The Modfather: My Life with Paul Weller

by David Lines

  Clark’s desert boots were classics; easy to wear, easy on the eye, steeped in history, went well with whatever trousers you were wearing, ultra-comfy, came in a variety of super-cool colours and, most importantly of all – available from the Kay’s catalogue. Plus, Paul seemed to wear them all the time. I begged and begged and begged and finally got a pair of beige ones after promising faithfully to look after them and never ever wear them in the rain. I slopped Heinz tomato ketchup on the left toe within half an hour of putting them on. It absolutely would not shift, not even when Dad applied his specialist dry-cleaning knowledge, which basically consisted of him emptying a bottle of turps on the stain and then drying it with a hairdryer. Rubbish. It still looked as if I’d shot myself in the foot.

  That night, after tea, I was up in my bedroom listening to All Mod Cons again. It’s as brilliant now as it was when I first heard it. It’s got everything. It’s just the most complete set of songs that I’ve ever heard and think that I ever will. There’s so much of me in it, sometimes I have to take it off because it’s almost too much for me to take. The single ‘Down In The Tube Station At Midnight’ was banned from Radio One by that idiot disc jockey Tony Blackburn because he thought it glorified violence. It doesn’t, it renounces violence. It tells the story of a young, married man going home on the Tube and getting set upon by a group of louts who kick seven shades out of him after robbing him and taking his keys, and then his poor wife thinks it’s her husband letting himself in. The thugs smell of pubs, and Wormwood Scrubs and too many right-wing meetings. It’s terrifying, so powerful, so graphic. There are sound effects of the train on the tracks, pulling in and out of the station. It’s like listening to a horror movie, and it gets more and more harrowing every time I hear it.

  Then, in contrast, there’s ‘English Rose’. This is just Paul on an acoustic guitar instead of a caustic guitar. This is the most perfect love song that I could ever possibly imagine. It’s fragile and delicate and simple and complex all at the same time. This song actually sounds like a bruise. The first time I heard this track I could barely hold back the tears, not least because I couldn’t help wonder whether I’d ever feel like that about another human being. Paul wrote this whilst touring the States in the spring of 1978, locked away in hotel rooms because he was too young to go out and get trashed in the bars with the older guys who were part of the tour. They kept him supplied with beer while he stayed locked away, and from behind those anonymous hotel room doors came this sweet, soulful ballad.

  Weller never sang this song live whilst in The Jam. He even recorded it in an empty studio when he put down the vocal – I can understand that; baring your soul, especially when you’ve got such a hard and flinty image, must have been almost impossible for him. You can tell it’s written by a lonely soul, touring the world, marvelling at new sights which take your breath away and yet missing like mad the one you love and the place you come from. There’s a foghorn on there, which heralds the arrival of the writer back to where he lives, stepping off the boat and returning to the place he calls home. Lovely. I’d listen to it and lie back on my bed, close my eyes and imagine being back in Bridgford with the tree-lined boulevards and gentle, friendly faces instead of the cold, lonely lights of Leeds.

  I turned down the music and sneaked across the landing into my parents’ room. I could hear everyone downstairs and I made for the chest of drawers. I was looking for a new item of clothing to add to my new look, my Jam Outfit. Suddenly Mum’s voice came at me, out of the dark of the unlit landing. She was standing in the doorway with a Silk Cut on the go.

  ‘What are you doing rooting around in your father’s clothes for?’

  ‘I’m looking for a black tie.’

  Mum took a drag and asked, ‘Who died?’

  ‘Nobody’s died. It’s a fashion statement. Where does Dad keep his very narrow black ties?’

  ‘Are you playing at being James Bond again? Because if you are, your old water pistol’s somewhere under the sink …’

  I went in the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I absolutely hated my stupid hair. The side parting felt like it’d been branded into the side of my thin head and it really was time to go. To hell with the consequences – it was coming off. I knew that Dad’d make me change it back in an instant, just like the time when I wanted a change. ‘What are you – a girl?’ I opened the cabinet and took out his scissors. It all came very naturally to me, like I was on autopilot. It was clear that hairdressing was in the blood, and very soon I was making a highly professional job of delivering a mighty fine haircut indeed. I wanted a crew cut like the one Paul had, and by the time I was finished, mine would be identical.

  My hair covered the bathroom carpet and what was left on my head was about half an inch long. The back was a problem, basically because I couldn’t see what I was doing, so I took out the cut-throat razor and ran it under the hot tap.

  The razor had a yellowed bone handle and was as light as a feather in the palm of my hand. It slid effortlessly down my hair and great clumps fell to the floor. With just four or five strokes the back was done and even though I knew it’d be shorter round there than up on top, I was confident of a good result. I ran the sink full of warm water and dunked my head right the way in to rinse off the snippets. I dried my hair on the hand towel and it all stuck up on top like the loo brush. It wasn’t bad at all to say that I’d done it myself, and I wasn’t only pleased, I felt strangely empowered. I took the wooden hand mirror from the shelf and held it up to inspect my handiwork round the back of my head.

  These weren’t the results I was looking for. I looked like a trainee Cistercian monk. There was nothing there at all but smooth skin. The back of my head looked like a huge bollock. Or Darth Vader without his helmet on. This was not the ideal look with which to go downstairs and prove to my father that I was now old enough for him not to cut my hair any more. But I had to be a man about it and face the situation head on. There was no way I could hide what I had done and because my descent downstairs would be only marginally less painful than entering Hell, with uncontrollable howls of laughter from Chris and Phil, screams of horror from Mum and the terrible, eardrum-shattering silence from Dad, I put it off till morning and went straight to bed. I hid under the covers and listened to them enjoying something on the television, their peals of laughter snaking up the stairs and keeping me from sleep.

  Next day the true horror of the haircut revealed itself to the outside world. I came down for breakfast, sat at the table and poured Rice Krispies into a bowl. Chris and Phil were eating their cereal whilst Dad polished his shoes. Mum mashed tea in the pot and Chris asked, ‘Why are you wearing my balaclava?’

  Through a maw full of breakfast came my rehearsed reply. ‘I’m coming down with something. I think I’ve got a head cold.’

  Dad stopped his polishing and removed the balaclava. As he did so cornflakes came out of Chris’s nose and Phil sprayed orange juice everywhere. Phil pointed at me, giggling like a loon, and told me that I looked like Beaker, the scientist’s assistant in The Muppets. This hurt, as I didn’t want to look like Beaker – I wanted to look like Paul Weller from The Jam. Mum said, ‘You silly, silly boy.’ And I looked up at Dad who simply stared down at me, then shook his head, looked away, turned on his heel and walked out of the door. He didn’t say a word and he didn’t slam the door. The silence was enough, and it echoed through the house.

  When he went, Chris said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not such a bad hairstyle.’ Phil said, ‘You’re right, it’s not too bad.’ Chris said, ‘Actually, you know, it’s not brilliant,’ and Phil came back with, ‘Come to think of it, it is pretty dreadful.’ They were enjoying playing at being the two grumpy old Muppets up in the balcony and I left for school to the sound of them singing the theme tune.

  If it was going to be that bad at home, then turning up at Garforth Comprehensive was going to be a whole lot worse. My only option was the chemist’s shop at the end of Fairburn Drive where I bought a
roll of bandage with some of my dinner money.

  I nipped round the back of the shops and wrapped the bandage around my head, securing it in place with my Jam button badge. It was the only plausible way of avoiding having the living piss ripped out of me for looking so ridiculous. For the next six weeks I slipped into my disguise when I left the house and out of it as I walked up the drive at the end of the day. Whenever anyone asked what I’d done, I just said that I’d fallen off my bike.

  As my hair grew back, Dad began talking to me again. The more it grew, the more he spoke to me. I used to have imaginary conversations with Paul where he’d sit on the end of my bed and we’d chat about all sorts of stupid things, like what kind of shampoo he used and where he bought his shoes from and nonsense like that. I liked these chats in my head and they kept me sane when Dad wasn’t talking to me and I was feeling lonely and left out at school.

  Before Leeds I really liked school life. I was pretty popular, got good grades and was finding myself. Once we’d moved, however, I went inside myself, retreated, I suppose. I knew that I had to try and make some proper friends, not just pupils to chat to, or I’d go mad. I always ended up making a pig’s ear of it, though. Walking home after school down the disused railway track seemed like a good place to start. I decided to make conversation with someone, anyone, as a test for myself to prove I could do it. The problem was, that the one time I’d promised myself I’d make an effort, I suddenly developed hay fever.

  It was mid-May 1979, everything out in bud and the tree and grass pollen made my eyes itch to the point where I wanted to tear them out of their bright red, sore sockets and fling them into the white flowers of the hawthorn bushes that made them swell up and sting so. The more I scratched my eyes, the worse they became. When I got home, Mum almost fainted when she saw me. ‘Oh, my poor boy! Come here at once!’ She put her arms around me and started to sob; when she pulled away from my face she examined me closely. ‘Who did this to you? You tell me right now which big oaf did this to you and believe you me, his sorry little life won’t be worth living. Now, how did you get in such a fight? You were sticking up for yourself, weren’t you?’ Mum could barely hold back the tears as she stared at my puffy, purple, swollen face.

  ‘It’s the grass, Mum, the grass did it to me.’

  She suddenly looked disappointed. ‘Oh. I thought you might have been in a fight or something …’ I felt that if I’d been in a fight, at least she’d be happy that I’d been mixing with other kids. She went to the fridge, opened the door, took out a cucumber and cut me two slices. ‘Here, put these on your eyes. And you can stick the rest in a cheese sarnie if you like …’ What a wasted trip down the railway track that was; it’s a good job I didn’t meet anyone looking like that.

  At school the next day, it was double woodwork first thing. My eyes looked like two black balloons. I was trying to make a toast rack. It wasn’t easy when I could hardly see. I’d been trying to make this toast rack for what seemed like ages and it looked nothing like a toast rack, or it wouldn’t if I could actually see it. What it looked like was two pieces of plywood glued together with a length of dowelling stuck between them at the base.

  Mr Armitage, the woodwork teacher, stood next to me and cast a professional eye over my clearly unprofessional job. As it stood, one piece of lightly done Sunblest would bring the thing crashing to its knees. He didn’t look impressed.

  ‘Remind me never to have breakfast at your house, Lines.’

  I was astonished that he even knew my name.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘Been busy scrapping, have we? A right couple of shiners you’ve got there. You need to learn to keep your guard up.’

  I could have told him that flowers and not fists were responsible, but instead I just agreed with him and got back to making a dog’s dinner of the rack. It was so much easier to appear a puncher than a pansy.

  After break, it was double music. We were learning to play the recorder. Mr Hinkley, Head of Music, was in charge of the class. He wore rose-tinted spectacles and tight, bum-hugging Farah slacks. I needed to get my hair right before class, so went to the loo at the last minute to wet it and spike it up at the back, just like Paul’s. The procedure was a private one, and required the solitude afforded by an empty boys’ bog, free from the ridicule of spectators and piss-takers. I took the opportunity to shine the heels of my burgundy loafers and readjust my white socks nice and straight. My tie was reversed, the thick bit at the back and stuffed inside my (buttoned-down) white shirt, the thin, narrow end left out on display. I looked good, but was almost ten minutes late for the start of the lesson.

  When I finally got to room thirty-seven, D-block, I opened the music-room door and there, sitting right on the front row, were Adam Ant, Sting and Gary Numan – all busy learning to play a plastic recorder. I took a moment to take the picture in; it was an eclectic ensemble, after all. I made my apologies and took a seat. Gary Numan wasn’t actually Gary Numan, he was, in fact, Gary Newman – and his dad delivered our milk at home. Sting’s real name was Stuart Gowlet whose mum was away at a special hospital somewhere ever since his dad went to prison for doing something unspeakable but nobody knew exactly what. And Adam Ant? Adam Ant was really Julie Westerman.

  So many people all wanting to be someone else. Ridiculous. What on earth’s wrong with them? Had they no personality? I took a double take at Julie Westerman. She might have had the hair, she might have had the same sort of androgynous features as Adam Ant, but today something was off. Thinking back on it now, I realise that Julie had taken Adam Ant’s look to its logical conclusion and had predicted his future image – the Dandy Highwayman one – but at the time, she just looked like a pretty, punkish Dick Turpin. She sat there with two red stripes across each cheek, loads of little coloured braids in her hair and her cloak draped over the chair beside her. She playfully twiddled the highwayman mask around her little finger and her clarinet box lay closed, on the floor next to her pixie-booted feet. I paused before sitting down to wonder if it may well not contain her clarinet, but a pair of early nineteenth-century flintlocks.

  I sat down. ‘Hi, Jules.’

  ‘Alright, Linesy.’

  Linesy? That wasn’t bad – my black eye was beginning to open some doors for me.

  ‘And where’s Black Bess this morning, then?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘No, seriously, I was just wondering, because if you’ve tied her up round the back of the bike shed, she’ll probably be needing some fresh water by now. It’s a real sun trap in there at this time of day.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  I turned my attention to Gary Numan who was busy staring at his recorder as if trying to communicate with the thing through the power of thought alone. He once told me that he truly believed himself to be not entirely one hundred per cent human. Watching him then, I could believe it.

  Mr Hinkley passed a white plastic cup around the class. It was full of pink liquid which smelled of bleach and we all dunked the mouthpieces of our recorders in, then wiped them on a tissue. When we’d all finished, he addressed us from behind his rosy red glasses. He was leaning against a baby grand piano, one hand resting on the top of it holding the plastic cup, the other on his hip, which stuck out at quite an angle. His grey Farah slacks seemed particularly tight that day and he’d teamed them up with a light, pink shirt and a cream silk scarf tied around his long, thin neck. He said, ‘Right, boys and girls – today, I want us to concentrate on our fingering techniques.’

  After music was lunch, and I took my hot dog, chips, milkshake and vanilla ice cream and got a seat at a table which posed no threat. That is, I didn’t know anyone else at it. I sat down and took a bite out of my cold, rubbery sausage wrapped in its claggy, wet bread roll and looked up to meet the faces of two greasy, fat biker types. They did not look happy. In fact, they looked about as happy with me as I was with my lunch. I looked away and took another bite, squirting ketchup on my chips just for something to do. There
were other tables, so why did I go and pick this one? I chewed on the chips, made the mistake of looking up and came face to face with the heaviest of the heavies. He had a chip stuffed up each nostril, and they hung down over each side of his mouth and he was pulling some sort of daft Dracula face at me. He held my gaze and opened his wet mouth. The words dripped out like pus from one of his many pores. ‘You’re a poncey mod.’ I certainly was – and that meant looking sharp at all times and not taking any shit from anyone. Especially this tramp.

  ‘Yep. And you’re a scruffy, fat greaser … and to make things worse, you have food hanging out of your nose. You really should deal with it – that’s not a cool look, even for someone like you. Actually, I’m glad we’re here together, because I want to ask you a question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of shampoo?’ The ape looked at his mate and then back at me, blinking slowly. His slack jaw, the wet goo dribbling out of the corner of his acned mouth, the filthy denim jacket with ‘Blackmore Is God’ embroidered on the back, the lank, unbrushed hair, the sickly stench of patchouli – he just looked like everything I’d rather die than be. There was a moment, and it hung in the fug of the busy dining hall like a finger on a trigger. Finally, he grunted again, ‘What?’

  ‘Shampoo. You put it on your head and you wash your hair with it. Try it – you never know, it might even make you look like a human being.’

  He stared at his mate and then back at me and I stood up before he did, turned on my heel and walked slowly away. It was a cool move, and was made even more so because hanging around any longer would almost certainly have resulted in me being stretchered out of there and taken by air ambulance to Seacroft District Hospital.

  Maybe it was the gall, maybe it was the idiocy of mouthing off in front of them, maybe it was me growing into my role as a mod, I don’t know – what I do remember is that at some point around this time I regained my confidence. I wore my Jam button badges like an old soldier would wear the George Cross – with pride and with style – and my loafers seemed to carry me so much taller from that day on. There were a lot of rude boys at Garforth Comp, a lot of punks and some serious skins, as well as a lot in fifth and sixth forms who were still big into prog rock. Rockabillie was around as well, with Matchbox trying to get a fifties revival going, probably off the back of Grease. I’m not even sure that those of us who were mods even knew the real, subtle differences right at the start. It was, and still is, a secret little code. If you got it wrong, there’d always be the chance for embarrassment. But when you got it right, it just felt so good inside, so … natural.