The Story of John Nightly

by Tot Taylor

  ‘Be difficult to get any kind of money out of him. At least till my record contract comes through. I shouldn’t think my manager understands very much about… well, fashion and things like that. Don’t think he does, anyway…’

  Iona smiled and popped the blue tab, taking a sip of whiskey from Monika to swill it down.

  ‘But he does, I think.’ The girl swallowed. ‘What he does understand much about these things is that they are expensive!’

  Monika moved in on John, considering Iona’s new friend up close, but decided not to offer him one of the little boosters – already suspecting the boy to be way too straight for comfort.

  ‘And he understand the woman who wear this clothes, Iona!’

  Both girls were quick on the uptake, surprising the boy a little, while Monika continued to serenade them as she dreamed about her Biba Saturday.

  ‘Zoot Money group… he go Framingo… noisy, noisy group… Chris Farlowe… Yardbird one, Graham Bond one, ooo… they good – good noisy, Iona.’ The girl nodded her head enthusiastically, in total agreement with herself, as she continued to sing and dance, throwing up her arms and making twirly go-go shapes with her hands as if she were already in the audience on Ready Steady Go!

  All in all, the boy had to admit to being thoroughly impressed and rather starstruck. By both Monika’s appearance – her St Tropez look, her cartoon-like, dark-eyed mask – and her apparent insider knowledge of the Wardour Street scene.

  ‘you’re obviously very much up on it, Monika.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘you… you’re obviously… uh… Up on…’ He decided to revert to more standard vocabulary. ‘You obviously know all of… the… well, you know, the groups,’ he shouted, probably a little too emphatically.

  ‘I do know them. Yeah, surely. Ah yeah!’ Monika confirmed. ‘I know groups many time.’ She rearranged her top to show a little more of her newly tanned shoulder. ‘Because they come my house…’

  The girl threw back her head and held on to her bouffant as she launched into a variation on the Mashed Potato in response to a new DJ taking the floor. She waved enthusiastically to another Japanese mannequin on the other side of the room. The boy looked rather deflated as he attempted to communicate in the lull between record-spinner and live act.

  ‘and… who would you say was your favourite of all these… groups?’

  Monika and Iona, starting to become affected by the confectionary, seemed to half dance, half float now, as they somehow managed to cling on to the thread.

  ‘Who? Ah, sure! Who is definitely fabourite one!’ Iona nodded her agreement. ‘And Kinks!’ Monika cried. ‘Kinks is best, Iona!’ she said, before finding herself drowned out by the heavily distorted and very low-frequency floor hum brought about by the Who taking the stage. The drummer, at least as young as the audience, mop-haired, dressed in Hotpoint white from head to toe, jumped straight onto his riser and immediately served up a taste of what was to come. He grabbed his sticks and executed impossibly fast rolls around the kit, manically staring at and challenging the crowd after each one, as if to say ‘C’mon, then!’ before proceeding to laugh his head off. The guitarist, back turned to the audience, repeatedly plugged and unplugged his guitar into his amp socket, purposely creating a series of sudden, un-earthed static charges, resulting in screeching feedback which echoed eerily around the packed basement. The audience, already over-excited by pills and shots, surged towards the stage. Iona turned to John and finished the story.

  ‘I went their concert in Denmark and it was riot. Tivoli Garden, in Copenhagen. It was riot-ing, so they couldn’t… they can’t… play songs. But Kinks is, you are right… I mean, are… or… she – ah yeah… She is best!’

  The Who cranked into action.

  “I can go anyway, way I choose… I can live anyhow, win or lose…”

  There was really nothing John could say except an overly polite and somewhat defeated ‘Ah… yeah’ as he turned away from his companions towards the stage.

  John Pond had forewarned his charge that Monika was just as ‘yum-yum’ as Iona, and as far as the boy could see… on this one brief outing, it looked as though he might be… well, almost right.

  PROFILE: Tiles. 79–89 Oxford Street, London W1; GER 2977. Tube: Tottenham Court Road. Mon–Sat 12am–2.30pm and 7.30pm–11pm. Admission: 1s for a mid-day session; varies for evenings. Coffee-bar and mini-Carnaby Street; live groups and discs.

  Regal Recording Studios, Denmark Street, London WC1. Monday, 12 June 1966.

  John Nightly sat with his feet up on Regal’s new leatherette couch, his head deep in the pages of Disc.

  ‘Sounds good!’ he shouted, half surprised at his own achievement as he leaped from the sofa and began to pack away his guitar.

  The set-up at Regal was basic, though friendly and efficient. With the help of Lee Hide, the studio’s teenage engineer and resident in-house mod, the boy had been able to record and track all of his instruments, impressing the soundman by playing the guitar, bass, drum and vibraphone parts himself in one short three-hour session.

  As he puffed away at a hashish roll-up, the acne-ridden Lee was still fiddling with levels when the doorbell rang and Iona breezed in on a wave of patchouli. Today, her hair was tied in a loose pony-knot. Her little tulip cap, tangerine skirt and dazzlingly bright-orange kaftan were more suited to the Croisette in Cannes than dirty old Tin Pan Alley, her appearance bringing a whiff of exoticism to the damp, windowless cellar.

  Distracted by the new arrival, the engineer continued to twiddle while quietly stealing glances from the corner of his eye. He raised the lever on the EMT plate, thereby lengthening the time of the echo, as John nodded approval and the new ‘drenched in reverb’ vocal swirled around the studio. A fraction more treble and the job was complete. ‘Mu Mu Tea’, ‘Free School Lane’ and the already epic-sounding ‘Lavender Girl’ were surely potential hits. An opinion shared by both Lee and Iona.

  ‘This one is very beautiful, John… that part there…’

  Iona was now installed on the couch. She lay back, kicked off her heels, crossed her legs and pointed a heavily ringed finger towards a corner of the darkened room, even though there was nothing at all up there to point at, except a pancake of mould slowly making its progress across the ceiling. No sound whatsoever came from that particular direction.

  ‘…that bit… that night-time sound… many candles in the sky… camels walking across the sand…’

  Iona seemed pleased with her poesy as her elegant digit changed its mind and indicated to a different area altogether, this time at the other end of the studio. The only thing John could make out in this dark recess were some broken cobwebs and a dislodged sound-absorption tile, with some exposed circuitry protruding from behind it. Iona smiled mischievously at Lee then playfully ripped the music weekly out of the hands of a rather flummoxed John.

  ‘That’s the vibraphone you’re referring to.’ John leaned over to explain. ‘The… “candle” sound, as you put it. But as I said, they’re only demos… to give an idea.’ The boy paused for a response that didn’t come. ‘If John Pond likes them we’ll go and record them for real, and at that point we’ll fix it all up and get the orchestra and all the other stuff in.’ Once again, John found himself justifying something that didn’t need defending. Again, there was no response. To Iona, things sounded perfect already. ‘I’ve got the arrangements all worked out in my head, so I know exactly how it’s going to sound – and it’ll be a lot bigger than this!’

  ‘Sounds pretty big already, man,’ chipped in the seventeen year-old Lee as he casually puffed away and directed all of his wiry charm towards Iona.

  ‘Try this, babe?’ Lee spun round on his chair to offer up the joint. To John’s surprise, the girl leaned over enthusiastically to accept it.

  The soundman was obviously smitten. He challenged his client by continuing to refer to Iona variously as ‘babe’ or ‘doll’.

  ‘There you go, doll.’ Lee croaked, as
he passed the limp roll-up and Iona took her first drag. ‘You can invest in a block, if the mood takes ya …’ Lee turned back to John as the girl settled down with the spliff and gazed up at her beau.

  The client’s reaction was, as so often was to be the case, misjudged. John came over all uptight and threatened as he uttered a very non-committal, ‘uh, no… thanks…’ while Iona lifted herself out of the sofa, tossed her cap onto the mixing desk and blew the luxurious smoke straight into the face of the object of her affection.

  ‘Ooo… this is good one,’ she puffed. ‘Ve-ry good…’

  As John began to huff and puff, Iona – slightly put out by her intended not joining in – mused over a little philosophy of her own.

  ‘Nonetheless, John, the thing is, you are probably too clever…’ she opined hazily, ‘too, too clever… Too Clever to be Good!’ Iona sat down again as her companions exchanged quizzical glances. ‘You know this thing they say?’ She revised her wisdom: ‘No… that is not… exactly anyway… just what I mean… meaned.’ Iona was, as ever, frustrated at not being able to communicate in the way she would’ve wished, ‘for your… for your good, I mean… for your “own” good – that’s it!’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Too Clever For Your Own Good… or what it is they do say…?’

  John shifted uncomfortably again. The boy wasn’t sure whether or not to appear grateful. Iona continued to put her foot deeper in.

  ‘That’s what I mean – and too clever to ever be very, very happy either… if you ask me… and… as I keep want to ask you.’ She slid further down the couch and took another drag before provocatively passing the spliff to John. ‘What is your star, John?’

  ‘Star?’ the boy replied, irritated, though for absolutely no reason. ‘I told you. Look… there’s nothing clever about something like this. It’s just… it’s a process, that’s all. Recording songs is… well, it’s “reproduction” more than anything,’ he continued, completely ingenuously, as Lee raised his eyebrows and admired the view.

  ‘Trying to create a sound you already have in your head, trying to capture a moment or… not trying to “create” it exactly, but trying to reproduce it. That’s what I mean. So that everyone else can hear what you hear, or what you think you hear.’ He sighed heavily. ‘The real work has been done, though – the “imagining” of it.’ He thought again. ‘Of course, it’s not… I don’t mean “work” either exactly… but you understand what I mean…’ The audience listened intently. ‘That’s why it’s so frustrating. Because it never does turn out sounding the way you imagined it. The “imagining” is always better! But… it’s something that, well, I can do quite easily – the process, I mean – something that I just happen to be able to do – fairly easily, anyway.’ He paused… ‘Doing this, all this stuff, it’s, well… it’s no amazing thing.’

  John took the remains of the joint and lodged it on the rim of an ashtray beside him, careful not to show his disapproval. ‘And don’t you be facetious either…’ he smiled, half-jokingly, as Lee looked on intrigued by the antagonism developing between the two characters.

  ‘But this is things that normal people cannot do at all, John, anyway – writing this songs and everything,’ Iona replied. ‘I think you don’t… almost understand…’ she appealed tenderly to a most unconfident looking John. The boy sighed.

  ‘I’m honestly not so sure about that… I should think most people probably… to some extent, anyway. If they got half the chance…’

  John was already impatient. Lee watched the interplay between them, trying to figure out the status of the couple. Were they actually together or could it be the case that the lightheaded girl opposite might possibly be available? If not right now, then maybe later on that evening? He turned to the client.

  ‘Wish I could do it, man. Come in handy in this job, tell ya. All the stuff I have to deal with “in a day’s work”, as they say.’

  Lee Hide was the archetypal London ‘face’ of the period. Sharp and fast, literally a whizz-kid. Lee began each session by asking the client whether they needed a ‘top-up’… Blues or Bennies… always preceded by a nervous cough and an overtly casual ‘by the way…’

  ‘Sixpence each, but if you wanted ten… fifty even?’

  The teenager was also an ‘associate’, as he put it, of Peter Meaden, the Who’s publicity agent, image adviser and guru. Meaden, an amphetamine-head who more or less lived on purple hearts, was an obvious hero figure, ‘face of faces’, and Lee relayed how Meaden had recently attempted to change the group’s name, then had second thoughts and changed it back again. The self-confessed Who’s Greatest Fan was anxious for today’s session to end, as he wanted to get along to the Scene Club in Ham Yard, via Wardour Mews, just around the corner, where he and his friends would regularly get pilled up for the weekend. The names of Meaden, Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp, the Who’s razor-sharp management, cropped up every few minutes as the cocksure and ultra-confident soundman tried his best to set the controls for the heart of chart success. Same as he did every morning in this sweaty underground bunker, sporting his best Italian slacks and brogues, just in case Meaden or his associates came in, which apparently they did from time to time. The Who themselves had dropped by the studio socially, though they hadn’t actually recorded there yet. Lee’s fave session to date had been with the Action, local heroes from Kentish Town, his own North London birthplace.

  ‘Do you make sounds for famous groups?’

  Iona wasn’t really interested but felt she should make some attempt at conversation with the provider of her relaxant, particularly as he had been too obviously impressed and entranced by her presence to bother to ask for it back. In the meantime, Lee lit a regular smoke and offered her one as he responded.

  ‘Not that famous… not yet anyway. Y’ get a lot of stuff comes through. Some of it’s great and some of it… it ain’t that great, y’know?’ Lee appeared uncharacteristically philosophical. ‘But it’s a stepping stone, babe… Stepping stone; ’swhat I been told, anyway!’

  The engineer flicked ash from his shirt seam onto the sodden carpet. John busied himself by making mental notes. He often became uneasy if there was a pause in any conversation. The boy picked up his acoustic guitar and began to strum.

  ‘Anyone wonderful been in recently?’

  Lee finished logging the session and swivelled round.

  ‘Shadows of Night… they were good… did their demos, and some stuff with the boys from the Action, who are just, like… they’re a fabulous group, man… really fabulous.’

  John pretended to be listening.

  ‘Last week the Beefeaters… and Cat Stevens – great guy, the real deal. But it’s so busy at the moment. Usually we get through three sessions a day, strict three hours. Last couple of months it’s like four. Suddenly everybody’s recording…’

  Lee began to brush his trousers with a stiff piece of card, wiping dust from his brogues using the studio’s tape-cleaning cloth. ‘All making records ’cos it’s the thing to do. Y’ grandad’s makin’ records, man…’ Lee shook his head in disbelief as he slid the plastic reel back into its carton.

  ‘…Marc – know him from the market – he come in… and ’smornin’, Schonfeld played me some ’mazin’ tracks. Know Victor? Runs these gigs at the Marquee… Sunday afternoon, when there’s nowhere else to go… ’cept sit at home and argue with your old man! Perfect time to get out of the ’ouse! Who else?… Guy… Guy Stevens… at the Scene. Good mate of mine.

  Come in to have a chat ’bout… life.’ Lee sat back and ogled Iona, more relaxed now, having reached the end of another long, concentrated day. ‘Andrew Oldham… not with the Stones, but his label… ’mazin’ acts on there. Down here all the time, they are, the “real people”, I mean.’

  Lee unplugged the leads on the patchbay and sprayed solvent onto the faders to rub off that day’s pencil marks, as he got things back to normal for tomorrow’s session. He carried on talking as he wiped and cleaned. ‘Been workin’ on stuff with Marko
Markovitch, but he can make a load more money floggin’ pinks than he can from music. Actually… if we’re done…’ The soundman leaned across to close down the mains power, ‘Need to make a bit of a detour down to the old cul-de-sac meself fairly soon. Wanna come with?’

  With that, the engineer got up, straightened out the creases in his immaculate slacks and flattened out the hair on his immaculate head. He checked his parting in the mirror, momentarily alarmed by the untimely appearance of a blackhead on his left nostril. Lee was to chaperone his clients as they exited Regal Sound to walk giddily up Denmark Street, where, once above ground, music could be heard seeping from every doorway.

  Soho was certainly the place to be in that early summer of ’66. The true centre of things. Tonight boasted Tubby Hayes at the Flamingo and Brian Auger at the Limbo. From makeshift studios and backroom bars across Soho’s square mile, R’n’B, bebop, straight rock’n’roll, trad jazz, skiffle, blues and bossa nova echoed around the streets, a cacophony of familiar songs and scattered, ancient riffs. Snatched conversations, fumbled sexual encounters and poisonous old arguments still lingered in the alleyways and doorways of basement clubs and unlicensed all-night coffee bars all over the area.

  Emerging into the glaring neon of night-time Soho the trio hurried along. Past the in-crowd at the Giaconda, in and out of the scooters and double-deckers careering along Charing Cross Road. They crossed Greek Street and Frith Street before they hit the smoke and gas of Wardour and the massed ranks of pillheads, pushers, rent boys, strippers and all the other shift-workers who flowed in and out of Soho’s nocturnal maze of small family restaurants, strip clubs and peek-a-boo cubicles.

  Mods would regularly make the pilgrimage between Le Kilt or La Poubelle and the secluded environs of Wardour Mews, just off D’Arblay Street. Here was the pill factory itself. The local village store, late-nite chemist, Soho’s very own souk – except that the only thing for sale was drugs. Against the backdrop of the amphetamine clubs actually in Wardour Mews – the Limbo, the Granada and the Take Five – teenage speed dealers, often no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, would position themselves in each of the four corners of the stable yard where customers would form an orderly queue for weekend supplies of Mandies, SKF Dexies, reds, pinks, ’ludes and French blues.