10.45 p.m, a hunger pang forced me out onto the Stroud Green and, there I was, heading towards Bee Wee’s for a chicken roti and rice, passing all the citizens who stood outside pubs in the warm night air, shooting the breeze for all to hear, and very pleasant it was too.
I reached the small restaurant, passed my order to Sam, the genial proprietor and waited on. Just as my food arrived, the door swung open and there, before me, was Little Scissors Jackie, a local gal I know from the hairdressers, hence her title, out and about with her posse. I am on good speaking terms with this gal thanks to the bargain we struck up when I landed my position at The Unity, the details of this agreement being that whenever she wishes to pass by The Unity she does so for nada, whilst, in return, my hair is cut and styled for the very reasonable price of absolutely nothing, and you can’t say fairer than that, Jack. I am always pleased to check the gal because she is one number who always seems to exude positivity, that is life’s downs never seem to throw her off track.
‘Hey, Jackie,’ I said to her, ‘where are you blowing tonight.’
‘Down southside for a small rave. Fancy it?’
In that no nonsense way this happy band of female numbers bade follow me to a party in Putney that was being held in some friend of theirs house, and, on the spur I agreed, and glad I was too for it was a firin’ little affair with cool people and sounds to take up my interest all night.
Then, as the sun once again began to rise over the metropolis, Little Scissors Jackie insist we pack into her car and head for Clapham Common, for this patch of land was now a meeting point for ravers from all over the country to come and rest up after a hard night out on it. We reached the common around 6.30, set up shop and then I dozed off with the touch of the sun’s rays like a balm upon my skin, and when I finally came to, about three hours later, it was to discover that the night’s posse had been expanded by one.
The gal in question was a friend of Little Jackie’s named Indigo. She had passed by as I lay asleep and was now laid out, reading a book. Here’s the rub. The book, Nelson George’s ‘Death Of Rhythm and Blues’, was mine, the tome reaching her doorstep, like the Olympic torch being passed on, by the following route. Brother P., who I first lent it to, then onto his sister, Amanda, who, in turn, gave it to a friend, none other than Indigo. I knew the book was my copy because, back in the days, I had passed through a bookshop where the author was holding a sign in and had him scribble his name on the cover, this writer, a New York boy through and through, being one of the very few to cover my musical beat with style and wisdom.
Apart from the fact that you have to be careful when you lend your things out, as JB once said, outta sight, outta mind, I had to wonder at the coincidence of it all and what it all meant. I was soon to find out. That book gave Indigo and I not only a topic of conversation to keep us busy for the next hour as we argued the why’s and wherefore’s of the author’s theories, but acted as a constant reminder of life’s simple twists of fate.
Indigo, as the name suggests, hailed from a mixed blood background that united Spain with Jamaica, which is why when we began parlaring I was confronted with the prettiest eyes you would care to melt into. Her colour was light brown and she kept her hair close cropped, highlighting a natural facial beauty that no make-up could ever enhance. But it was beneath the skin that the true flower of her beauty lived and breathed, because it soon became apparent, as we made with the words, that Indigo was not one to play on her physical beauty, reason being that to her way of thinking there were more important things on earth to consider than a vanity fair.
Sensing the vibe that was coming off between us, Little Scissors Jackie collected up her little gal troops and moved off, leaving Indigo and I to bask in the sun, check out the people around us, and keep a wary eye on the lawmen who were now patrolling the common’s perimeters in comically, over-subscribed numbers.
‘A large group of people who want nothing more than to chill, play music and hang out,’ I said, ‘and they’re acting like they’re about to prepare for war. What’s the problem?’
Indigo shifted her body to look over at them. ‘The media,’ she replied, shading her eyes from the sun. ‘Ever since that stuff went into the papers about wild clubs and pill popping, the orders must have come down, be seen to do something about it. The eyes of a nation are upon them,’ she ended up saying in a mock Winston Churchill voice.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘large peaceful crowds such as these worry them. Doesn’t fit in with the roles they’ve given us all. Upsets all their training.’
Such depressing observations aside, it was a great day, spent, with thousands of other like-minded folk, relaxin to the max, soaking up the rays and Indigo and I not at all worried about impressing each other, which, I discovered, is actually the best way to impress, if you get my meaning. As the sun rose high and then started to dip, a coloured and colourful assortment of numbers drifted gently by, or set up base next to us, offering out food and water supplies to all those nearby. Scattered all around us were small radios, all of them tuned to a pirate radio station over the Eastside, which constantly pumped out the best of the day’s music – Mondee Oliver, Doug Lazy, Ten City, Blaze, Phase 11 – interspersing the music with cryptic messages such as, ‘Billy, if you’re listening, come over, the milkman has just left...’ and sending out news of the raves that had been busted and exhorting all to come down to the common and hang out.
No doubt about it, there was a sense of community here a feeling that whatever vibe tribe you hailed from, whatever your colours, it didn’t matter. I had never witnessed such camaraderie amongst my generation and I couldn’t help but idly wonder what it would take for the lot of us to rise up as one and fight the greyers that be, smashing down all their restrictions and hypocrisy in one great swoop. The problemo with such a scenario is that the English are not a race for change and the only way you’ll probably ever get a full blooded revolution is to close the pubs down forever. Now that would cause a rumble. At about
four that afternoon, I couldn’t help but note an extremely fine gal, in shorts and a t-shirt that loosely covered a pair of breasts that would interest men for years, pass by. As I was checking her out, I felt Indigo whisper into my ear, in a leering voice, ‘Cor, nice pair of tits, eh?’ The gal had caught me on the hop and I blushed a little, not something I do everyday.
‘Not to my taste, Indigo,’ I lied but my tormenter was not so easily put off. ‘What is then?’
Resisting the obvious reply, which would pertain to her very good self, I checked the field of play and rested my gaze on a Latino type gal, sunbathing in a swimsuit with nothing more than a walkman for a companion.
‘Yeah, not too bad,’ Indigo replied, which, I have to say, came as something of a surprise for it is not every day that a gal gives her opinion on another’s charms. ‘She’s got a good body but my choice would have been... him.’
She discreetly nodded to a long, curly haired white guy, a very unfortunate creation that can best be described as an unfortunate accident between Bob Dylan and Art Garfunkel, sitting in just his shorts, toking on a spliff and lost in a world of his own drug taking.
‘Now that’s a bit of alright, don’t you think?’
‘You must be joking. He’s a class A lonely wanker.’
‘A what?’
‘Myself and a close friend,’ I explained, ‘have a theory that everyone in this world is a lonely wanker and life is all about what degree you live at. It’s our way of acknowledging Jean Paul Sartre without having to wade through his tedious books.’
‘Oh yes,’ Indigo replied. ‘And what degree of lonely wankerdom do you inhabit?’