by Tot Taylor
John Beach, recording engineer, Tawny Studios, Caterham, Surrey. May 2006
I bumped into him in Teletape on Shaftsbury Avenue buying tape-machines for his home studio. The weird thing was that he greeted me warmly, as he always did, and he complimented Anna on her shoes, which most men would never notice. I helped him out of the shop and into a cab with these heavy boxes; he jumped in and was away without so much as a goodbye or thank you or anything at all. But… that was John. Normal most of the time, until something would come into his head and he’d be gone, in various ways, you could say… in this case, literally!
item: MOJO magazine #78. March 2004.
Brian Wilson talks to Sylvie Simmons about the reconstruction of his masterwork Smile, performed at London’s Royal Festival Hall 24. 2. 2003 to an audience of onlookers and interested parties, including Paul McCartney, George Martin, Roger Daltrey and the author.
It took me right back to the time when I made the music… [stares into the distance] Took me right back to that time.
And was that a good time to go back to?
[considers for a moment] No, it wasn’t, it wasn’t a good time at all…
The political and social outlook in Britain remained uncertain. Harold Wilson’s government appeared as tired as the revolutionaries. With the pound devalued, the economy rattled rather than rolled, though Wilson, a politician for the times, with his slogans and image-enhancers – briar pipe, Gannex mac and helicopter on call for the Scilly Isles – stayed optimistic, at least on TV.
The new obsession for Britain’s most dynamic new businessmen – i.e. its high-achieving pop groups – was tax. John Nightly, along with other high-bracket earners, was paying 75 percent in the pound. This concerned his manager much more than it did the singer himself, but meant that the government was keeping the country afloat by taxing the efforts of those of whose behaviour it disapproved. The Beatles in particular were criticised and mocked. Whether because of day trips to Bangor with the Maharishi, or the unscheduled announcement that they had taken LSD, the group were viewed with suspicion and cynicism by the authorities; any performer with a dissenting voice or seen to wield power and influence was a potential threat to the status quo. The government painting them as undesirables while taking from them 17/6 out of every pound sterling they earned.
Britain did its best to revive itself. The I’m Backing Britain campaign faltered when it was revealed that the promotional T-shirts were manufactured in Portugal. Progress in this ‘year of protest’ was halted by the actions of everyone from the IRA to the ANC and the LSE. Student Demonstration Time was here to stay. The previous decade’s all-night party had finally been raided, the only thing left to look forward to being one huge convective cloud of a hangover (this would turn out to be the 1970s). Either that or some kind of bio-dynamic rejuvenation. In nature, a plant that grows rapidly during summer rewards its gardener by showing an almost daily improvement before shedding its flowers and foliage in autumn to be comatose through the winter. It will return the following spring to divide and spread, repeating the cycle to a second receptive audience.
That’s not what happened to the Revolution. Instead, cynicism set in. The gardeners tended the plant. They did everything they could to save it. But firstly, they were somewhat disillusioned themselves already and secondly, the individuals who had broken through, whether they be boogie men, boxers or boot makers had become a little too successful themselves. Realising that wealth is entirely relative and often short-lived, they reckoned to take stock in order to preserve what they had already accumulated.
The Apple boutique was a case in point. The beginnings of a planned global operation, the shop began with ideals – John Lennon referred to it as a ‘psychedelic Woolworths’. In the beginning, goods were sold as normal; but soon the right-on shop assistants thought it either embarrassing or ideologically unsound to mention the matter of payment, so customers were often allowed to take whatever they fancied free of charge.
But the Beatles were more closely linked to the counter-culture than their fans, their detractors or their shop assistants realised. They were funding it. Donating large sums to Release, IT, Oz, CND, Legalise Cannabis, Amnesty, Black Power and other organisations within the culture of protest. Somewhere it had to stop and soon Apple, the fruity, surreal corps set up as a tax dodge, ended up needing one.
Festival culture took over. Woodstock, the Isle of Wight and Monterey, ‘free states’ in themselves, wanted free entrance to their borders, but it was not to be. These were expensive to put on; hippie-capitalist concerns. As soon as the organisers got organised the performers no longer played for free – and the organisers did not organise for free. The audience paid and the acts and their managers received the long-and short-term benefit.
In terms of the Age of Aquarius, the phenomenon needed to be given at least as much poetic license as the lyrics to Rado and Ragni’s astrological anthem. Drug busts and arrests on ‘obscenity’ charges became weekly occurrences that featured on the teatime news alongside the much-caricatured Love-Ins, Sit-Ins, Bed-Ins, Be-Ins, Peace-Ins and Do-Ins. Another new world. Some referred to it as the New Enlightenment.
In the symbolic language of astrology, a glyph – the recognised mark for Aquarius – represents the waves of the ocean. But this particular glyph amounted to an ocean of possibility polluted by a drug-fuelled opacity, a real pea-souper, impossible to navigate. New Enlightenment is what it wasn’t. What it should have been was more akin to a spring equinox, a kind of astrological Zero Point, a new beginning building on changes in society having taken place over the past two or three summers. Those experiencing mind expansion felt they had waited patiently; but instead something of an autumnal solstice arrived, along with a period of realisation that the revolutionaries may indeed have been wasting their time.
Mind-expansion helped John Nightly in one sense, it did literally expand him. With all that sugar-cube and alcoholic snacking John put on the extra five or six pounds that brought him up to a prime welterweight. Though it certainly did not make him fighting fit, this New (supposedly Aquarian) Age expanded both his mind and his body, along with, as John himself put it, his ‘ability to engage more meaningfully within and without his own Self…’
Group psychotherapy sessions were popular in the early 1970s
‘Dr Laing?’
‘Call me Ronnie,’
The conjuror opened the door to 21 Wimpole Street himself, shook John Nightly firmly by the hand and indicated towards the back of the house as he led the way barefoot on the cold slate floor through to his consulting room.
‘So… what’s it all about?’
The boy looked up.
‘what’s… what do you…?’
The psychiatrist continued walking. He turned back to John.
‘This. What’s it all about?’
Laing was so full-on, immediately on it, though quite freaky at the same time that the boy couldn’t help himself.
‘Alfie!’
There was no response. John paused, then repeated in a softer voice, ‘Alfie – that’s what it’s all about…’
John Nightly, innocent as ever, sought an appropriate, light-hearted response. But Dr Laing, lank-haired and sunken-eyed, at least as haunted-looking as his visitor, seemed not a bit impressed by this sparky, almost perfect word association. He bent over, picked up a dog-end from the carpet and tossed it into one of two glass ashtrays sitting at either end of his desk.
‘Good one, yeah. I know the song, obviously.’ Laing appeared weary. ‘What I meant, though…’ The conjuror sat down, relaxed into his armchair and moved aside a pen and a small notepad. ‘I know a bit about you. You’re very… successful, and therefore I guess… somewhat fulfilled, possibly.’ He folded over a page. ‘I’m assuming that you’re about to tell me… all of your troubles?’
John was noticeably uncomfortable about the man’s approach. He’d read the books, particularly The Divided Self, and expected its author to be commendably serio
us, clear about things – as he’d been led to believe by other happy customers. But John also hoped Laing would be, somehow… as lyrical a speaker as he was writer – and certainly more sympathetic, in his approach.
Both The Divided Self and its follow-up, The Politics of Experience, were elegantly written, ‘poetic’ even. Not reading at all like any kind of textbook or, as many had expected, simply the philosophies, rants and raves of its author, but in a style that John Nightly could only describe as ‘purely philosophical’. Spiritual almost. ‘If I could turn you on, if I could drive you out of your wretched mind, if I could tell you, I would let you know…’*
John had devoured both paperbacks, pristine copies of which were kept underneath his bed, in a spot safe from borrowing hands, along with his songbook and a small pad in case he happened to awaken one night with some particular inspiration. But so far the boy was unsure about the man himself. Laing looked John Nightly straight in the eye for the first time.
‘Let’s talk about groups,’ he offered.
The boy smiled at Ronnie’s old-fashioned terminology. The good doctor picked up a packet of cheroots. ‘Groups of people…’
‘… oh…’
‘Social groups… maybe your… your school friends… or the people in your group, your “band” – your co-workers. The same thing – that’s a family, too.’ Laing shrugged his shoulders.
‘… well. I’ve… I’ve been thinking about…’
The psychiatrist continued. ‘And school, other “families”. Were you happy at school?’ He leaned forward, lit up without offering one to the client, threw the match in the general direction of the ashtray and sat back. Laing prompted again: ‘More or less?’
John took a deep breath. ‘It’s a lot to… go into…’
‘Presumably that’s why we’re here?’
Laing, possibly realising his rather bleak welcome may well have put the boy off, laughed half-apologetically as he loosened up, smiling what John Nightly took to be something approaching an almost genuine smile. The boy shuffled uncomfortably, putting himself very much in the physical position of the underdog – or in this case the paying customer. ‘I always found it quite difficult to make friends at school, so…’
‘Were you a sportsman?’
‘… oh… no, not at all… I wasn’t particularly… healthy – “athletic”, I mean – as a child. I wasn’t “ill” either, but I… I wasn’t that way inclined, I…’
‘No permanent… group of friends? Not on the sports field… or… in the bicycle sheds?’ Laing waved his notepad in the air, not having written anything down as yet.
‘… I was a real… “corner of the playground” kid…’
John smiled shyly and waited for comfort that wasn’t forthcoming. Not having taken any kind of counselling or analysis before, he was unsure when to speak and when not to; he had not quite understood that it was the patient who did most of the talking.
‘Go on…’
Dr Laing, sitting comfortably on his chair, encouraged the boy to reveal whatever it was that John Nightly had no intention of revealing.
‘Cat got your tongue already? That’s no good.’ Laing acted hurt. ‘Okay! I’ll tell you about my playground, then. My archive, my… well-filed catalogue of… insecurities… and other animals…’
* * *
* The concluding sentence from The Bird of Paradise (Penguin) 1967
item: Monthly Cultural Notes: September
The first days of autumn arrive and the colourful summer display begins to fade. Temperatures alternate between hot and dusty or breezy and cool. September is the best time to establish or repair a lawn. Plant spring bulbs and hardy annuals for next year. Gather fallen leaves and burn those that are diseased. Leave berries on shrubs for blackbirds, robins, mistle thrush and house sparrows. Visit local flower societies and botanical gardens for ideas on next year’s planting. Sow radish, lettuce and spinach in frames. Plants that are frost-sensitive need to be prepared for the coming winter.
The Speakeasy, 48 Margaret Street, London W1. Later that same day.
‘My father told me to be wary of men like you.’
‘You mean extremely talented… uh rich young men?’
The girl stared right into John’s sweet blue eyes.
‘No, John… English men.’
‘… Dickens, Shakespeare… Churchill. Steer clear of those… unreliable, un… imaginative types… Those are the English guys he was referring to, aren’t they?’
Myra didn’t even smile. ‘Guess so… freaky, obsessed, difficult-to-please… controlling…’
It was the kind of lively exchange John always had to win – insisted on winning. Everyone must surrender to John Nightly. The boy was insufferable. And quick. He couldn’t be beaten. No one had ever beaten John, or had what you might call a proper conversation with him either. Nothing ‘serious’. It always had to be funny with John Nightly. Every compliment deflated, each kind word questioned, reflected, returned, shot right back at the complimenter. The game played fast. Though often dimmed by the endless sleepless nights that came with the job, the boy’s mind was still quick.
‘We have enough of the fall guys at home. It’s the talent that’s difficult to… come by.’ Myra took a swig.
‘Well… we better get on and come upon the talent that’s waiting for us back at the studio then. Or they’ll start to charge extra…’
‘Are you going to charge extra, John?’
‘… if only I could… charge you extra, Myra… you’re certainly in a strange mood today, babe…’
Myra put her glass down on the bar. ‘If you don’t mind… could you not call me that… certainly not in company.’ She needed to exert a rub of power. ‘At the moment, right here, right now, John, I’m your producer… I’m not your… babe… babe.’
John gave a little sympathetic half-smile to the self-assured young woman hitched up on the stool opposite. Without saying a word, he leaned forward, looked her in the eye and placed his hand on her thigh. Myra showed no reaction as his fingers made their own way up inside the line of her skirt. Then she pulled away, picked up John’s hand as if it were a damp rag and placed it firmly back on his knee. Had they been at Queen Square, or more likely back at her own flat in Cheyne Walk, she’d have let it go – all the way, he was certain. This little taunt being the prelude, a small guiding star, to a whole new cluster, maybe a lifetime’s worth, of… problems – in the long run.
There was polite applause at the far end of the bar as a drummer ambled out onto the Speakeasy’s tiny stage, followed by the rest of his band. The club’s MC appeared and tapped the microphone… ‘1-2, 1-2… Okay, people… Good to see so many of you here at this… inhospitable time, what with the weather and everything out there, so…’ [pause for any kind of response which wasn’t forthcoming] ‘Anyway… sure to be blowing up a storm inside as well as out… In a moment or two… today the fabulous Speakeasy is very proud to present – and let’s have a very big hand for them – I give to you… ha, ha… No really! The absolute one and only AYNSLEY… DUNBAR RETALIATION!’ As the quintet launched into a thunderous drum-heavy riff and the film producer immediately searched her bag for cotton-wool.
As it turned out there was nothing very good about what developed between Myra Knoll and John Nightly following that exchange. Over the next 12 months, as John’s career zoomed and he struggled to cope with trying to conceptualise a masterwork while at the same time keeping afloat what amounted to a full symphony orchestra, Myra juggled the organisational, promotional and distributional requirements of films in pre-production with her own overactive social life.
Both parties should have owned up that sex was what the two of them were all about. Sex and comfort. Their only mutual interest. If only these two semi-intelligent beings had not confused the side matter of physical love-making with deeper feelings. Some sort of commitment, some kind of hold on one another. Maybe in altered defenceless moments they forgot themselves and let the epithet
‘love’ become attached to their mutually beneficial arrangement. It was an emotion that neither one had any knowledge or experience of whatsoever.
The late ’60s social playground gave two individuals like these license to do whatever they chose. Behave in a way that previous generations could not have done because they would not have been minded to. With both of them married, Myra usually in production and on location, therefore away from her husband for months at a time, and with John away from Iona every few weeks, there were plenty of opportunities to exploit one another, which they did. It suited them both. Much as it did countless others in similar situations during an era of apparently free love, which often seemed an automatic and convenient excuse for the most negligent personal behaviour. As another year drew to a close, the composer and his employer rose to the challenge and made an almost Academy Award-winning job of being quite the most appalling pair you could ever wish to meet.
‘When I am open I am the Artist.
When I am closed, I am John Nightly.’
Letter sent from Los Angeles, 13.6.75 to Jonathan Foxley
(courtesy Neil Winters archive)
Indica Bookshop & Gallery, Southampton Row, London WC1. Monday, 17 November 1969. 10.30 am. John Nightly interviewed by Hiroshi Murakami for Pop Star Real One magazine (Japan)
And eh… what you fabourite corour, Missa Nightry?
… oh… [gazes into the distance] Orange, I should think… or it was when I last looked. [visibly a wreck, searches his draw bag for skins and prepares to roll one] Never really thought about it… Think my favourite… right now anyway… maybe… black…