The Modfather: My Life with Paul Weller

by David Lines

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Absolutely. Of course not. Silly of me to ask.’

  ‘Yes. Bye, David. Enjoy the party.’

  ‘Thanks. You too … look, no hard feelings?’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  I knew that I’d go and bollocks it all up somewhere down the line.

  9

  Just Who Is The 5 O’Clock Hero?

  I FIRST HEARD ‘Just Who Is The 5 O’Clock Hero?’ on The Gift, as an album track, but it was released as an import on 11 June, 1982 and sold like a fire gone wild. If this record was a house, its occupants would be throwing children out of first-floor windows onto next door’s mattresses. It went to number eight in the charts, the biggest selling import ever at that time. Again, I was more than happy to help put it there.

  ‘Just Who Is The 5 O’Clock Hero?’ is a prime example of The Jam’s new-found direction. It’s soulful and heartfelt. In later years I learned that Paul wanted it recorded much slower than this, but I don’t care – I love it. The core message was aimed at Paul’s support for the ‘JOBS not YOPS’ campaign. YOPS was an initiative to develop schemes for unemployed school leavers but there were no jobs for them to go to, nothing concrete. It was just a way to dress up figures for the government’s own benefit. It was a completely detested scheme, not least by me. I had no plans to stay at school. As someone who wanted to put pen to paper for a living, I was stuffed. School wasn’t giving me the experiences I needed to become a writer and I knew I’d never learn my trade in the system. Problem was, where would I learn it? No matter, right then – hair was a much more important item on my agenda.

  Maybe it was the barber’s shop back in Bridgford that was in my blood, maybe it was loving the way that Paul dressed and the way he wore his hair, maybe it was the attention to detail, the sharp suits which Dad had made for him, maybe it was the make-up from being in the musical, I don’t know. What I do know, is that looking good for me – my clothes, my shoes, my hair – had become as much a priority for me as my music.

  Mum told me that Paul’s hair at that time was massive in 1967, the year I was born, so I went up to the attic to root amongst old suitcases, Christmas decorations and my old Meccano set. There, I found Dad’s collection of Hairdresser Monthly magazines, which dated back to the late 1950s. Grampa Lines started saving them and passed them to Dad when he came out of the army and joined Grampa in the shop.

  Some of the photos in them are just hilarious, with the models staring off at something fascinating in the middle distance. There was a man on page fifty-one of September 1966 with a huge beehive on his head and a droopy handlebar moustache. I didn’t think that look would suit me.

  It wasn’t until February 1968 that I found what I was looking for. Danny Butto wrote about how some salons would actually iron your own hair for you. According to the magazine, this was the very best way to achieve super silky, poker-straight hair. The mods who were modelling this style had hair just like Paul’s (although not as cool) and it seemed that if I followed the instructions, I may well finally get perfect Weller hair. So, where to start? What I needed to do was get hold of some greaseproof paper. This was very important, as it was to act as a barrier and protect my hair from the intense heat of the iron. It obviously did the trick, because the results shown in those pictures were the business. But ironing your own hair didn’t seem like a particularly easy operation, I needed someone to help me. Somehow Dad wasn’t my first choice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Mrs Bowerman. It’s David here. Is Rik there?’

  I waited about two minutes before he managed to get from one end of the house to the other to reach the phone. I was surprised there wasn’t one in each room. Someone should have invented a portable phone just for them.

  ‘All right, Dave.’

  ‘Skill, man. What are you doing after tea tonight?’

  ‘Not much. Dinner’s nearly ready, actually. Might have a couple of frames … fancy a game?’

  ‘No, thanks. But I will come round. I want you to help me with something …’

  Two hours later I was round at Rik’s. ‘What did you have for your tea?’

  ‘We had coq au vin and chips for dinner. You?’

  ‘Fish Finger sarnie, choc-ice then a Marlboro on the way over.’

  ‘Nice. There’s some freshly brewed coffee on. Want one?’

  ‘Um, yeah … go on, then.’

  ‘OK. Coming up. Anyway, what’s this thing you want me to help you with?’

  ‘I’ve made an important discovery. It’s a hair thing.’

  ‘A hair thing?’

  ‘That’s right, Rik. It’ll give me the ultimate Weller look. Want to help me?’

  ‘Sure, what do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to help me iron my own hair …’

  We did the deed in Rik’s mum’s utility room. We had a utility room at home, but we called it a kitchen. I set the ironing board up and Rik got the Morphy Richards out. It looked like something from Star Wars, with flashing lights, different dials and settings and a filter that did something to the water before it trickled inside. Ours had a hole in the top where we filled it from the tap. But the Bowermans’ iron was something else, it might even have been self-cleaning, like their oven. In our house our oven was cleaned by Mum.

  ‘Right, plug it in and switch the bugger on.’

  ‘Have you ever done any ironing before, Rik?’

  ‘No. We have someone who comes in and does that sort of thing for us. You?’

  ‘Yeah. My mum.’

  ‘There’s all sorts of settings on this contraption. If we’re not careful it might transport us back in time, Dave.’

  ‘In that case, set the controls for 1967.’

  ‘We’ve got silk, wool, synthetics and cotton. Which one do you think?’

  ‘God, I’m not sure. Let’s try cotton – after all, we don’t want the thing too hot.’

  ‘Good point. Steam?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t find any greaseproof, Dave, but I have got a roll of cling-film.’

  Even I knew that this was a stupid idea, trying to iron my hair through cling-film would make it melt and stick to me like glue and we’d be in a right, royal mess. Well, I would.

  ‘Forget the plastic food wrap – it’s a fucking disaster waiting to happen. This is my hair we’re talking about and I’m not prepared to start cutting corners. Tear us a page out of the NME.’

  ‘OK. Here we go. Now, bend down nice and slowly and put your head on the ironing board …’

  The staff nurses in the casualty department at St James’s were incredibly helpful. They were overwhelmingly sympathetic and they’d all got incredible legs. According to the consultant it would take the best part of six weeks for the burns on the side of my scalp to heal and only then if I avoided washing my hair for the next twenty-one days. I had to apply cream every morning and then again before bed, plus, I had to avoid all contact with direct sunlight. The surgical gauze needed regular changing, there was a risk of infection and when I did eventually come to wash my poor hair I’d have to condition it with Lenor.

  When Rik’s mum dropped me off from hospital, my father was far from pleased. They had to chop out the damaged hair so they could treat the wound, but you couldn’t see it because of all the bandages. Dad couldn’t bear the sight of me and turned away. Mum followed him into the kitchen and I sat on the sofa whilst Chris and Phil almost pissed themselves laughing. Chris was purple in the face and Phil had to leave the room on all fours. There was some whispering from the kitchen and Dad reappeared.

  ‘You’ll need that hair seeing to. I can fix it for you. Oh, lad, you used to have such lovely hair. Wavy Davey, that’s what we used to call you and Christ, just look at it now. You’re an embarrassment, son. I suppose we’ll just have to concentrate on your brothers and give you up as a bad job. Let’s hope they don’t get any stupid ideas like you – singing and dancing and writing poetry and ironing your hair. Do
you want me to make you something like presentable again?’ If he wanted to, I reckon Dad could have given me a short back and sides with his tongue.

  It had been a month since The Boy Friend finished. I was on Main Street on a Saturday afternoon. The sun was out, the street deserted and I kept checking over my shoulder for that paper bag which was following Fiona and me on our way to the cricket pitch all that time ago. I was on my way to Lizzie’s house to work on writing sketches for the end of year revue. There was a bag, but I was unsure if it was the same one. I decided not to confront it, just keep an eye on its movements.

  I stopped outside Wide-a-Wake Records. A toddler in his pushchair sucked on a Milk Maid ice lolly. His huge mop of blond curls was so enormous it looked like he was wearing a comedy wig and his romper suit had a button badge pinned to it. My heart skipped a beat – it was exactly the same one that Paul wore, the Dennis the Menace one. The desire to own this badge was instantly intoxicating and there wasn’t a soul around to stop me taking it from him. He wouldn’t miss it – he probably didn’t even know that he was wearing it. I looked up the street, and then I looked down. Nobody was watching – not even the paper bag which was being battered by the wind against the window of Jack Fulton’s.

  ‘Hello, little soldier.’

  He opened his wide mouth, smiled, and a trickle of icy milk snaked down his chin. He giggled and kicked his feet and I ruffled his hair.

  ‘That’s a nice badge.’

  It was a very nice badge and I wanted it for myself. I’d hunted high and low for one of those for months and there it was, mine for the taking. Like taking badges from a baby. Still nobody to be seen and I reached in and unclipped it. The child looked up at me and his bottom lip started to tremble. Suddenly, I was awash with guilt. As I tried to pin it back on the baby, the mother appeared from inside the shop. I dropped the badge on the pavement and scrambled to pick it up. ‘I think he lost this,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks. Don’t I know you?’ she said.

  I vaguely recognised her as the older sister of someone in my science group.

  ‘You’re him, from the play. You were brilliant – can I have your autograph, please?’

  My guilt was drowning me. It was all that I could do to breathe. ‘No, it’s someone else. You must be mistaken.’

  I handed her back the badge, pricking my thumb with the pin, before walking quickly down the road towards Lizzie’s house.

  10

  The Bitterest Pill (I Ever Had To Swallow)

  PAUL WROTE ‘THE BITTEREST PILL’ whilst on holiday in Italy in the early summer of 1982. When he came back from his break, he’d made some serious decisions, one of which was to record this and put it out as a single. It was a departure from the typical Jam sound and was battered black and blue by the critics. Hardly any guys liked it, in fact it was almost a girly Jam song, but I liked it because, once again, Paul was pushing himself, the band and me in new and exciting directions. Sure, there’s a classic Jam sound but there’s also the freshness of a new day when a fan comes across something challenging and bold – and this was it. Despite this thunderous U-turn in style, ‘Bitterest Pill’ went to number two in the charts, although this was probably due to the mighty Jam army keeping their collections up to date. I bought it because I really liked it. In fact, I’ll stick my neck out and say it’s in my top twenty Jam songs. There, I’ve said it.

  The two tracks on the B-side of ‘Bitterest Pill’ weren’t half bad, either. These were recorded, as was the A-side, in August 1982 at the Maison Rouge Studios in Fulham. My favourite out of ‘Pity Poor Alfie’ and the cover of Peggy Lee’s ‘Fever’, was ‘Alfie’. The horn section was supposedly nicked from the theme tune to The Sweeney, but I’m not sure about that myself. It certainly wasn’t sampled although it may well have been an influence. Whatever; what I do know is that ‘Bitterest Pill’ reminds me of the trip which me and Rik took. Like Paul, we needed a holiday.

  Studying for our O levels had been, for me at least, horrible. The only results I could be sure of were English and drama; assessed coursework to date meant that I couldn’t fail. The other subjects – geography, maths, history, physics (actually, I could have been in with a chance on that one; I got ninety-nine per cent for a piece I copied out of a book on astronomy) and RE – were anyone’s guess. These subjects bored me to distraction; maybe that was the problem, I was too easily distracted. Not by the goings-on in class, but by a distant crow flapping effortlessly past the window – where was it going? Where’d it been? Clouds on the horizon took up my thoughts and clouded my brain, the sound of someone’s chair scraping across the floor sounded like a sound effect off Sound Affects. Honestly, a pin dropping whisked me off to another world, my world, and there was nothing to convince me that it wasn’t a better place than the school I was in. My heart wasn’t in my exams. Looking back, my head was in the clouds – and I liked it up there. I thought I was above everything …

  I only got two O levels: drama and English. The rest were all crappy CSEs. I did the best that I could, that much I do know. Mum and Dad were hugely supportive and all it meant was that I’d go into the sixth form and spend an extra year doing resits. In contrast, academia came easily to my brother Chris. His hand, his brain, he could turn them to anything and without effort. That Rubik’s cube that he still carried everywhere with him, personified his brain – always turning, always analysing, always, always seeking out new angles. In a sense, I was exploring other avenues too – but for me it was a spiritual thing, a way of developing feelings. For Chris, it was about getting what he could out of the school system.

  Chris was into music now, finding his own pop path. Not that I approved. It was the New Romantics he followed first. A natural artist and gifted cartoonist, Chris sailed through art and technical drawing. He didn’t care for The Jam and I didn’t care for his art school crap. We used to compete, across the upstairs landing. Chris with his floppy haircut and his drivel on his portable birthday tape deck, me with the mighty Jam on my bedroom stereo. There was always going to be one winner.

  It was a given that Rik would gain top marks in everything. He sailed through his exams and got As and Bs in equal number. (Maybe I should backtrack and call this chapter ‘David Watts’?) The song ‘David Watts’ was originally by The Kinks and The Jam covered it and then released it as a single back in 1978. It’s about a school golden boy who excels at everything. I can remember sitting in my last exam, daydreaming, looking at Rik scribbling away whilst the lyrics to the song flowed through my mind.

  That summer, a little way in through my studies for the retakes, we decided upon a cycling holiday, culminating in going to see The Jam, live in concert, at the Bridlington Spa Pavilion. A lot of my time had been spent plotting the trip, poring over maps and making mix-tapes for the journey instead of revising. I’d saved up pocket money for the holiday and Mum and Dad gave me some money as a present for agreeing to have another crack at my exams. I couldn’t wait.

  It was the first day of the journey and already the morning was wasted. Five minutes to eleven and I was ready to punch Rik’s lights out. He was nearly two hours late for the arranged set-off time for our trip. Bastard. And, when he did eventually show, he was sporting his Secret Jam Shoes. Double bastard. Essentially they were a customised mod version of your basic cycling shoe, but he’d painted the black leather centre panel white, so it looked like a bowling shoe. It was unorthodox, but effective. This compounded my frustration at losing two hours’ travelling time. Rik could both infuriate me and at the same time make me boil with jealousy.

  We set off under an eel-grey sky riding two abreast, me on my trusty BSA ten-speed and Rik on his Claude Butler Tour de France ultra-lightweight replica. My bike’s weight handicap was increased even further by the ghetto blaster strapped to the top of my double panniers with a set of stripy, elastic crocodile clips. Unless I was very careful, it would fall off when I went too fast round a bend and there’d be no more Jam for the rest of the trip – what a ter
rifying thought that was.

  It was all going well till about fifteen miles in. The breeze was gentle, the sun lurked behind low, dense cloud and the traffic was surprisingly light. Then, out of the blue, disaster struck and I made a discovery which was going to impact on the first stage and set us back considerably. I slammed on the brakes, skidded to a halt and turned the bike around. Rik pulled up and asked me what was wrong. ‘Something serious has happened and I need to get back home urgently. You go ahead – I’ll see you there.’

  ‘What’s so urgent?’

  ‘I’ve only gone and forgotten the hairdryer …’

  Rik talked me out of going back to Garforth. He was right – if we’d split up, then all kinds of difficulties could have arisen. Talking about it today, more than twenty years later, I’m not surprised at myself for wanting to go back for a hairdryer. Obsession with appearance ruled my life, and the horror of crap hair for one night, let alone one week, was unthinkable.

  We decided to stop off en route at a Boots and get a little travel number. Job done, we arrived at the youth hostel in Helmsley at one minute to nine. We were exhausted, and headed straight for the showers then out to the pub. My hairdryer was pathetic and useless. I might as well have got Rik to blow on my head to dry it, it was that crap.

  Next morning my head felt like a cow had shat in it. The monster session on Pernod and blacks had taken its toll. I lost count of how many we had. There had been no problem with getting served by the landlord. Perhaps it was because we were new faces, with different accents. It was a young pub on the whole, and lively, too. Back home, the only two pubs we could get served in were the Old George and the Bird in Hand. They simply asked you once what your age was, you said eighteen and that was that.

  On top of the hangover we found that our daily chore was to mow the lawn. Not all youth hostels operated the chore system and I don’t know now if any still do. If the hostel you were staying in subscribed to the chore ethic, you’d hopefully get something easy to do – like running a duster down the banister rail or polishing the receiver on the public phone in the lobby – but mowing the lawn? I didn’t think so. We decided to leg it but our plans came to nought when we found the bikes locked in the shed. It was impenetrable. There was no option but to get the Flymo out and get on with it. An hour later we were on our way.