The Modfather: My Life with Paul Weller

by David Lines

  But I know you’ll lead us to the slaughter,

  So I really think I ought’a

  Point out you’re in really deep water.

  You may well live in Number Ten,

  With your gin-guzzling husband, Den,

  But believe me one day we’ll get you out,

  And you may well scream and kick and shout,

  But don’t be left without a doubt,

  You’re just a big-haired stupid Tory trout.

  Paul would be so impressed. I ran down the road and stuck it in the postbox. With a bit of luck, he’d get it in the morning …

  The week before ‘Going Underground’ was released, there was an incident. I can remember it like it was only this morning. It was Friday night at Youthy, and there was a buzz in the air. Somehow Nick Wright had got hold of an advance copy of the single. He knew someone who worked for HMV in the centre of Leeds and they got their stocks delivered that morning.

  I’d never spoken to Nick, but he was probably the most famous mod face in Garforth. He left school the previous summer to work as a window dresser and that night he was there, wearing a dark blue Crombie overcoat with a red silk hanky in the breast pocket. Nick Wright oozed style and I wanted to go and say hello and ask him what the new single sounded like but the word floating around Youthy was that Nick was going to play it at nine o’clock, so I decided to wait to hear it until then. It was twenty to eight.

  Rik and I had arranged to meet next to the pool table at quarter to. I bought a can of Coke and by the time I got back to the meeting point, Rik was already there. He was wearing his black and yellow Fred Perry shirt and had obviously just blow-dried his hair, because it was extra fluffy. There was also something vaguely different about him, but at the time I just could not quite put my finger on it. ‘Rik, man. You’ll never guess what’s happening here tonight.’

  ‘Stands back in amazement. Go on, surprise me.’ He took the can from my hand and had a big gulp of my Coke.

  ‘Nick Wright’s only somehow gone and got hold of an advance copy of “Going Underground” and he’s playing it – right here – in just over one hour’s time.’

  Rik, mid-gulp, spun around and did a pretty dramatic, 360 degree comedy spray of the contents of his mouth, except that this was not a comedy moment, it was a Very Big Moment Indeed. Or rather, it would be in a little over an hour’s time.

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘No. Not when it comes to The Jam.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you were. What does it look like? Have you managed to get a look at it yet?’

  ‘No, man. It’s been off limits. I haven’t seen the sleeve. I don’t think I can wait till nine, you know.’

  ‘Me neither. Let’s play ping-pong. You never know, it might just distract us …’

  Ping-pong didn’t distract us, not even when we decided to elevate it from ping-pong to table tennis. I’d drunk so much Coke in the last sixty minutes that each one of my teeth felt as if it was wearing its very own pair of hand-knitted, woolly winter socks. Suddenly, the lights went out and we were plunged into almost complete darkness. I could just about make out a shape on its way up to the booth. ‘Look – I think Nick’s going to play “Underground” …’

  Anyone could DJ at Youthy. All you had to do was put your name down on the waiting list. It normally didn’t take too long for your turn to come around because you couldn’t DJ for the whole night, you had to share the record booth with two others and so this meant that each of you got about three-quarters of an hour each.

  Nick weaved his way through the dance floor, stepped up into the booth and closed the door behind him. Dust and a plume of blue smoke caught in the light from the single, small spotlight on the ceiling which lit up the turntable, like a lighthouse beam going round and round.

  The needle dropped down onto the seven black inches of glistening vinyl, the amp picked up the short, sharp crackle and everything was in slow motion and next came a great, thumpy cluster of bars of bass from Bruce to start with and then, seconds later, Paul’s Rickenbacker came crashing in from nowhere and then here came the vocal. I’d heard only ten seconds of this song and already, deep down inside me, I knew that my life had undergone some sort of transformation. The song felt like an anthem. This was the most perfect sound I’d ever heard in my life. It was urgent and jumpy and when Paul’s lyrics came, they almost spat out of the speakers and whilst everyone else was dancing I was just left standing there in the middle of the dance floor.

  I thought that I knew enough about Paul to know that there had to be some hidden meaning in there, but for the moment all I cared about was how it made me feel. It made me feel like I was on fire inside. As soon as it started it was over, as quick as a flash, just like that. There was some heavy reverb at the end and then, nothing, just static as the needle rode the play-out groove.

  I turned and looked at Rik, who’d been leaping around throughout, playing air guitar. He nodded at me, ‘Not bad, Dave. Not half bad at all, mate.’ Dear Richard, the master of all that is understated. I wanted to tell him what I’d just felt, what it was that I was feeling, about how I’d been touched by this beautiful, powerful song that Paul had so lovingly crafted, about how, somehow, everything was different for me then and always would be. I wanted to tell him that for me, things had changed. I could not. Instead, I settled for, ‘Yep. I quite liked it.’ It was then that I realised what was odd about Rik. His top lip – there were the beginnings of a moustache on it. How could I have missed it?

  ‘What are you staring at, Dave?’

  ‘Nothing …’

  I could see Nick Wright over in the corner, his back against the wall. He was snogging some girl who looked like one of Legs & Co. Then some greasy biker type shuffled into the booth with an armful of battered LPs under his arm and selected a track: Rainbow’s ‘Since You’ve Been Gone’ – one of my all time most hated songs. Bloody Rainbow – they looked like a bunch of clowns living rough.

  I watched him take Nick’s single off the turntable, slip it back inside its sleeve and put it on the side of the mixing desk, propped up against the window of the booth next to the door. I looked back at Nick who was still snogging the girl. Both of his eyes were closed and one of his hands was on her bottom. Did some lucky guy have his hand on Fiona’s bottom right then? I was still smarting from how stupid I’d been with Fi a week ago. The biker creature rummaged around inside the pockets of his sleeveless denim jacket which he was wearing over his disgusting old leathers, patting them till he finally found his fags. He took out a packet of Marlboro, lit one and walked over to the double doors, opened them and stood in the doorway blowing his smoke out into the night air, gently headbanging along to his bloody Rainbow. And then it hit me, my song was right there, just waiting for me. If only I could find the balls …

  I was one hundred per cent certain that if I did this and got caught, then my life would not be worth living. But I simply could not help myself. The urge had swollen up inside me and I could feel it squirming around my stomach, gnawing away at my insides telling me not to wait, that I could not wait, that waiting was absolutely the wrong thing to do. I fully appreciated the risk if I was caught, and the inevitable kicking of a lifetime if I was discovered, but I was The Only Jam Fan Worthy Of This – it would be mine. Oh yes, it would be mine …

  I was aware of Rik watching me from the other side of the room, and I had one eye on the heavy and one eye on Nick. I sauntered up to the booth, reached out my hand and then, in an instant, his copy of ‘Going Underground’ was inside my blazer and tucked away under my arm. It was a dream, I told myself that I wasn’t really doing it and before I knew it I was out through the doors, past the foul biker and was almost halfway home before I finally stopped running.

  Up in my room I sat on the end of my bed staring at the picture of The Jam on the front of the record sleeve. They were on a television screen staring back at me. Paul was wearing a black and white polka dot cravat, tied loosely like a scar
f over a smart black jacket. Had he read my poem yet? I hadn’t told Rik that I’d written to Paul, he’d probably extract the piss so much it just wasn’t worth telling him. Anyway, I liked the thought of Paul and I sharing our own little special secret. Rick wore a blazer far too stripy to save him from looking like he should be selling ice cream instead of drumming in The Jam – he’d got his arms folded and looked cross. I didn’t blame him, I’d be furious if I was wearing that thing. Bruce was wearing a jumper – but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked like he’d just come in from doing something in the garden, maybe creosoting his fence.

  I played the record, transfixed by its brilliance. I took it off the turntable, turned it over and played the other side, ‘The Dreams Of Children’. Another special song, with some backwards guitar at the start which I instantly recognised as something off Setting Sons but couldn’t pin down as I was so wired from committing the crime of stealing Nick Wright’s record. These were two more perfect Jam songs. Two double A-sides. How did Paul know so much about me that he wrote songs so special to me? Did he sneak into my room late at night whilst I was asleep and peep inside my head? He must do.

  I carefully placed the single back in its sleeve and then hid it under my pants inside my chest of drawers. I got undressed, put on my pyjamas, washed my face and cleaned my teeth. I felt so guilty I could barely look at myself in the bathroom mirror. What a prat, stealing another Jam fan’s record. How would I feel if some idiot did that to me?

  I went downstairs to make myself a cup of tea. The horror of what would happen to me if Nick Wright found out who stole his record was driving me mad. My hand trembled as I squeezed the back of the bag on the inside of the cup and the spoon rattled against the china. The phone in the hall rang. ‘I’ll get it.’ I picked up the receiver on the Trimphone.

  ‘Hello?’ Jesus Christ. It was Rik – I must have been rumbled! He was calling to tell me that Nick now knew that it was me who stole it, and that he was on his way round now to kick my stupid, stupid head inside out. Oh, help. Oh, someone please help me. Jesus, please help me, Paul! Don’t be stupid, David, I told myself. There’s no way he could know it was me. My imagination was running away with itself. Get a grip, man.

  ‘Hello? Dave?’ Not good. He sounds worried. This was bad.

  ‘Yeah, what’s up?’

  ‘Just wondering where you sloped off to?’

  See, it’s nothing – stop panicking, Linesy. ‘Sorry, Rik. Just remembered I’d got some English homework to finish off. I tried to find you to say cheerio, but you weren’t anywhere around, man.’

  ‘Oh, right. It’s just that I thought I’d best give you a quick ring.’

  ‘Why? Are you still at Youthy?’

  ‘Yeah, but Nick Wright’s not. In fact, he’s on his scooter right this very minute and he’s on his way round to your house. I reckon he’ll be there in less than ten minutes …’

  It was official. My life as I knew it was now over. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true – and he’s so pissed off you wouldn’t believe it.’ I could hear the music in the background at Youthy, those clowns The Village People. Maybe I could run away to the Navy.

  ‘How does he know where I live?’

  ‘He flushed my head down the loo to get your address out of me.’

  ‘Jesus. He flushed your head down the loo?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t actually flush my head down the loo, but he said he would if I didn’t tell him.’

  ‘Cheers, Rik – you’re a real mate.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Rik, I’m scared.’

  ‘And so you should be, he’s bringing a pool cue. Looked like a Knight of the Round fucking Table as he set off on his Lambretta with that thing under his arm.’

  I was dead. I might as well be dead right then. My life, from that point on, was going to be one great, big, living nightmare. Oh, no – I heard an engine outside the house. I could hardly hear Rik down the phone, banging on about could he have my record collection if I died, but I could make out every other word because of all the blood that was churning away inside my head. I felt like I might be about to wet myself. ‘Hello? Dave? Hello? Are you still there?’

  Outside, I heard the kickstand of Nick’s scooter going down. Then the engine stopped. I thought that my heart might stop, too.

  ‘Yeah, I’m still here. Just. Look, I’m going to have to go now. I really need the loo.’

  ‘Don’t go. You’ll be fine, I promise you.’

  ‘Man alive, how am I gonna be fine? I’m about to get the whotsits battered out of me by the hardest, biggest, angriest mod in Garforth and you know what? I don’t fucking blame him. Not one bit do I blame him.’

  There were footsteps on the drive and somebody at the front door. Oh. My. God. The knocker took an urgent hammering and I could see his shape through the smoked glass panel. He moved around, hopping from foot to foot. This man was literally hopping mad. I silently slipped the brass safety chain across the door. Maybe I could get Chris or Phil to answer it and just tell him that I’m out? Or maybe I could get Mum or Dad to tell him that I’ve gone to bed early? No, none of these things were going to work – I had to take this like a man. Now, think David. What would Paul do? WHAT WOULD PAUL DO? Paul wouldn’t need to do anything to get out of this mess because he wouldn’t have been such an idiot in the first place, you idiot.

  The knocker went again and this time it sounded like gunfire going off in the porch. I thought he must have been using the pool cue to try and batter down the door. I didn’t think I could hold this piss inside me for much longer. ‘Not my face,’ I said out loud to myself, ‘anything, just please don’t hit me in my face.’ Slowly, very slowly, I lifted the latch and eased the door open just an inch. The security chain would let it open twice as far, but that was enough for the moment. Maybe I could run upstairs and get the record, and if I just handed it to him, slipped it through the gap and said sorry, then that whole terrible, terrifying business would go away. Don’t be ridiculous, David – Nick Wright wasn’t just there for his record, he wanted his pound of flesh to go with it. I could hear Rik down the phone screaming, ‘Dave, Dave, what’s that noise? Are you OK?’

  I removed the security chain and took a deep, deep breath. My lungs hurt when I breathed in. My head hurt and I was about to be left standing in a puddle of my own pee. I didn’t put the phone back on its cradle because it was the only available weapon which I’d got to hand. I raised it above my head ready to bring down on the bridge of Nick’s nose. The element of surprise might just work in my favour – the last thing he’d be expecting was a turquoise Trimphone coming at him.

  I took a step back, opened the front door and found myself face to face with Mr Jones, the pools collector. ‘Now then, son. It’s two weeks’ money tonight because me and the wife are off to her sister’s in Filey. Have you got your dad’s coupons ready?’ All I could do was look at him. I couldn’t even speak. Rik had obviously heard the whole thing. I could hear him laughing hysterically down the phone. He sounded like he was wetting himself. I lifted the receiver to my ear. He was trying to splutter something out but was laughing too hard to be intelligible. I said nothing. I just put the phone down and walked slowly upstairs to the bathroom. The relief poured out of me, straight into the loo. Mr Jones nearly got more pools than he was looking for that night. Rik’s unwitting accomplice had made his wind-up complete.

  One week later The Jam were at number one with ‘Going Underground’ and ‘The Dreams Of Children’ as a double A-side. They were the first band for seven years to go straight to the top of the charts. The last group to do this was Slade, back in 1973. I was watching them perform it on Top Of The Pops – just for me. Paul wore an apron especially for the occasion. He’d turned it the other way around so he couldn’t be accused of advertising Heinz tomato soup and I thought he was wearing it because he wanted us all to know that even though he was at number one, nothing would change him and he was still a normal person who love
d everyday things and wouldn’t change because of success. That’s how I saw it, anyway.

  I could barely bring myself to watch because I’d been sucker-punched in the face by the fact that I was a thief. I really shouldn’t have been allowed to watch this, because I stole another man’s copy of ‘Going Underground’. I wouldn’t be responsible for their success unless I went out and bought a copy. I made a promise to Paul that the next day I’d go out and buy two copies, to try and make amends.

  Rik’s mum and dad had bought a brand new video recorder and Rik’d even got his own video cassette. We’d decided to make our very own Jam tape that’d be our private copy full of stuff that they do on the telly, and that TOTP performance would be our first clip. What a one to start with! I called Rik up to see if he’d finished his tea (they ate late, the Bowermans) so I could go round there to watch it again. ‘It’s me. Did you see them?’

  ‘No. We were eating, so I set the tape. We can watch it together in a bit if you want. Was it skill?’

  ‘Yeah, it was skill. Paul wore an apron.’

  ‘He wore an apron? What for?’

  ‘I reckon it was because he wanted to say to everyone that success hasn’t changed him and he still does the dishes despite being at number one.’

  ‘Oh. I’m stacking everything into the dishwasher right now.’ The Bowermans had a phone, in their kitchen, on the wall, like the one in Diff’rent Strokes with a really long, massive flex that stretched to wherever you were in the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah, it was a bright red apron with “Heinz Tomato Soup” on it, but he’d turned it round so you couldn’t see it. Probably something to do with the BBC and advertising or something like that.’

  Rik sounded excited. ‘A Heinz tomato soup apron? Paul was wearing one of those on Top Of The Pops?’

  ‘That’s right. And he made it look kind of cool.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘You’d better believe it.’

  ‘No, I believe it, Dave, it’s just that my mum’s got one of those somewhere. I’ll try and hunt it out – I can wear it at Youthy next week. See you in half an hour …’