Sick On You

by Andrew Matheson

  In the van on the way back we’re yelling and laughing, and Roger waves a fistful of “80 percent of the gate monies.” Lying in the dark, guitar case digging in my back, rolling along the A23, mental scalpel slicing away the jive, I know something is amiss in the guitar department and maybe in the rhythm section. It just isn’t psychotic enough. And Stein’s mustache has got to go down the drain.

  Plus, we are running out of time. Stein is okay, he’s eighteen, but Lou and I just turned nineteen. We’re pushing it.

  * * *

  The students are out. Lou and I are on the couch mocking Coronation Street when there is a knock at the door. I open it to see an Australian with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a guitar case dangling from his arm. Mal moves in.

  Now we’ve got three mouths to feed.

  The three of us rise on freezing, teeth-chattering afternoons, wrap ourselves in blankets, and mope out to the kitchen to scavenge tea and scraps. We stand shivering like the Sioux waiting for government handouts in the days just before Sitting Bull was murdered. I point this out and we have a little laugh and dance in the kitchen as if around a campfire. Then Lou tells us he’s actually a Micmac Indian. How about that?

  One dark day Stein walks in with a look of classic Nordic depression on his face, like a woman about to launch into a bleak, self-centered soliloquy in an Ingmar Bergman film. Seems he has to join the Musicians’ Union in order to work in the UK and he has slammed into a brick wall in his efforts to do so. He shows me a letter.

  Dear Mr. Groven,

  I am in receipt of your passport and other documents but was expecting to receive a letter in support of your application.

  I should point out that we would normally not admit a foreign applicant who is without a permit to work as a musician in this country and would oppose the issue of a permit if we considered that there were British musicians available for the work.

  Perhaps, therefore, you would care to let me know what work you are hoping to do, giving full details if you have some specific employment in mind so that the Committee can take this into consideration when dealing with your application.

  Sincerely,

  Bernard Parris

  Secretary

  Central London Branch

  Musicians’ Union

  Oh no. This is a disaster. I’ve just found the guy. He’s all I’ve got. They can’t send him away. The two of us spend the evening fretting, and Stein leaves under a dark cloud. Before he goes he asks if I will write a letter on his behalf. I will.

  For two days and nights I work on the letter, writing and rewriting, trying to get the tone just right. Part pleading, part demanding, trying to get the point across that this man is irreplaceable to our band and that, despite many auditions, no British musicians wanted this job. Which is all too true, actually.

  Eight pages I write, longhand, and I agonize over every sentence. Finally, at 11:45 of the second night, I fold the eight pages into an envelope, lick and seal the flap, lick and stick on the stamp. I walk to the postbox and, at midnight, after pausing one more time to consider yet another rewrite, I drop it in the slot.

  Dick and his toupee decide to leave Cross Road. They get a new place somewhere on Aldenham Road, a few streets away. Lou and Mal sleep on the floor in my room. Angus and Ewen advertise for a new tenant. Life goes on. Food and music is all we think about.

  We’ve discovered a band we quite like, and amazingly enough they’re American. Alice Cooper is the name. They can rock but the music always seems to have a comedic sub-theme. Some of it is quite funny, actually. That’s the problem. There’s fakery afoot. There is a direct lineage from Screaming Lord Sutch and Arthur whatshisname, the god-of-hellfire bloke, not to mention that New Orleans guy who’ll put a spell on you.

  Alice Cooper try to pull off androgyny, but they’ve got muscles and underarm hair and never the twain should meet. They play in makeup but I bet they drive pickup trucks and shoot rattlesnakes. They drink Budweiser, for Christ’s sake.

  But they beat anything else I see around.

  Bored out of our minds, ravenous and wide awake at 4 a.m., Lou, Mal, and I decide to go for a walk. Out into the dark, sleepy town we venture. We poke fingers into the slots of phone boxes and vending machines, digging for stray coins, but none are to be found. We are skittish jackals, jumping at sounds and shadows, sticking close together. No devilry or mischief in our bones, just wandering the wet deserted streets hoping to trip over a wallet. It will be dawn soon.

  A few hundred yards down the street, a delivery van stops in front of a shop. Two men get out, take a white box out of the back, and carry it to the door of the shop where they leave it, get back in the van, and drive off. We make a beeline for the drop-off.

  Turns out to be a fish ’n’ chip shop. Turns out to be a box about eighteen inches square and seven inches deep, with tiny holes in the top and two plastic straps holding it all together. We’re not daft—we know something fishy is going on here. Mal and I each grab a side and off we go down the road toward home, heads on swivels, eyes peeled for PC Plod.

  The box is heavy, unwieldy, and something else. It appears to be moving.

  “Was that you?” asks Mal, wheezing, breathless, and frantic.

  “Was what me?”

  “That movement, a lurch.”

  “Yeah, of course it was, keep moving.” What’s he on about? We stagger on down the road. More traffic now and the sky turning a lovely gray with orangey streaks. This is hard work, especially having to affect a nonchalant air as cars go by. We take a break.

  “Your turn, Lou,” I gasp.

  We thump the box down on the ground and it sits still, but then—there’s no denying it—the box gives a little heave.

  “What the fuck is in there?”

  “Fish. Fish is in there,” I tell them. “Filets and chunks and it’s just sloshing around in the ice or the whatsit, the brine. That’s all. Let’s go before a gang of fishmongers come charging after us.”

  We struggle off down the high street, taking turns holding the plastic straps.

  Back at the ranch, the other cowpokes appear to have left the bunkhouse early. Or maybe they didn’t come home last night. Whatever the case, we’re alone as we clump the box down on the kitchen countertop. Fried fish for breakfast, a mouth-watering concept. We get a knife and slice open the edges of the box, lift the flaps, and . . . Kapow!

  First the mass squirms, a disgusting, oily hydra-head, and then, like a cross between an erupting volcano and the jack-in-the-box from hell, out burst a dozen huge black slimy eels. We leap back, squealing like schoolgirls, as the eels slither lightning-quick across the stove, into the sink, drop with a squelch onto the floor, and eel off in all directions. Down the hall, under the fridge, behind the garbage can, and they’re fast and ugly. They’ve obviously been planning this jailbreak all night, and now that they have their chance they do not intend to be taken alive.

  They want to get back to the Thames and, believe me, we don’t intend to stand in their way. That’s why we are perched on chairs, shrieking at each other.

  Eels are mean. They are nasty; they have rows of razor-sharp brown teeth. They look like dwarf anacondas in a bad mood. Finally, with no choice—we can’t just let them slime around all over the house—we arm ourselves with a broom, a cricket bat, and a microphone stand. Tentatively at first, then with gusto, we beat some to death and the rest we herd out the back door and into the garden. The dead eels are flung out after them. Three hang from the branches of the apple tree.

  We think we’ve rid ourselves of them all but we’re not absolutely certain. Never again will we walk the house with impunity.

  Or bare feet.

  VI

  Stein gets word to me, says it’s an emergency. He used the word “crisis.” What can it be? Is he being deported? Did Sonja wise up and hit the road? What can account for the sen
se of dread in his voice?

  In his bedsit I sit myself down in the armchair. Silently, he hands me this week’s New Musical Express, which I haven’t had the opportunity to nick yet, open on a specific page. Oh no. There is an article, complete with a picture of a band from New York. Incredibly, they look just like us, and as I read a few paragraphs my stomach sinks into my boots. They seem to be doing exactly what we are doing. Not only that, but they are miles ahead of us, with gigs, a following, an impending record contract with Mercury Records, and, judging by this drivel I’m reading, great press. They are called the New York Dolls. I’m scared to hear what they sound like. Stein is right. This is a crisis. And the news keeps getting cheerier.

  They’re coming to England.

  Lou and I are informed by Angus that there will be a party at the house this coming Saturday and lo, said prophecy comes to pass. The house is infested with the Rifle Volunteer mob as well as dozens of university students. The blather is unbelievable from the latter. Yakking away nonstop about disarmament, feeding the poor, good old Moscow, property being theft, have you heard the new Yes album, the Shining Path are basically good chaps, and all the rest. Puts a bit of a strain on the old gag-reflex.

  The party staggers on till three in the morning, until finally it’s just Lou and me slouched on the couch amid the overflowing ashtrays and debris, drinking beer and ruminating on the evening.

  All is morgue silent, just the two of us drinking warm beer, quietly criticizing the world and everything in it. We’re getting ready to call it a night, when there comes an unearthly wail from upstairs. We freeze, wide-eyed like a pair of amazed Louis Armstrongs. The wail, even louder, happens again, damsel-in-distress style. We’ve no choice. Up the stairs we must cautiously creep. Bravely, I indicate that Lou should precede me.

  After searching the three bedrooms, Lou finds a woman in a closet, curled up in a fetal position and whimpering. It’s a damsel, clearly in distress. We coax her out, helping her to her feet. It is a blonde girl whom we know casually from the Rifle. She is obviously plastered and cannot stand without our support. Her nose is drippy and she is blathering incoherently, with the exception of the repeated phrase “fucking prick.”

  We can’t help but notice that she is wearing nothing but a black bra and panties.

  “What shall we do with her?” Lou asks over her nodding head.

  “We? You found her. What are you going to do with her?” I respond kindly, pushing her Lou’s way.

  “We can’t just leave her.”

  “We again. There is no we.”

  “There is now,” says Lou, shoving her back my way. The girl wraps her arms around my neck, looks up at me with glassy eyes, and slurs, “Fucking prick.”

  “Maybe she needs a hospital,” says Lou.

  “Oh yeah, right. So we’ll wrap her up, walk her to the phone box, call 999, and wait till the bobbies come to pick up a half-naked tart in a blanket with two musicians at four in the morning. That sounds good.”

  The girl looks over her shoulder at Lou and, as if agreeing with my point, says, “Fucking prick.”

  “All right, let’s put her on the couch. She can sleep it off.”

  With immense effort we drag her down the stairs, and a few fucking pricks later we have her stretched out on the couch. Lou goes upstairs and comes back with a pillow and two blankets from Ewen’s room. He has also found the rest of her clothes, which he folds neatly and leaves on the armchair.

  Like a couple of maiden aunties we get her tucked in and quietened down, then we turn the lights off and go into our room. We listen for trouble but, after a few minutes, all is quiet in the living room. Eventually we nod off. When we wake at two that afternoon she is, mercifully, gone.

  VII

  Stein discovered a club in Redcliffe Gardens, just off the Fulham Road, called the Café des Artistes. Now, we’ve never been to the sainted, venerated holy ground, the exalted Cavern in Liverpool, but this must be as close as it gets. The Café is a subterranean warren, a catacomb of brick caves with curved ceilings, looking like it once served as a dungeon for warehousing surplus fiends from the Tower.

  We are told that right in front of the club is the spot where Tara Browne, the Guinness heir, crashed his car and died in 1966. You know Tara Browne. He blew his mind out in a car. He didn’t notice that the lights had changed.

  On any night of the week, when the Café is full of punters, the walls run wet with sweat and suds. Bodies heave and grind against one another in a timeless jungle boogie of suggestive smiles, snarls, snaking arms, and thrusting hips. And that’s just to get to the bar. It is clammy, stifling, and thrillingly claustrophobic.

  To venture down the steps from Redcliffe Gardens and enter the portals where the swarthy sweaty chap takes your rent money is to flirt with the edges of suicide, because if there is an emergency you can forget about ever eventually reemerging into a starry-skied Fulham night. There aren’t any other exits. When you’re in, you’re in. You go through one brick cave and on into another until finally you arrive at the last one, jammed in by the hundreds of mad souls behind you. At the far end of this last room there is a stage eighteen inches above the dance floor. And when it rocks, which is never, it’s the place to be. We’re here to rock this joint.

  On a late afternoon in early November, Stein and I plead and beg and coerce the owner to let us play. He looks at us from behind his desk and sticks a pencil, eraser end, into his ear and twirls it. Then he takes it out, sticks it in his mouth, and chews it for a second or two. He taps the wet pencil on his phone, then, using the eraser to flip the pages of the diary in front of him, purses his lips and sighs. The pages flip back and forth. Stretched out seconds of silence ensue, then for some reason he looks up, says yes, and offers £17 for us to play on the night of December 14, 1972.

  The next day, Mal quits.

  And as if that isn’t bad enough . . . today brings with it the terrible, shocking news that the New York Dolls have beaten us to yet another milestone. Last night their drummer died of a drug overdose.

  Stein has been telling me for weeks that what we really need is a death in the band. All the best bands have a death, he says. What is it with these Dolls? They always seem to be one step ahead of us. I’d lose Roger in a heartbeat for this kind of press.

  Then again, I suppose it is dour news. Billy Murcia passed out at a party, which isn’t unheard of. But then the clueless worst responders threw him in a bathtub and poured coffee down his throat until he drowned. Death by Nescafé. Poor guy.

  It’s sad when the cute die young.

  But anyway, we’ve got our own problems. Back to the Melody Maker we go.

  GUITARIST WANTED

  Young, great looking

  Drunk on scotch and Keith Richards

  723-0759 after 5 pm

  Call after call; all idiots. We’re desperate and still nobody is close to fitting the bill. I’m just about to give up and go leap the Paddington turnstiles to Brit Rail it back to Bushey, when the phone rings one last time.

  “Hello.”

  Pips.

  “Ah, hello. I’m calling about the ad in the Melody Maker.”

  I can’t believe it. I immediately recognize the voice.

  “Are you that Irish guy, from Orange?”

  “Are you that tall man?”

  I quite seriously can’t believe it. The guitarist I’ve had in the back of my brain all this time, the man from that daft Orange sale in Denmark Street all those moons ago, the Three Musketeers lad. It’s him. I’ve often wondered what happened to him. The more I remembered him, the more perfect a guitarist he became, until he had attained Keith-like status in my imagination. I told Stein about him months ago and once, in a moment of desperation, we were going to stand outside Cricklewood station for a few hours, since that’s where I remembered he had said he lived. He is given directions to Bushey.

 
The next night, I call Mal from the phone box. After much begging and wheedling I convince him to stay for the audition and play the gig at the Café des Artistes—but he has a price. That price, coincidentally, being the entire seventeen quid we are due to get from the gig. I seethe but through gritted teeth I agree.

  The audition is in my bedroom, naturally. Duly Eunan arrives (yeah, that’s his name; sounds like something a cow would say) and, strewth, it appears d’Artagnan has shaped up. Gone are the mustache and the chin spinach; the barnet is no longer parted in the middle like a bog-trotting Jesus, but is a layered fluffy affair of which even the great Keith himself would be proud.

  Other than hello, I don’t say a word.

  We have a bash at “Down the Road Apiece.” Eunan is not bad. But not exactly chicken fried in bacon grease. So much for the fantasy guitar boy I’ve had in the back of my brain all this time. We’ve got a tame pup here. This polite stuff makes me retch.

  We do some more and it’s okay. Just okay. He does look good, though.

  Later, Stein and Eunan sit in silence on Brit Rail, traveling back to central London. A few stops down the line Eunan asks if he got the gig. Stein, looking out the window, answers encouragingly: “I don’t know.”

  The next day, Lou and I leap a turnstile or two and meet up with Stein in London Street to discuss the Irish guy. Roger declines the invitation. Over cans of Long Life we debate the pros and cons of this guitarist. Con: he’s got a weedy sound. Pro: he looks good. Con: he’s got a tame personality. Pro: he looks good. Ultimately, he gets three thumbs up. Hey, it’s our world. And in our world, looks trump licks.

  Eunan is a rabid Yardbirds fan with a serious crush on Jeff Beck. Biographical details I learned before I nodded off include the fact that he tore himself away from his mum’s Catholic skirts and sailed to London in August 1968 aboard a tramp steamer, along with fifty or so other tramps. He scuffled around like we all do, Melody Maker in hand, and went to a hundred unsuccessful auditions per annum since. Finally, Lord be praised, he landed the coveted second guitarist spot with fast-fading popsters Love Affair. Yes, the same Love Affair that inflicted “Everlasting Love” on a suspecting public.