Lou decides that, rather than breaking off a chunk, which will stand out like a bite in a sandwich, we should take off a few nibbles from around the outside. He’s right. The slab looks unmolested. So we take some more. Then, just to be sure, a little nibble more. Then there is a voice right behind us. “You found it.”
We jump out of our skins. It is Brady.
“Christ! You’re supposed to be on lookout. Get back to the window.”
“Hey, it’s no problem. He won’t be back for hours.”
“Just get back to your post and stop bloody scaring us to death.”
Brady returns, muttering Gaelic oaths, to the front bedroom but immediately begins yelling in a non-manly octave. “He’s coming back! He’s coming back, quick, quick!”
We drop the block of hashish back on Santana’s Abraxas and tear out of the room. I dash off down the hall, cupping the dark brown crumbles in my hands with Brady hot on my heels. Lou feverishly works with his paraphernalia to change break and enter to lock and scarper. Then Brady remembers the chair blocking the entry door and leaps off down the stairs to yank it out of the way in the nick of. He makes it back to the top and dives into our room, just as Zlatan’s key begins scratching and poking around the outside lock.
With a final, desperate twist of the bent wire Lou hears the blessed sound of dead bolt clicking into strike plate, scoops up his tools, and runs on tiptoes along the hall and into our room. He palms the light switch down and we stand in darkness, barely breathing, listening to the scratchy plod of Jesus boots ascending the stairs and passing our door.
At his door Zlatan pauses, no key jingling, no doorknob turning. We stand in the dark of our lair not making a sound, terrified that the robbery has been discovered and soon a hairy, emaciated, hippy-swami, drug-smuggling maniac will be pounding at our door for revenge and retribution. But the first hurdle is hurdled. He opens his door and closes it behind him.
We await the discovery of the benibbled slab. Perhaps he has scales and weighs it at regular intervals. What am I talking about, perhaps? Of course he does. He’s a purveyor, after all. But nothing untoward happens. Just a bit of muffled shuffling about, then silence, then Ravi Shankar. I’m saying it’s Ravi Shankar but I don’t really know. It’s sitar so who else could it be?
The plan worked, the larceny went undiscovered. We stuff sweaters and assorted T-shirts into the cracks at the bottom and top of our door, turn on the light, and examine our loot.
Not a bad caper.
X
Saturday night at the Café des Artistes. Outside, for the first time, there is a huge blowup picture of the Hollywood Brats and a lineup fifty feet down the street. It is eight o’clock and inside the Café, well, the place is sardine-can jammed. This must be against every fire regulation in existence. Other than the front door I’ve never seen an exit, nor have any of the lads. If the IRA decide—on a whim, you know, the way they do—to bomb this joint we’re doomed. Nobody can move down here. The kids just sway or lean en masse to the bad pop hits pounding out of the speakers. The brick tunnels and warrens glisten with moisture and smell of cigarettes, perfume, beer, and tourists.
The five of us sit in the anteroom, just off the stage. We’ve been here for hours with no food, just cans of lager. We did a soundcheck earlier that is utterly pointless now that there is a seething, baying mob in the place. Through the frayed, red velveteen curtain we can hear them yelling for us, but we’re not moving until nine o’clock.
Lager, sweat, noise, and adrenaline; Lou keeps it light but we’re on edge, nervous yet itching to get out there and kill whomever Mr. O’Leary has sent to suss us out. American Brian looks like, any second now, he’s going to puke all over his brand-new Kenny Market stars-and-stripes booties. (What’s with Americans and their flag, anyway? They’re always either burning it or wearing it or staring at it, mumbling, with their hands over their hearts.)
Nine o’clock, and the DJ kills the vinyl. Now the crowd really goes at it, yelling and stomping their feet, chanting, “Hollywood Brats, Hollywood Brats.” Unbelievable. We’ve never heard that before. We’re standing up but we make them wait just a little more. Finally, at ten past, we can’t delay any longer, it’s getting stupid out there. Lou leads the way, entering stage right, followed by Stein, American Brian, Brady, then me. The joint goes psycho.
The stage is barely a foot off the floor, so standing at the microphone it all erupts right there in front of me. We don’t waste time, we don’t chitchat, we don’t introduce ourselves. We’ve got this congregation’s salvation and we hit ’em with it right where it hurts—and we do it quick. All it takes is those first two chords of “Melinda Lee” and we’ve got them in the palms of our hands. Look at them go, bouncing up and down. And I can’t believe it, but I’m starting to recognize some of these characters out front. Some of these boys I saw last week, and the week before that. Now they are wearing makeup. Well, I declare.
We usually slow it down for the third song, giving them Little Walter’s “Confessin’ the Blues,” but tonight there is no chance. They want what we do best and that’s fast and loud, and we do not disappoint. The crowd is pushing in waves from the back and idiots are crushing in on us, Japanese girls pushed onto the stage.
Halfway through the set, some wild pharmaceutical boy in slap ’n’ slash makeup does a stage plunge and shoves the microphone into my face, right in my kisser. It must be painful but I don’t feel a thing, until we’re back in the dressing alcove soaked in sweat.
If Mr. O’Leary’s man is out there then he’ll see that we have done the business. He can’t have failed to notice that we deliver the goods, and if we can kill ’em here we can kill ’em down the road on Margaret Street at the exalted Speakeasy. We keep expecting the guy to stick his head in and say something but nobody shows.
Half past ten, next set, and more of the same mayhem. Wait a minute. What did I say? Same mayhem? Nah. This is worse. Much worse. The crush of bodies pushed right up to the stage is insane. Are they just ramming them in out there at street level? There is no security, no management, no control, no nothing. And down here at the business end, things are getting downright dangerous.
We kick it off with Chuck’s “Little Queenie”: Brady alone on stage setting the rhythm, snarling chords, teetering on guy-heels, playing the crowd. We let him roll for a full thirty seconds before Lou walks onstage, sits down at his kit, yawns, and then joins him, adding the thick thud of the kick drum to the potion. Then we introduce Yankee B’s walking bass lines, me at the mic, standing, staring, then Stein strides to the keys, sticks out a thumb, and executes a tumbling, descending, four-beat glissando. Lou picks it up on the three with a snare roll, and on the cymbal crash we’re all in.
And after that? Well, after that it is pure insanity.
And if Little Queenie’s too cute to be a minute over seventeen, what about these four Japanese chicks squashed up in a line right in front of my microphone stand? One has definitely pissed herself. American Brian notices—well, it’s obvious—and he’s laughing and pointing it out to me. Her orange stockings are soaked, her high heels are splashing in a pool of used Chablis but, to her credit, she doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Well, she couldn’t exactly go to the loo and come back, could she? She’s got her priorities smack on. Grab some floor space, defend it, and watch the Hollywood Brats. My kind of gal.
But it’s one of her friends that has my attention. She is quite simply the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life and she’s not taking her eyes off me. She is gorgeous. Who is the most stunningly beautiful Oriental babe you’ve ever seen in a film? Well, whoever it is, she’s nothing compared to this pouting, yowza package not twelve inches away from my drooling lips here in the Café des Artistes this night, this fated night.
The midnight hour comes and goes down here in the rancid, sweaty warren of the Café, and the Hollywood Brats wrap up proceedings with “Nightmar
e” followed by Bobby Troup’s “Route 66,” which we peel off for five or six minutes, Brady and Stein trading solos. Stein’s doing Jerry Lee; Brady’s careening back and forth between Keith and Jeff.
Crescendo. And that’s it. We wave good-bye, I tip the top hat, slip through the velveteen, and collapse on the wooden benches. Sweat is dripping. The barkeep sends in a tray of Carlsberg. Must have needed armed guards to get it here. We’re exhausted but wound up tight at the same time. The crowd is screeching for a little more, more, more attention, more noise, but that’s not our style. We did what we came to do.
We drink and lark about and talk to the brave souls who seek us out in our sweaty little cave. Visitors arrive, visitors depart, but none seem like they could be an emissary from the exalted realm of the Speakeasy.
The DJ is back, earning his coin. T. Rex, Stevie Wonder still very superstitious, O’Jays riding the “Love Train.” People are dancing. Japanese tourists come into our little cave to say hello. One of them is my gorgeous little geisha. Her name is Markido and she asks me to autograph her pink plastic handbag.
I nab my share of the £25, take hold of Markido’s delicate, blood-red-fingernailed hand, and suggest we exit into a London night crammed with promise and intrigue. Her English is minimal and cute beyond repair, and she relies a lot on the words “sexy” and “yes,” which I assure her will do perfectly for me.
But first, as Markido indicates via sumptuous silent-film eye movements, I have to deal with a hatchet-faced crone of a chaperone I hadn’t noticed before. However, as luck would have it, said crone is more than distracted by the other three, especially the one who had the rather damp front-of-stage moment, so Markido and I make our escape through the sweating cave warren of the Café and the outstretched hands of drunken well-wishers into a warm Fulham night. You know, the night. The one I mentioned earlier, full of promise and intrigue and whatnot.
Markido knows the way back to where she’s staying and there we head, holding hands and looking up at the night sky, where a beautiful, glowing full moon bursting with romance and portent would be if only there was a god of romance taking care of such matters. As it is, we can’t even see one paltry star.
Who cares? Every fifty yards or so, we duck into cobbled alleys and down white basement steps for wet kisses, caresses, fumbles, and garment inspection. Finally, we arrive at the beautiful Georgian mansion where she is staying.
We can’t go in, of course. There would be outrage, an international incident at best, reputations left in tatters. But she’s not letting me go that easily, either. She grabs a handful of Mr Fish chemise and pulls me into a sheltered courtyard, beneath the discreet canopy of a swaying weeping willow. We kiss deeply, softly, then ravenously, lit by the willow-diffused light of a distant streetlamp.
Markido whispers “sexy” and “yes” at all the right intervals, and then, panting, she tears herself from our clinch, reaches out, strokes me through my velvet trousers, and says something I interpret to mean, “Get it out, big boy.”
Madam, your wish is my command. I undo the button, slowly slide down the zipper, reach inside, and release my rearing, straining manhood into the air. There is the usual sharp intake of breath, the gasp of surprise at the length and girth, the murmur of astonishment and approval.
And Markido liked it, too.
XI
Days of nervous drudgery follow. We sleep until 3 p.m. then get up for tea and a bowl of rice. I’m sick to death of rice. At least in those countries where rice is a staple they throw in a few bits of dog or snake now and then to liven it up. We’ve got nothing unless I swipe it.
It is boiling hot outside and yet I go to the shop dressed in a gray faux-fur coat. Sweating rivers while Lou distracts the shopkeeper, I stuff what I can into the deep pockets. What I nab depends on which aisle I’m in when Lou creates the diversion. Today, it’s soap, toothpaste, and a tin of beans.
No call from Mr. O’Leary. Stein hovers around his phone every day, waiting for him to ring. So far, so what? Maybe he didn’t send anyone to see us.
Brady gets home, has some rice, and soon after, American Brian and Stein show up. We rehearse for a couple of hours.
We’re working on a new song, called “Courtesan,” which we want to sound like a Panzer tank cruising across the Polish countryside. American Brian is having difficulty grasping this concept.
He’s seriously getting on my wick. Lou and he don’t seem to be gelling and, worse, he’s wearing a T-shirt with a peace sign on the front. He’s got to go.
Days drag by and still no call from Mr. O’Leary. Stein and I argue about the merits of calling him at his office. It’s tempting but we hold out. Lou goes to see the girl in Clapham. It’s that bad.
Brady breaks out some cunningly hidden wig dosh, and we have a few too many lagers and then venture out to the Marquee for the first time since I popped Freddie from Queen. As a career move, I mention to Oily Jack that he’s got bad judgment and that we’re going to be playing the Speakeasy, and ha, ha, ha, and so on, something brilliant along those lines. Three baboons escort us to the door.
On the way back to West Hampstead, nursing a new grievance and complaining for the hundredth time about American Brian, Brady comes up with an idea. Seems he used to hang around with a bass player, go to auditions with him and such—says he looks okay and plays okay. He says the guy’s in a band but he’s been sniffing around, asking about a gig, so why don’t we go talk to him.
The four of us get done up and travel to meet the bass player. His name is Derek and he lives in Swiss Cottage. We go in and I’m immediately wary. He’s got a girlfriend, two Siamese cats, and a white shag carpet. Three bad signs. He’s in some band with a name like Piledriver or Steamroller, and he shows us a publicity photo.
They look like every band in the world: the jeans, the hair, the mustaches. You’d have to be a saint not to sneer. He looks half-decent, though, and with the usual overhaul we might be able to slap him into shape. So we talk, Brady taking the lead, for about an hour, then Derek says, “No, thanks.” Bright boy. What a waste of breath. We give Brady some serious grief on the way home.
Later in the week Lou, who has been in Clapham for days, gets back and he’s walking even funnier than usual. He tells us a black guy shot him in the arse. He drops drawers and shows us the bandage. Fifty-two stitches on three levels and a deep, pointy probe rooting around in his right bum cheek to dig out the slug. Yeeowch. His arse has been through some drama lately.
On the operating table—facedown, arse up, white and bleeding under the lights, recently lanced boil the least of his worries—Lou gave the police a description of his assailants. There were two black guys. One was wearing a trilby and the other looked like Johnny Nash, the “I Can See Clearly” guy.
Clapham police are on the case.
Jesus. Shot in the arse. Not quite the death in the band that Stein craves but not bad. Not bad at all.
From the debutante ball gig we get another booking in Mayfair, this time at a club called Samantha’s, £25 for two sets. I’m a bit concerned, sussing the crowd, checking the decor because of the Flicka fiasco, but we go down a storm. We have fun all night long, and the nastier we play the more this Mayfair crowd likes it. I spy a few lads in the audience that were at the Café last week. Done up to the nines they are, too, with makeup and all sorts of nonsense. American Brian’s old man is also there again, and dancing again. He’s a chubby dervish in a three-piece suit with love beads and rapidly disappearing inhibitions. He’s like a polyester-clad Alley Oop. Look at that caveman go.
At the end of the last song of the second set Stein stands up and pushes his piano off the stage, then he kicks his amp over. It starts buzzing, popping, and screaming feedback. The audience goes crazy. Charlie George, Arsenal ace, is clapping and laughing.
Next day, we give American Brian the boot.
Day after that, the blondish babe from O’Le
ary’s office calls and says we’re booked into Regent Sounds Studio on July 13.
* * *
Another ad in the Melody Maker, another dickhead avalanche. Another night in the squat but, thanks to Samantha’s, we’re drinking beer and eating rice with sausages. Bit of Zlatan’s hash, then it’s off to bed. Lou goes to his little room at the front and we turn the lights out and nod off to a deep, dreamy sleep born of sausages, hashish, lager, and laughs. The sleep of the just.
Two hours later, in the dead of night, there is a mighty smash as the front door is kicked in. Dogs are barking, many dogs, big dogs, Baskervilles size by the sound of it, and “barking” doesn’t even begin to describe it. They are howling for blood. We’re bolt upright in our beds, blankets to our chins, eyes wide and terrified in the classic karate defensive stance.
A thunder of boots up the stairs behind the dogs, malevolent voices screaming, swearing. In seconds, they are at our door, which comes smashing inwards, followed by three snarling, barking, salivating Doberman pinschers choking at chains barely holding them back. Hey, Robert Johnson, hellhounds might have been on your trail, mate, but they’re on my bed, two feet from my scrotum.
You think you got the blues?
The men behind the dogs are all huge, hairy, dressed in black, and carrying clubs and cricket bats and crowbars. They speak just like you’d imagine they would.
“Get the fuck out of this fucking house. We want you gone, fucking gone, or even your fucking mothers won’t recognize you. We’ll kick your fucking brains in.”
At this point, for quite unnecessary emphasis, he takes his club and smashes our radio to bits with one blow. Despite this, the pile of electronics, wires, knobs, and splintered mahogany somehow turns itself on, and the odious Sweet are suddenly in the room singing “Blockbuster,” just to add to the Fellini-esque ambience. A kick in the dial stifles Brian Connolly’s squawk.
Sick On You Page 18