by Tot Taylor
‘But it’s Monika’s favourite…’ Iona looked to her friend for confirmation.
‘This one, deferately fabourite, ’ona.’ Monika pointed at John and began to mimic his singing.
‘Sorry, Mon. And sorry everyone. But I… I really cannot keep singing these songs over and over,’ he put both hands across the guitar neck to deaden the sound. ‘Driving me… absolutely mad. Really it is.”
John glanced around the room at each face in turn. He reached for Iona’s hand.
‘Sorry… no vibes or anything…’
Monika, not sensing the moment at all, had a comment.
‘How ’bout Flank Sinatara, John? He sing song many, many time. Same hit… many year… and Elbis?’
‘Well, they’re pretty good songs, I guess, Mon!’ Justin cut in. ‘Gotta do the hits, man… As every promoter you’ve ever come across always says…’ [mimics gruff-voiced Northerner] ‘Gotta do the hits tonight, guys! Not that bad is it, John? Be a lot worse if we didn’t have any hits to play.’
Justin turned his amp up full and blasted the room with a devastatingly loud ‘Wipe Out’. As usual, the band fell for it.
‘Okay! Alright… Hey!’ John Nightly was wise enough to stop ‘spontaneous jam sessions’ as soon as they reared their heads. ‘Sorry everyone, but… let’s not get distracted.’ He turned to Justin. ‘Sorry Just…’ And then Iona: ‘Sorry, darling…’ letting go of her hand. ‘Let’s try something else. Anything else. Don’t mind… but I really honestly do hate that one – sorry, man…’
The drummer behaved as philosophically as ever.
‘Always the way, man… every band I ever been in. Group never wanna play what the audience wanna hear.’
Justin agreed. ‘Every band I been in as well… 1-2… 1-2…’
Justin tested his vocal mike as Ash downed sticks and tapped out a rolling rhythm on the congas. Ron continued to play a light ska figure for Desmond.
The doors swung open again.
‘’Mazin’…’
‘Lee! Decided to join us then!’
John was irritated now. Though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Not because the soundman was late. In the two years he’d been working for John Nightly, Lee had never yet once showed up on time.
The band’s main communicator and vibemeister moseyed in. Still wired from last night, his manic stare registering each crew member in turn as he took up his rightful position behind the mixing desk, plugged in a couple of cables and pushed up the master fader. Behind him, lugging a 4 x 12 speaker cabinet, came Malcolm, the group’s driver and only permanent roadie… and behind him… Pondy. The man himself… the real boss. Though no one, and certainly not John Nightly, would ever call him that to his face. The manager commanded utter respect from his employees. Having proved himself to be a staggeringly effective organiser, creative thinker, problem-solver and all-round strategist. A man with answers to more or less any question under the sun, including occasionally some of the questions posed by the group.
In his green cord jacket, still sporting the remains of a pink carnation from a wedding a few weeks back, his crushed-velvet flares and mismatched sandals, Pond was every inch the modern, switched-on operator. The acceptable face of pop music management. Mr ex-public schoolboy, ex-union organiser; Mr Pond was entirely suited to John Nightly’s needs, with his air of utter confidence, slight huffiness and an off-the-cuff response or, as he put it himself, ‘retaliation’ to any question, any challenge, whether it be tomorrow’s weather forecast, legal, medical or sexual advice, or next week’s chart position.
‘1-2… 1-2…’
‘Keep going, Just… again man…’
As Lee spoke, Justin stepped up to the mike as if he were about to make a much-considered statement.
‘1-2… uh… Buckle my shoe…’
‘Keep it simple, mate, please… the thing’s distortin’…’
‘Right, uh… 1 – 1… 2 – 2… 1 – 1 – 1… 2 – 2 – 2… 1 – 2… uh…’
Justin stuck to the basics. As if in the general scheme of things it mattered a damn to anyone at all, whether or not you could hear his voice. Lee pushed the master fader to its limit, sending screeching feedback around the hall. The girls covered their ears, Monika burying her head in Iona’s coat.
‘That’s it, guys! Should be loud enough f’ya… Better check it with the guitars.’
Everything was okay now. Seemed better now. With Lee finally installed. As with the crew and technicians on a film set, it’s often the supporting players, or service people, that give a working situation its vibe or ‘heart’. Not the stars, the director or the money men, but the make-up, best boys, grips, camera technicians. Technical people. It’s the crew that the stars hang out with. Maybe sensing in them a more honest contentment or workaday reality; a friendlier, more relaxed time than can sometimes be had with the ‘bosses’.
Lee was undoubtedly the most popular member of the Nightly entourage. Always Up – both spiritually and physically. In terms of physically being awake all the time – the guy seemingly never actually slept. Wanting for nothing more than a few winks on a tour bus or plane, his own hotel rooms were seldom troubled by his presence – Pondy reckoned they could have saved thousands by never bothering to book a room for Lee, who was always available, and reachable – at any hour – for people and their problems. The service-person sound engineer was the star of the band! Apart from the girls of course. Well… the girls were always popular.
That report from Cape Town, where our reporter Jonas Janis will update us during the programme. [cue BBC logo ident] Now we turn to another aspect of the situation – which faces foreign performers and artists who are hoping to travel to Rhodesia in order to perform. I’m joined in the studio by the singer and performer John Nightly, recently returned from Johannesburg, where he was due to play three concerts as part of his current tour.
John… thank you for coming in today.
[blank look…]
You’ve recently returned from South Africa, where we understand you were forced to abandon your plans. Can you tell us why?
[sniffs] We planned three concerts at the Shenk Assembly Hall. On the basis that the concerts would be to a non… segregated audience… Things are… changing over there and this is one thing… condition… in our contract. When we got there… we could see… well, blacks and whites were not… gonna be allowed… to sit with each other. But that was after we’d set everything up. All the equipment and that. Before the audience had been… allowed in. We… we came out on stage… couple of times… to check equipment… take a look, and you could see they were definitely not actually sitting together. Our manager then came back and told us that there were notices outside about… segregation, so… we had to… [coughs] About an hour before the concert when we, well… had to tell the promoter… you know… that it was… it wasn’t gonna happen. And… like that, and… then… It wasn’t a good atmosphere. It was… it was…
And you told the promoter that you would not be able to perform to a segregated audience?
Our manager… and us… the group… had to make a difficult… decision there. Easy decision to make… but… difficult as well, because we… we were already there and we… we weren’t sure what the… You know… the reaction to that – from that – was gonna be…
* * *
1 In May 1969, the Sleepwalkers recorded a one-off single under the name the Mayflower for the Mosaic label (Mo119663) of an unreleased John Nightly composition, ‘Kassandra’s Kaftan’, a song that had been rehearsed with the group but never performed or recorded by John himself, along with a self-penned B-side, ‘Quoits’. Although the single disappeared without trace, pressings in the original picture sleeve currently change hands for £1,000-£1,500.
The Mayflower also recorded for John St. John’s Tree label, turning John Nightly’s rejected ‘She Is Perfection’ * into what now sounds like it could have been a bona fide hit. But tensions in the studio meant that the Mayflower’s planned esc
ape route was aborted.
Source: Record Collecting US: Rare Record Guide, 1999.
* see also Brocade/Alexander Telstar
John was up early the next morning. Six o’clock as usual. Part of the deal. If the resident got up early, he could claim one of the ten or so available day jobs to help with the smooth running of the Center. He wouldn’t be allowed to spend all of his time watering plants, as he had done at SUMHA in England, but he would be allowed to assist in the laundry or on the visitors’ terrace, serving other patients ‘the healthiest toasties in California’, or to sort parcels arriving in the mailroom gift-wrapped at Bloomingdale’s and Neiman Marcus.
Although John was very, very ill, the attitude of the staff towards him was not always sympathetic. He didn’t look ill, and when he was experiencing a ‘happy’ or ‘confident’ day he was charming and bright. He carried himself well, remembering everyone’s name as he helped wash dishes in the mornings, while in the afternoons he would sit in one of the glasshouses reading articles on astronomy, or astrophysics, in US publications that he had never before had access to, from the well-stocked library in Eseme Park, just minutes away from Gold Star studios, right up there on Santa Monica Boulevard, spiritual home of Phil Spector, the Ronettes, the Righteous Brothers and the Beach Boys; a locale with which he was almost over-familiar.
Gold Star had been the delivery room for ‘Be My Baby’, ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin", ‘Good Vibrations’ and ‘God Only Knows’. For pop-music followers, the equivalent of the Bateau-Lavoir for painters, or the Brontë parsonage for Romantic novelists. A recording facility that became a shrine – the studio was also where John Nightly had spent nightmare weeks and months, in the summer of 1970, trying to pull the Mink Bungalow Requiem into some kind of listenable, presentable shape.
On an ‘unhappy’ day at SUMHA, the patient was either morose – on a ‘good’ unhappy day, or near catatonic and tending towards violence – on a ‘bad’ one. Johanna bore the scar on her neck from an ashtray John had slung her way only the second time they met. The cheap gift-shop glass ricocheted off the wall straight into her carotid artery, in the process transforming itself into a $70,000 ashtray. A mutually agreed sum, as the singer was not insured for ‘third-party injury’. The reason the woman stayed on the job at all no doubt being the $165,000 per year for two consultations a week and an overall project spec and case archive just too good to turn down, investment-wise if nothing else.
‘And these are?’
‘… canna… Canna ‘Luxor’ – my very own strain! They really are a strain, as well. Take a lot of looking after, these things.’ John removed a couple of dead leaves and turned the plant round to face Johanna. ‘They’ll grow to six/seven foot. Then come into flower… like these ones here.’ He pointed to a shelf of pink and yellow bellflowers enjoying life over in the only shaded corner of the room. ‘That one’s a proper pink – viridian – but if you don’t look after the rhizomes over the winter, the flowers won’t be… lush, as they say. No, they won’t be lush. They really only last a couple of days… then they’re gone.’
The psychiatrist leaned in to inspect a particularly healthy-looking bloom. ‘This one’s come up, hasn’t it? Since we came by before.’
‘That’s because of the heat and because I asked Hank to put a little something in the water in the mornings.’ He paused. ‘Joking, yeh! I’ve been really looking after that one.’ John picked up a plastic watering can. ‘You water in the afternoons and evenings, never the mornings, out here anyway… too hot… and… as I wasn’t allowed to come in yesterday… or the day before…’
‘Why was that?’
‘…having a bad day…’
John tipped the yellow can, circumnavigating the rim of the pot with the funnel. Making sure that all new growth from the orchid-like creature would receive the recommended level of refreshment. He wiggled the fleshy stalk to let water drain through while at the same time dabbing at the soil with a chopstick, in order to aerate it.
‘I’m recommending to Dr Marvin that we talk about you going back at the end of the year.’
No response from the dabber. Johanna remained still, waiting to see whether what she said had registered.
‘Back?’ The resident turned towards her. ‘But we’ve already been “back”, haven’t we? We had to go back to go forward. You said that.’
The CP didn’t respond. She demanded the resident be straight with her for once. The man stopped watering and rested for a moment on the ledge.
‘back how far… exactly?’
‘Back home.’
The patient’s expression froze solid.
‘home? What do you mean “home”? Which “home” exactly?’
‘Your home. Your own home. Back to SUMMER there. If you like, until you…’
‘Summer in England?’ John Nightly seemed genuinely not to have taken it in, ‘… but it’ll be raining all the time…’
The consultant psychiatrist looked blank. The resident wore a rather helpless smile. He put down the watering can and removed his sunhat, lifting thin wisps of old man’s hair from his balding skull.
‘… how can I go back? I don’t know anyone there – or from there – anymore. Don’t understand it, either – the place, I mean.’ He peered down at the floor. ‘Didn’t understand it before – and it’ll be different again now. I don’t actually understand… actually what you exactly mean…’
‘There’s been some… positive moves. Developments. Here. Also over there. And there’s a plan.’
‘… plan? Over where? What plan? Not for me to do any work, I hope?’
The CP smiled. ‘Not for you to do any work – not music work, if that’s what you mean. Nothing like that. It’s… it’s to get you back over there.’
John remained silent. Johanna stayed positive.
‘I don’t know any more than that. I wanted to… sound you out. But… I’m quite confident you’ll be going back to England.’
This was completely unexpected. John Nightly got up rather unsteadily to look his mistress straight in the face.
‘… it’s the tax people,’ he declared. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’
Now the CP laughed.
‘It’s not the authorities, John. It’s a friend of yours. Guy who came to visit the first couple of weeks you arrived.’
‘John?’
‘Yes, John – your friend.’
‘RCN’s organised this?’
John Nightly took a breath. The thing about Johanna, the one good thing that he appreciated and respected above all others, was that she never deceived. Never lied or raised expectations. ‘Vibing up’ wasn’t the business Ms Zorn was in. One reason being that the consultant psychiatrist had no sense of humour whatsoever – and no sense of harmless fantasy either. However doubtful he may have been about the reality of what was being discussed, John understood very well that Johanna would only be telling him something if she was absolutely certain it had potential. This was a sounding-out. But it was also a proposition. He acted immediately to suppress and control his emotions, but inside John was heating up.
‘can you… “keep me under control”, though? When… if… I did end up…’
‘I think that with the medication at the level we have… now – and that’s a big difference in terms of where we were before…’ she paused. ‘I think we both know that we can.’
‘both?’ He moved towards her. ‘You mean you and… Hank?’
‘I mean you and I.’
John Nightly stopped contesting and started considering. For the first time in years, the boy really did have to get on with something.
John had never imagined he would ever actually go home. He’d kind of lost interest in it. The Center – California itself – suited him. Being so naturally unreal and everything. In California he had been living in limbo, in a dream state. Not a good or bad dream, but a ‘nothing’ dream. That suited him, too. For one so utterly numb, a state of absolute nothingness would hav
e been the only day-to-day situation he could bear. Any kind of normal, everyday exchange with mankind, particularly on an ‘unconfident’, or ‘unhappy’ day, being out of the question.
The solution to a flare-up was Tryptizol – the pills that were said to have killed Nick Drake. The tricyclic antidepressant, which left the recipient in a state of confusion, though calm, had become the day-to-day answer for John Nightly. In John’s case, the drug made it impossible for anyone to communicate with him. The alternatives being Percodan or – laughably – Mandrax. Mandies!
That really was ridiculous. Every time this particular downer appeared on the delivery sheet it brought back memories of Lenny the Bear.
Over the years, John Nightly had become something of a tranquiliser guinea pig. When the Community Care in California (CCC) conducted a routine examination of his medical records over a seven-year period they found he’d been given no less than forty-three different tranquilisers and antidepressants throughout his time at the Center. In the Sunny State those who weren’t always sunny tended to subject their pill of choice to the same rigours as the latest handbag, timepiece or automobile. Prescription drugs had their ups and downs, not only in terms of their physical and mental effect but also fashion-wise. The previous summer, Californian residents with psychotic tendencies were taking Reviron, the shiny green hexagons guaranteeing fewer ‘unhappy’ days than before. It was all the rage. The problem being that unhappy days were replaced by one hell of a lot of ‘nothing’ days.
But Reviron worked, for John Nightly at least. The next new thing was a ‘whitie’. Branded Neuamyl, the tablets came in a handy flip-pack in two shades of Polaris white. Neuamyl being so cool that users would leave the packaging lying around the house, the way your friends used to leave Led Zeppelin III on the carpet or sofa in case of visitors.
And what a brand name. Pondy would’ve loved that. Chemically, Neuamyl was very similar to the blue, triangular-shaped tabs marketed by Smith, Kline & French as Drinamyl – Pete Meadon and Lee Hide’s preferred upper during the summer of 1965. Neuamyl worked too. But not on John, who in the past 12 months hadn’t been in need of any helpers whatsoever. Presently, and hopefully for a good while longer, John Nightly was ‘on the loose’ as they say. Pill-free. The first time in thirteen summers.