by David Barry
I thought about Peter for a long time afterwards. Our company had decided to posthumously publish his complete works in one volume, and I just dared to wonder if the talent he had was inherited, a talent that was cut short sixty-five years ago in a terrible battle at Verdun.
Soho Séance
The night of February 3 1967 will stay with me for a long, long time, even though it happened more than thirty years ago and I was the last in our band to hear the news.
I’m a percussionist mainly, but had just done a session for a singer I guessed would be a one hit wonder, playing harmonica, an instrument which I learnt when I was at school, along with the recorder, and when I was a bit older I also became a competent pianist. Unlike other members of my band, I got offered loads of session work because I can read music, which was unusual in the Swinging Sixties music scene, although not unheard of. The session I had finished had gone on somewhat, with the producer tearing his hair out because the singer was a toe-rag and the studio was costing him money.
Like the Beatles, there were three guitarists in our band, and I made up the fourth member on drums. But unlike the Fab Four we’d only managed one chart hit, getting to number thirteen, which was where it became a chart stopper not topper, an unlucky number, meaning our next effort didn’t even get in the top twenty, although it got to number two in Norway. Big deal!
Anyway, following the session at this studio in Dean Street, I managed to grab a pint before they rung the last bell in a pub in Poland Street. I walloped it down me in the ten minutes drinking-up time, and then headed for Carnaby Street and Josh’s flat, which was above a boutique selling Mod gear. I knew he and the band would all be there ‘cos we’d been rehearsing earlier that day, and when I went off to do the session, little knowing it would go on from late afternoon until closing time, they said they were going to Josh’s place for a spliff, something to eat, out to the pub, then back to his pad for Scotch and Coke and a game of five card brag. When I got there - instant relief - there was plenty of whisky left. After the studio session I, unfortunately, was stone cold sober. I say ‘unfortunately’ because I guessed the three of them would be well into the talking bollocks stage by then, so I had a lot of catching up to do.
It was dark in Josh’s flat, with a cloud of blue cigarette smoke diminishing the only light from an orange lava lamp, which is how I missed their condition. I poured myself a large one with only a dash of Coke and toasted Josh, who was sprawled out on one of his more bizarre collections of furniture, an OTT sofa, lime-green and hairy, looked like it might have been fashioned out of a psychedelic yak. But then Josh’s flat was nothing if not wacky. ‘I like living in lava land.’ That was Josh all over, who was our bass guitarist. My eyes almost popped out on stalks when I noticed he was dressed like a cavalry officer. I expected inebriation but not being made to feel like I’d wandered into Madame Tussaud’s.
Terry, our rhythm guitar and vocalist, was collapsed on a purple bean bag, wearing a dazed expression and, even worse, a bright red faux military uniform with gold epaulettes. Then I noticed our lead guitar, Den the Dude, was also got up in fancy dress, and garbed in an old Prussian-style uniform, complete with pointy helmet. He was sitting back in the candyfloss armchair with his legs draped over the arms.
I downed in one the tumbler of Scotch with a wee splash and poured myself another stiff one, sans the Coke this time. ‘What in Christ’s name you think you’re doing?’ I said ‘I thought we agreed we wouldn’t wear any stupid gear. Remember the last time we pegged ourselves up in fancy gear? Joe went ape? He wants us au-fucking-naturel. That’s what he said. Au-fucking-naturel.’
Josh laughed. ‘He wants us naked, you mean? Chance’d be a fine fucking thing.’
I ignored it and protested, ‘We are denim, guys, not moddy-moddy two shoes. Come on, what were you thinking? Have you lost your fucking senses? Chucking our money away at Lord Kitchener’s Valet? We have got another session at Holloway Road next Monday. You want Joe barging into the session again, waving that samurai sword at us? I was shit scared the last time that happened. I saw my life flash before me. And Joe promised us. He said our next disc’s got a great chance to make it into the top ten if not the number one spot., and he’ll put us out on tour supporting Heinz and the Tornados, but only if we have the right fucking image. We can not turn up at the session dressed like an army of freaks.’
‘You finished?’ Terry slurred. ‘‘Cos there ain’t going to be no more sessions in Holloway Road.’
My temperature shot from hot to cold and back again like one of those hit the weight and ring the bell at the fun fair.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked as the warning clanged in my head.
‘I don’t think he knows,’ Josh said to Terry. ‘He ain’t heard the news.’
I took another swig of Scotch. ‘What news? What are you on about? I’ve been in the studio most of the day. Has Joe cancelled the session?’
Den sniggered. ‘You could say that. Joe Meek has been cancelled. Permanently.’
I smacked my forehead with my palm and moaned loudly. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit! What’s one of you done to upset him? You know how paranoid he’s becoming. He needs to be handled with kid gloves.’
‘Whoa!’ Josh said. ‘Nothing to do with us, matey. It’s not our fault Meek’s gone and topped himself.’
I gaped stupidly at Josh. ‘Topped himself? You mean he’s committed suicide?’
‘Yeah. He shot himself.’
Terry mimed holding a rifle and pulling the trigger. ‘Yeah, after he shot his landlady. She probably came up to his flat to complain about something. Rent arrears or too much noise from his recordings. And he blasted her with Heinz’s shotgun, then shot himself.’
‘How d’you know all this?’ I said.
Josh jerked a thumb towards his multi-coloured telephone. ‘Phone’s been going berserk all day. And it was on the news.’
I stared into my Scotch glass and felt like crying. Not that I would mourn the passing of Joe Meek, but he had given our band a good opportunity, and now it looked like we’d have to scratch around to find another deal.
‘I have to admit, I’m not really surprised,’ Terry said. ‘If you ask me, he was turning into a raving lunatic.’
I sighed deeply and we were all silent, each one of us lost in our memories of the record producer. He’d been a brilliant engineer, there was no getting round that one. And some of his eccentric but genius ways of getting the sound he wanted went beyond what any other producer would have attempted. Like the time he used the unconventional method of recording the Honeycombs’ ‘Have I The Right?’, with the group stamping on the stairs of his three floor studio and flat. It gave the record a distinctive sound like no other. And maybe without Joe’s crazy idea of the stairs stamping the record might not have made it into the top ten, but thanks to his lunatic idea it actually made number one and sold more than two million copies world wide.
As if echoing my thoughts, Josh said, ‘Yeah, you got to admit, Joe had loads of good ideas to create the sounds he wanted.’ He blew his breath out forcefully, rumbling his lips. ‘Even if he did have a screw loose. Like the time he threatened to smash me bass over me head.’
Den snorted loudly. ‘Yeah, that was a close call. Man, that wild look in his eyes as he picked it up your guitar ready to swing. Still, you can’t blame him. You played like a fart in a trance.’
‘I was hungover, man.’
Den picked up his Scotch glass and waved it at Josh to emphasize his point. ‘We all were, Josh. We were all still pissed, I seem to remember.’
‘So why’d he pick on me?’
Terry giggled in a girlish way. ‘I wouldn’t feel upset about it. You were in good company. Remember that story we heard about Tom Jones coming all the way from South Wales for those sessions, and in one of them Joe goes berserk and waves a gun in his face?’
&
nbsp; ‘You s’pose that’s true?’ Josh asked.
Terry shrugged. ‘One thing’s for sure. He never got any of Jones’s records released. And you gotta ask yourself: how come Jones shot to number one more than a year ago with ‘It’s Not Unusual’ once he’d parted company with Joe?’
‘He never reckoned the Beatles, neither,’ Josh said. ‘I bet his mistakes is what caused his insanity.’
Terry waved a disparaging hand at Josh. ‘Nah. The thing about Joe Meek was his paranoia. It was always there, bubbling under the surface. He was a tragedy waiting to happen. But murdering his landlady like that. She didn’t deserve to die. She was good to him in all those years and she put up with a great deal.’
The four of us were silent as our collective thoughts imagined the bloody scene in Joe Meek’s studio. And then, suddenly, it was like a car hitting a brick wall. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I whispered, my voice filled with awesome realisation.
‘What’s wrong?’ Josh asked.
‘Today’s date. February the third. It’s the same date that Buddy Holly died in 1959.’
‘Not to mention Richie Valens and the Big Bopper,’ Terry slurred.
‘Yeah but it was Buddy Holly who was Joe’s hero. He worshipped him.’
Josh clicked his fingers as he recalled, ‘And I remember him boasting about a séance he once held in 1957. Apparently he was warned Buddy Holly would die on February the third. But when that date came and went in fifty-eight, everyone thought it was bollocks. Until... ’
‘He died on that date in the following year,’ I cut in. ‘Bit spooky that, if you ask me.’
Den snorted again. ‘Sorry, but I think it’s a load of bollocks. Pure coincidence, man.’
‘You’ve got to admit,’ I persisted, ‘he gets the right date in the séance. And that’s one day out of three-hundred and sixty-five. That’s too much of a coincidence.’
Josh waved a hand in my direction. ‘Ray’s right. The odds are too stacked up against it being a coincidence.’
Den laughed, made a howling noise, and clawed at his face as if he was being transformed into a werewolf. Josh scowled at him.
‘Shut it, Den. Open your mind, man. Don’t close it to anything that... that can’t be explained by logic. What about Joe killing himself today of all days? The same date his hero Buddy goes down in that plane.’
Den swung his legs from the arm of the candy floss armchair and pulled himself up, swaying slightly. ‘That’s easy to explain,’ he said as he staggered towards me. ‘Geezer is so fucking deranged, maybe he’s been thinking about the date all along. Becoming more and more obsessed.’ He picked up the Scotch bottle and poured himself a generous measure. ‘Apart from which, there was all that business about the frozen royalties from ’Telstar’. They reckon he plagiarised the tune from some French film. Imagine writing a mega hit like that and not getting a brass farthing. No wonder the geezer was off his rocker, and it was a question of time until he flipped completely. And now it’s happened. So don’t give me that - whoo-whoo-whoo - ghostly shit about dates and messages coming from beyond... ’ An arm-waving demonstration and Den nearly lost his balance. He fell back into the safety of his garish armchair.
Josh jabbed his finger in Den’s direction. ‘You are a sceptical bastard.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes! You! You might be able to explain Joe killing himself the same date as Buddy Holly, but how do you explain Joe finding out the date at a séance over a year before Holly died. You fucking can’t, can you?’
Den took refuge in a large drunken smirk which wound Josh up even more.
‘Someone should wipe that stupid smile off your fucking face.’
‘Oh, come on, you two,’ Terry said. ‘Leave it out. I know this bad news has affected us, but let’s not start world war three.’
Eyes blazing, Josh looked at me and held his hands out in an appealing gesture. ‘I’m not trying to start anything, Ray. But if that silly bastard over there could give me an explanation of how comes Joe Meek gets news of Buddy Holly’s death date in 1957, instead of behaving like a half-arsed tosser he is... ’
‘I tell you what,’ Den interrupted. ‘Just to show you I ain’t biased. We could have our own séance? See if anyone tries to contact us from beyond the grave.’
‘You taking the piss?’
‘No, honest. Hand on heart. Shit!’
Demonstrating his sincerity with his right hand, Den spilled Scotch down his Prussian officer’s uniform. ‘Now look what you made me do.’
Their animosity forgotten, Josh laughed. ‘Serves you right.’
Terry suddenly launched himself from his beanbag, rolled over on to his stomach, stood up, then spun round to face us. ‘Come on then. We having this séance or not?’
‘You serious?’ I said.
‘Course I am, Ray. Let’s do it while we are still in the land of the living.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Josh said. ‘I feel like an extra in The Plague of the Zombies.’
Josh looked like it as well. His face had turned to rubber and his glassy eyes were rolling in their sockets. But he still managed to stagger over to the small round pine table by the window, cleared it of KFC cartons which he took out to the kitchen.
‘You got those letters of the alphabet we used in our last séance or we gonna have to write them out again?’ Terry called after him.
‘Yeah, they’re here in the kitchen drawer.’
Josh returned moments later with a clean glass tumbler for our séance, and the letters of the alphabet which he spread out in a circle around the glass. Pretty soon the four of us were sitting round the table with a finger resting on the rim of the glass.
‘Now what?’ Den said.
Terry stared at him challengingly. ‘Don’t try an’ pretend you ain’t done this before, you moron.’
‘Who you calling a moron, you moron? No, I ain’t ever done a séance before.’
‘How come we had a séance here last month and you wasn’t in it?’
‘Haven’t a clue, mate. Must have been the night I spent with that little scrubber from Crystal Palace. I’ve never been to a séance before, I swear.’
‘Lying git.’
‘I swear on my grandmother’s life.’ Den, a grin on his face, took his hand from the tumbler and placed it over his heart.
‘Your gran’s probably six feet under. Now get your finger back on the glass.’
Den placed his index finger on the edge of the glass with an exaggerated display of restraint, and I suspected he was deliberately trying to show he had no intention of cheating by moving it. ‘There we go. But aren’t we supposed to turn the lights off?’
‘We can see bugger all in here as it is,’ I said. ‘A lava lamp hardly counts as a source of light.’
Josh slammed his left hand on to the table. ‘You can insult me, but leave me lava lamp out of it.’
‘Shut up, you guys,’ Terry admonished. ‘Let’s concentrate. Shall I do the honours and ask the spirits to contacts us?’ Josh’s head dropped forwards which Terry took to be an overstated nod. He lowered his voice from his usual high baritone to a spooky bass. ‘Is there anyone there? Anyone from beyond who wishes to contact us?’
Den sniggered.
‘Shut it, Den,’ Terry growled, then resumed his invocation. ‘Joe Meek, if you can hear us, tell us why you did it? Can you hear us Joe Meek?’
I caught Den’s eye, spotted the cynicism, and gave him a warning shake of the head. A brief hiatus while we waited for a response from the beyond the grave. The glass beneath my finger trembled slightly. Was someone putting pressure on it? Josh, maybe? On the other hand, Terry was the one who had suggested the séance.
Terry’s voice deepened, and I thought he might be parodying. ‘Come in, Joe Meek. Are you there? Give us a sign, Joe.�
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Almost imperceptibly, the glass wavered before moving slightly to my left. We all stared at it, wondering who was pushing it. I was sitting nearest the first letters in the alphabet and the glass slid smoothly in my direction. It nudged the letter A.
‘Make a mental note of the letters as it moves,’ Josh instructed.
The glass slid away from me across to the other side of the table towards letters at the other end of the alphabet. I wasn’t applying any pressure, and as Josh and Terry were on the far side of the table, I didn’t think they could pull the glass towards them. Which left Den who was sitting on my left. He was the one who had ridiculed the idea of a séance, so maybe he was having a laugh at our expense.
‘The letter U,’ Terry whispered in an awed tone as the glass touched the letter. ‘A and U so far.’
Slowly, slowly, the glass slid back across the table to Den’s left. After a short oscillation, hovering uncertainly between letters D and H, it moved positively to F.
‘A-U-F?’ Josh questioned. ‘That don’t make sense. There’s no such word starts like that.’
‘Ssh!’ Terry hissed. ‘Let’s see where it goes next.’
We all watched as it went across the other side to W, then to I, followed by E.
‘I’ll never remember these letters,’ Den said. ‘It’s not a proper word.’
As the glass slid to the letter D, Josh chuckled knowingly. ‘I think it is. And if I’m right A-U-F was one word and this is the second word.’
The glass moved quicker now, as if whoever was pushing it was getting impatient.
‘Oh, bloody hellfire,’ Den moaned. ‘I can’t remember all these letters.’
As the glass finished off the second word, Josh said, ‘No wonder it took us a while to recognise it. It’s German. Auf Wiedersehen.’
‘Who is sending us this message?’ Terry intoned in an other-worldly voice. ‘Tell us who you are.’
The glass shot across to the letter J, and I guessed what was coming next. Sure enough, after a hesitant move, hovering uncertainly between letters, the glass finished off the name. JOE.