by Tot Taylor
John stretched both words out of shape, the way a modern-day BBC newsreader might.
‘then… “when tomorrow comes”, as they say… I won’t be on it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Won’t actually want to see or meet anyone at all!’
Johanna was coming towards the end of her allocated session.
‘If we can get someone important from here, the Center, to see you… move things on. Will you actually… see them this time? Instead of turning them away?’
‘Important? Who is this “important” person? I was under the impression you were the important one, my dear? Surely you’re the boss?’ He shuffled on his couch. ‘I told them, or somebody did – they told them – I know they did… it was John wasn’t it? RCN… John Daly? That I had to have the most important, the very best, bestest “boss”-type person to look after my… mental “wellbeing”, and my subsequent recover me…’ the boy laughed. ‘Recovery. And… guide me, guide me back to… the place I need to be guided back to.’ Johanna looked apprehensive as a car came to a halt outside and a casually dressed pudgy man with shoulder-length hair alighted.
‘you are that person, aren’t you, Johanna?’
John Nightly got up from his couch and stood before her. Something he had never done previously. Stood in the CP’s presence.
‘Tell me you are!’ John put his hands deep in both pockets, not knowing at all what to do with them. ‘Tell me that you are!’
As someone in charge, as a woman and as a doctor, Johanna Zorn was offending the patient on every level.
The boy was in a horrible mood now; a stinking mood. As if he were berating John Pond, one of the members of his longsuffering band or road crew. The psychiatrist stared straight into him.
‘Will you see someone who can make a decision about what’s going to happen to you? If I bring them…?’
The patient had no idea that he might have actually reached this stage in his recovery. He remained silent. Not because he didn’t want to take the proposal seriously, but because he couldn’t take the risk of letting himself believe that things had actually improved to a degree where he and Johanna could even be having this conversation, and he did not want to be… couldn’t be, disappointed. Disappointment was a hallmark of John Nightly’s old career. Disappointment, its seeming inevitability, and how to deal with it when it showed up.
‘If I set it up,’ she breathed.
John lifted himself back onto the lounger, lay sideways-on to her and dragged his hair away from his eyes. The boy looked quite ashamed. And so… very, very tired. Like he hadn’t slept a wink for five-and-a-bit years.
‘I can do it, yeh… at the moment I can. I actually can.’ John heaved and sank back into his couch. He reorganised his long limbs and began to sniffle as he wiped his eye with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll see them… whatever you want. Because I am… capable of it. I am… a genius! Like they say!’
John Nightly sniggered embarrassedly as a horrible smell suddenly terrorised the room.
‘God… ’
‘no, I’m not God, my dear… ’
Johanna got up, pushed her chair away and stormed back through the double doors.
‘Hi! Hello! Excuse me! Um – pardon me… Someone, sorry… somebody, please… can you…?’
She lowered her voice, realising that she was now out in the communal area.
‘Can someone come and… You’ll need a…’
The work’s never done, there’s always something new
‘Matthew & Son’, Cat Stevens, 1966
(Deram 45 DM110)
Göteborg Cirkus, ‘Kettering–Granada’, Crawley Starlite Ballroom, ‘Musicians Union Member’, ‘Marshall Amplification’, ‘Swansea – Top Rank’, Berlin, Bremen, ‘The Jupiter Klub, Kassel’, ‘It’s a Fender!’, ‘Oslo Njårdhallen’, ‘Air Freight Only – DO NOT STACK!’, ‘Musicians’ Union Live’, Welcome to the Republic of Eire, ‘Be Sure of Shure Microphones!’, Business Traveller, The New Santa Monica Hotel, Bruges, VERY FRAGILE, ‘Freight: Waterloo, London’, ‘Keep Music Live’, ‘Hungaria Kustom’, ‘Electrical Goods’, ‘Picato Strings – the Professional string!’, ‘Paris: Le TeePee’, ‘Electrical – DO NOT STACK!’, ‘WEM – the Professionals’, ‘Sunbeats’, Manchester Free Trade Hall – Stage Door, ‘Duty Exempt – DO NOT STACK!’
The Fender guitar strapped tightly across his back weighed heavily as John Nightly covered the half-mile through Regent’s Park. The collection of labels affixed to its case was an indication of his movements over the past few months. Musicians invariably defaced their instrument cases with stickers promoting concerts and music products; tools of the trade – guitars, amps, microphones, drumsticks, strings.
As evidence of gainful employment it became a sandwich board of sorts, advertising the wares of various equipment manufacturers from whom a discount might be negotiated in exchange for promotion of the much-discussed ‘gear’. As if plumbers walked around flagging motorised flushing systems on their toolboxes, or the GPO delivered to you from a sack proclaiming the benefits of postage.
The last six months had been non-stop. A whirlwind of airports, hotels, dressing-rooms and soundchecks during a recently-completed promotional tour of seventeen countries – forty dates in all, accompanied by roadies and the usual close circle of friends. As it does for all groups, professional employment had already taken on the emotional weight of family commitment. The Nightly band never actually appeared under a regular title1 but if a promoter insisted then the Sleepwalkers seemed as good as any. And this morning that’s exactly what they were, having returned home just a few hours earlier.
The now permanent line-up consisted of Justin Makepeace, John’s childhood sidekick from Cambridge, on lead guitar; Ron Bloom, late of the Gloom, on organ and Mellotron; new recruit Ashley Root on drums; with Jonathan Foxley filling in on bass. While Lee Hide manned the sound desk as usual – late today, as usual – Jean-Claude got paid more than any individual band member to create a trippy, spaced-out atmos using a flicker machine, a Death Kit smokehead, a picnic grill on which he burned coloured gelatine, and a cardboard stroboscope.
John himself played as much rhythm guitar and piano as he could manage while at the same time trying to remember the lyrics to his own songs.
So the gathering this Sunday morning at the old Diorama behind Regent’s Park was, give or take the odd guest appearance, the complete Nightly line-up. A tight little unit that could happily motor along all night, no matter how many orchestras, choirs and ballet companies might be bolted onto it.
‘What happened to the Syndicats?’
Justin was fixed on the back page of Melody Maker, while Ash made tea for everyone – the cable to the electric kettle plugged in (a little perilously) to the back of Justin’s amplifier.
‘That was Steve Howe’s band. Sugar?’
‘Three, thanks. What about the Midnites?’
‘That was Andy Pyle. Somebody else good in them…’ Justin poured a cup of mu tea for the boss.
‘John… no sugar still?’
No response.
‘Dunno how you drink this stuff, man.’ Justin gazed down into the murky pool.
Again no response. Justin gave the goo a stir and handed it to his employer.
‘Ash… you’ll know this one…’ Justin brought the damp newspaper closer to his eyes.
‘Why was the 2i’s called… the 2i’s?’
‘The coffee bar?’ Jonathan chipped in. ‘I actually know that, Justin. It’s… it’s because the two brothers who owned it were the Irani brothers: the 2i’s. Isn’t that right?’
Justin seemed impressed. ‘Got to hand it to you there, Jon… Absolutely right, Jonathan!’ he announced in the manner of a TV quizmaster.
‘Howd’ya know that, Jon?’ Justin put a crease along the page as he tore out the article for future use.
‘Cliff Richard Story… the book. Something I was reading very recently.’ Laughter all round as Jonathan admitted the extent of his literary excursions.
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On the other side of the room, the boss fiddled with his echo box and took a sip of tea. He invariably seemed to invest in equipment that broke down the minute it left the shop, or else on the first night of a tour. As he hit the selector switch on the tin box a sound like the end of the world, or at least the end of Regent’s Park, filled up the old observatory, rattling the leaded glass in its domed roof and bringing bits of lead, rust and ancient cobwebs raining down on the Sleepwalkers.
‘Chrissakes, John!’
‘Sorry everyone… but can you… can somebody… just come and have a quick look at this damned…’
The lead guitarist and question master – who was also the group’s self-appointed chief electrician, mechanic and plumber – left the tea-making to Ashley and walked over to help.
The boss had unscrewed the lid of the Fablon-covered unit and was peering inside in search of a disconnected wire, dislodged fuse or valve. The Watkins Copicat, a must-have piece of kit of the day, was in essence a mini tape-recorder with one extra record head. The box, dropped in transit the previous evening, now emitted a stream of electronic crackle instead of its usual spectral echo.
Ashley put down his sticks and picked up his diary. ‘Can I ask about what’s coming up? For a minute?’
Justin, one hand holding a soldering iron and the other a half-eaten biscuit, was still listening.
‘What’s coming up? What do you mean, what’s coming up? What is coming up?’
‘Gigs… what’s happening with gigs?’
Ron rounded off a rousing pub-piano rendition of ‘Abide with Me’. He rubbed his hands together for warmth and picked up his over-sugared tea.
‘What is happening, Ash? Apart from the usual… complete chaos, lack of sleep, freezing bedrooms, sore throats, damage to the eardrums, late payments and… general disillusionment?’
Ron was undoubtedly the cynic of the group. Ashley ploughed on. ‘What I mean is – when we get to South Africa…’
The players stopped fiddling and fell silent as they gave their collective attention to the drummer, for the first time ever.
‘In terms of what we do if we get stuck with – I dunno – “problems”. Protesters and all that?’ Ashley directed the question straight at John, now balanced on his AC30, rocking gently to and fro against the wall, beverage cupped in both hands, quite obviously the worse for wear.
‘No doubt John Daly or… Pondy’ll be able to tell you more about that than I can…’
The boss had been briefed by his manager never to enter into discussion with the group concerning any kind of organisational or philosophical day-to-day business.
‘Janice said about the Dusty Springfield thing… you know she was supposed to go with her… hair and make-up,’ replied Ash.
The boss rocked back and forth a little faster.
‘Didn’t know Janice had anything to do with Dusty Springfield.’ John Nightly could barely remember who Janice, Ashley’s new acquisition, was. Some nights, when the boss introduced the group at the end of a gig, he had trouble remembering their names.
Now everyone was listening. A rare moment of group communion. The drummer continued.
‘Janice got scared in the end. Don’t like flying much either. Physically I mean – seems okay with the other sort!’
The boss stopped rocking and disconnected his guitar from the cackling box so that Justin could get the screwdriver to it. In the absence of John Pond, it seemed John Nightly was going to have to respond to and deal with the question decisively in order to deliver some semblance of leadership to this faithful few. Something John was very unused to doing.
‘Dusty wasn’t scared, though, was she? So I think we’ll be alright – all of us. Five big grown-up guys’. John put down his guitar. ‘And… well… we are definitely playing to a non-segregated audience. I mean, it will be… but if it turns out that it’s not, then we just won’t play.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll… down tools, and come home.’ The boss looked around at everyone in turn. ‘Simple as that.’
It was amazingly silent in the old observatory, the players having stopped making the usual racket that ensues whenever a musician comes into contact with an instrument. The Sleepwalkers put down their guitars and perched on their amps, quietly sipping tea as they considered the possibilities of the coming tour. Ashley had more.
‘Went down the Limbo last night.’
‘I was gonna do that.’
‘Bluebeat Nite. There was an African – South African – group on. Went up and had a bit of a jam. So I was talking to the guys after…’
The drummer stopped mid-sentence and released a long, slow breath that seemed somehow to deflate his whole body. Realising that he had the band’s full attention, he shook out his unusually long arms and slowly rotated his neck, as stickmen do, pausing a moment for dramatic effect. Ash lodged his drumsticks in the waistband of his loon pants, picked up the set list and tightened the nut on his crash cymbal. Justin looked down into his teacup, noticed the spoon standing upright in sugar and gave it a stir. Knowing Ashley would go round the houses, just as he did with his playing, the others waited patiently for the punchline.
‘And… what did he say, Ash?’ enquired Ron, switching off his Hammond.
‘Basically, what he said was… Don’t go over there, man. That’s what he actually said.’ Ashley spun his cymbal around and gave it a little ‘ting’ with his finger. ‘Seems like a… a pretty dangerous situation. The protests and everything, the atmosphere. They said it’s very different to what it is here… and Europe. Really very different over there… all… coming to a head…’
Suddenly the hall filled up with spooky seagull wails. Whoops and yowls rose up from the boss’s echo box into the lenticular roof, making the open-mouthed congregation jump.
‘There you go, man… Echo-oo-oo-oo-oo! That’s what you want! Proper echo!’
Justin, oblivious to what was being discussed, unplugged his own Strat. He took John’s guitar-lead from his sweaty hand and plugged the boss back into his own effects unit. John leaped from his amplifier, strapped his guitar on and turned up the volume control.
‘Exactly the reason we gotta go!’
John Nightly wanted to get right off the subject as soon as possible and back to the usual mellow vibes that existed between the group members.
‘Because if nobody goes there and everyone stays away and nobody does anything about the… Then nothing’ll ever change… will it?’
The group, inspired by this imperative, picked up their instruments and assumed playing positions. Justin went to the console to check everyone’s faders. John pulled his mike stand towards him.
‘We don’t exactly do a lot for society, do we? I know it sounds pretentious. Us lot here… we don’t. We play music. Our group.
We please ourselves. And people like us… just do things for ourselves. Really, we do…’
The boss challenged the three blank faces.
‘If we’re honest…’ He began to pick out a slow, unwinding arpeggio. ‘It’s a pretty selfish… endeavour.’ John let the chord ring out. ‘Yeh… more for me than it is for you – I realise that.’ The boss looked up from his guitar. ‘Not accusing anyone of anything…’ He smiled. ‘Except myself.’
The others nodded. Ashley began tapping skins and twirling drumsticks. Ron mopped up spilled tea from his keyboard. Justin began to tune his guitar. John continued.
‘… apart from actually giving them money – “funding the protest” or whatever – which is a very easy thing to do – anyone can do that – we should… just for once… sort of… do something about it. Make a physical effort… then, even if things go wrong when we’re over there, it’ll still mean we’ve done something. We actually showed up. Went over there. To make a point, at least. Generate publicity for… the cause, and that’ll be a good thing.’
‘And publicity for us…’ added Justin.
‘Right. That is right, Just. For us, too…’ conceded the boss.
Ju
stin slunk back to the tea-making corner and the safety of his fuzzbox. He continued to tune, half in a trance, lending an ear to what John was saying. Ron had been deep in thought.
‘Don’t wanna be… cynical, man. But… that’s the bit Pondy’s into. The publicity? If we’re honest. Even if we don’t play, we get coverage: “Group walk out of Rhodesia”. Can see it now – see him lovin’ it. Imaginin’ everything that might happen… whatever actually does happen.’ Ron began a reedy tune on the Mellotron.
“Political reasons”… “Band refuse to play to separated audience”.
‘Segregated!’ shouted Jonathan, ‘f’ fuck’s sake.’
John turned to his drummer. Ashley was busy integrating two conga drums into his new set-up.
‘Ash… shall we…’
The drummer parked his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, got comfortable on his stool, rotated from side to side again, grabbed his sticks, did a little roly-poly roll around the kit and settled into a clipped ska rhythm, in tribute to last night’s gig.
From somewhere at the back of the dome an excited voice – ‘DESMOND DEKKER!’ – as Iona and Monika charged through the swing doors looking like they’d just got out of bed, which they had, while the Sleepwalkers relaxed into the skank of ‘Mu Mu Tea’ at half its usual speed.
‘Gimme some of that Mu Mu Tea, I only want that… uh… remedy, woo-hoo… It’s my… spe-cial-i-Tea… Gimme some of that… For GODSAKE!’
John sang the nonsensical chorus, mocking his own money-making creation with an exaggerated Elvis wobble. ‘Mu Mu Tea’ was mutating back into a Cliff Richard coffee-bar 45. The girls threw off their sheepskins, skipped into the centre of the room, let the sunlight catch their ingénue eyes and began to sway to the beat.
‘GOD…’
The boss played a deliberately wrong chord, his usual signal for the band to stop. ‘I HATE this bloody song!’ He loosened his guitar strap and opened his arms to hug the two visitors.