by Tot Taylor
Ref: 845 11 HOT LB3 (letter book #3) 74, Beaufort: Francis, Hydrographer for the Navy. Hydrographic Surveyors. Pond 22/12/1830.
Cambridge University Library (CUL): July 1964
Ref: Meteorological notes: letter research book 3869 ref: Tides.
St John’s Secondary School pupil John Nightly has spent the past two weeks in CUL trying to complete the first phase of his research on tidal letters. Tidal letters were the means used by explorers, scientists and astronomers in the 18th century to determine the movement of tides in order to understand and help predict weather conditions. It is hoped that he will eventually be able to turn his research into a more long-term project and continue with his interest in his chosen career.
‘Eye Around Cambridge’, Cambridgeshire Schools Curriculum Notes, end-of-year round-up. July 1964.
As if all of this activity wasn’t enough, John had set himself the task of writing a kind of dissertation on tides, waves and their potential power using tidal letters and the notebooks and diaries of the scientists and explorers who wrote them. John was in the process of completing his research into the papers of two astronomers: John Pond, Astronomer Royal and one-time fellow of Trinity College Cambridge, and Francis Beaufort, hydrographer to the Navy. He would then turn his attention to Charles Wheathouse, the scientist who had built wave machines to help him understand the energy of waves and their rhythms in the hope that this natural energy could be utilised for general power consumption. John had been many times to see Wheathouse’s wave-machine models in the Whipple Museum in Cambridge and had at one point made his own miniaturised versions by cutting up the stiff white card packaging of his father’s Rael Brook shirts. Through his experiments in phase-shifting, Wheathouse had happened to invent several important instruments; among these was the microphone, for which of course John Nightly and many others would end up being very grateful indeed.
‘A Brief Explanation of Tides; Meteorological Effects on Tides’, UK Met Office Report. April 2004.
Weather conditions that differ from the average will have an effect on the differences between predicted and actual tide times. Strong winds can hold the tide in or push the tide out. Barometric pressure can cause fluctuations in predicted levels. Cause of tides: The moon being nearer to the earth than the sun is the principal cause of tides. Spring tides occur after a new and full moonwhen the sun, moon and earth are directly in line and the solar and lunar waves co-incide, as the moon exerts its powerful gravitational pull on the water which rises above its normal level. Water covering the earth furthest from the moon is also subject to this pull, so another distinct dome of water is formed on the farther side of the earth providing the basis for a second wave.
When the sun is at right angles to the moon, now in its first or third quarter, Neap tides are formed. Both the Springs and Neaps occur 48–60 hours after the corresponding phases of the moon. In most parts of the world there are two high and low tides every lunar day – which is 24 hours, 50 minutes and 28 seconds. Her Majesty’s Nautical Almanac Office: www.ukho.gov.co.uk
On 10 September 1964, the Kinks’ ‘You Really Got Me’ displaced ‘Have I the Right?’ by the Honeycombs – Joe Meek’s final chart-topper – from the Number 1 spot. If this was, as rock’n’roll history books later claimed, the first official heavy rock, metal (or punk) record, it had little effect on the Everyman, who were advancing from strength to strength in another direction altogether. The group had a new rehearsal space, a former WWII shelter underneath St Edweard’s churchyard, as well as a new lead singer, who, three times a week in this damp stone cellar, threw his weight around and repeatedly bullied the group into endless rehearsals of a suite of songs dedicated to his adorable girlfriend.
Grantchester Love Chronicle was a set of six ornate love poemes, in style somewhere between Martin Carthy, a regular at Cambridge Folk Club, and Richard Strauss, whose Four Last Songs were a recent discovery of John Nightly’s. Performed by the Everyman as a kind of folk-song suite, what John Hilton insisted on referring to as ‘mod-baroque’ – John Nightly’s set of four-minute ballads with connecting instrumental passages, including the standout ‘Wave Orange Love’, was a very early example of a sound that would emerge in records like ‘I Got You Babe’ and ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’ the following year, becoming fully formed with the eventual distillation of a variety of influences into the music of Pentangle, Fairport Convention and West Coast groups like the Left Banke and the Lovin’ Spoonful. In a long-forgotten vault beneath the rainy pavements of Cambridge town centre, as lightly picked arpeggios collided with a Mersey backbeat, a movement that would come to be known as ‘folk-rock’ was a-coming.
O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
William Blake, ‘Holy Thursday’, 1789
The offices of John Carter Enterprises, Carnaby Street, London W1. Thursday, 5 March 1966. 11.00am.
‘But we have to promote the record… even if we don’t actually have the thing recorded yet. And you have to have some kind of… philosophy. Something they can write about. Everyone has a philosophy, man…’
The manager peered at the boy through a gap in the leaning tower. It was rare for Pond to consult with an artist regarding promotion, or anything else for that matter, and a mark of respect for this particular client that today he could be bothered enough to do so.
‘What the hell they gonna write about, anyway? Those…’ Pond spluttered before pausing for a moment, trying to summon up much more of an insult than the one which appeared. ‘Pillocks!’ he cried. ‘Never met one yet capable of writing a word about anything at all… helpful – helpful to us, that is.’ The manager seemed reasonably satisfied with his assessment. ‘Personality is the only thing those dolts understand. Telling you… Per-son-a-li-ty!’
Pond let the word slither out. He shot up from his desk and advanced, waltzed, towards the boy, as he enunciated Newley-like: ‘Per-so-na-li-ty… Hup! Per-so-na-li-ty—’ mimicking the popular entertainer’s overenthusiastic delivery, firing off each tuneless syllable before breaking away. ‘There needs to be some kind of… “thing”. Protest… “political” thing. Something… something…’ he paused for a second, ‘with a point to it!’ The manager broke off. ‘They love “points”. Love that kind of… thing. All the stuff you’re actually interested in. Anti-this and anti-that…’ Pond leaned back against the rubbish heap on his desk – ‘Everyone has a thing!’ – visibly frustrated at being unable to explain himself quite to his satisfaction. He leered at the boy and looked round for cigarettes, momentarily defeated.
John Nightly untied his scarf and smiled, trying to take it all in. Back in London, back in Carnaby Street, here he was, delivered into a family of… ‘aliens’ was the only way he could accurately describe his paymasters. JCE was an energetic, fast-changing environment. The pace of which was determined by the redoubtable Pond.
With the new employee a little under the weather due to a sleepless night at the Royal Lancaster, and with Cornelia supposedly taking notes, employer and employee were discussing an interview, John’s first ever, to be given to the Daily Telegraph’s Young Idea magazine. Almost a ‘briefing’ session, necessary because the concept of promotion was something the boy was obviously quite lost with.
‘I don’t understand why I can’t just talk about my music?’
‘You can talk about anything you wish. But chances are they won’t be interested. They won’t write about it and they won’t print it, and therefore it won’t actually do any good.’ Pond pointed to the centre-spread open on his desk. December’s Record Scene showed four new signings, the teen mag’s own ‘tips for the top’: the Amazed, the Mike Kay Khorus, the Oliver Twists and new soul sensation Carl & Carla. ‘Look at this lot!’ he drooled, stabbing accusingly at the pages with a tatt
y fag end. ‘They all talked about music.’ He gurned and grimaced as he brushed his luxurious hair from his face. ‘Where did it get ’em?’ The manager rubbed his tired eyes and loosened his cravat. None of the acts’ debut releases had achieved anything more than to be returned to the pressing plant from whence they came. ‘Pillocks! Bloody pillocks! The lot of ’em,’ Pond declared. ‘Not the groups, but the so-called “managers” these unfortunates have the misfortune to associate with…’
He turned to Cornelia, ‘Tea…’
‘What else are you interested in, John?’ Pond looked up from his desk. ‘What are your other “specialist areas”?’ The manager was only half concentrating, as usual, as he picked through the morning’s post.
‘Other than …music?’ John considered. ‘Well… when you say protest… you’ve got things like Ban the Bomb…’
‘Ban the Bomb?’ Pond swept through the tapes and demos as if he were clearing a rainforest. ‘No one’s interested in Ban the Bomb. All that bomb-banning. Folk people got it covered from the start. Can’t take anymore “banning of bombs”,’ he twitched. ‘They’re either gonna ban the things now or blow us all up! Have to come up with something a bit more interesting than that!’ he concluded philosophically, before pausing suddenly, having realised what he’d just said. ‘“Better” than… y’know… “bigger”…’ he sighed again. ‘Something more… unique. More of a story… is what I’m…’
The boy summoned up the courage to respond.
‘I don’t know if anything could be much… bigger? Than, well… the nuclear bomb!’ Cornelia turned to her boss, rooting for him while displaying a sneaking satisfaction at seeing him being made a fool of. The boy carried on: ‘…pretty big thing to… to ban…’
‘John…’
The teenager caught his breath. Sarcasm and a general air of superiority are not appealing personality traits. In John Nightly’s case, whenever it seemed that he might be halted or slowed in his progress towards any goal he would always react badly. John Nightly’s only wish in life was to be allowed to carry out his mission. At his own pace and with nil interference. No plan could be changed or decision revised, no matter how wrong-headed it seemed, once it had been decided upon. Not even by its instigator. It was almost as if he would still force himself to proceed in a chosen direction rather than reconsider, even while acknowledging that his own course may not be the best one.
In the corridor, Sand was attempting to deal with two unannounced visitors and a delivery; so Cornelia, who was about to pour fresh Earl Grey, left the room to answer the phone next door.
‘Dave Davison on the line…’
‘Call him later…’ Pond shouted, pulling himself up from his desk.
‘There’s my astronomical things? Tidal things… uh… thing things? That’s a good one, surely?’ Suddenly John Nightly woke up, ‘New Power… Wave Power… all that kind of… power and… Wave… uh… interesting to everyone at the moment.’
‘Never heard of it, and no one else will have either.’ Pond made a dismissive gesture. ‘Sounds like something to do with hairdressing! We need an angle… a good old… angle, like anything else.’
The manager sat down again. More post had arrived, and tea, hastily delivered by Cornelia between phone calls. A newer pile of tapes, contracts and begging letters awaited his attention. He pulled open the drawer of his desk and produced an ivory-handled cake knife. Selecting a large gold-trimmed envelope, he held it up, admired it briefly then slit it open. A gold-trimmed invitation – New Musical Express Poll Winners ’66 – fell out. Pond threw the card up in the air and feigned a two-handed midfielder’s catch.
‘Come with me to that… Introduce you to some people.’ He picked up a long-extinct cigarette and relit it.
Pond manoeuvred his head from side to side, as if he were slowly unscrewing it. The new employee was becoming frustrated. The new employer was becoming frustrated.
‘John…’
But at least the boy was beginning to understand how to play the manager. He took a moment to catch his breath. What he was faced with on the other corner of the room was a conundrum. ‘Irascible’ was John Pond’s natural state. Like his charge, Pond could operate effectively only if he had the full support of his co-workers. Could be successful only if someone let him.
John folded his arms, leaned back and stared straight at the opposing force.
‘…I am only interested in music… you know I am. I only know about music. But I believe that I know… a lot… about it. I don’t mean I’m… I’m boasting, or anything… I just do know. It is literally my thing.’ The boy softened. ‘And it’s my only thing, so it’s also my… my vocation. It is my life, or so far it is. My speciality, as you say, and therefore my… my “angle”.’ He stared directly at Pond. ‘On everything. On… life itself.’ John paused. ‘So I can talk about it… till the cows come home if you want me to, and…’
‘And… and… and…’ the manager stirred from his chair.
John Nightly wasn’t used to tension this early in the morning. A nervous Cornelia re-entered the office. She placed two tiny cubes wrapped in greaseproof paper on the manager’s in-tray.
‘Tell me what you’ll say if you’re going to talk about this!’
Pond, ever more irritated and fed up, had raised his voice to what he realised was an unacceptable level. This was a business discussion after all. He paused and searched his desk for a tea-cup, pen or cigarette-lighter, in need of a prop. He caught sight of the greasy cubes, picked one up and made as if to toss it over to the client.
‘If you’re going to talk about music as you describe, and promote yourself… C’mon, then… have a go. Try it out… and entertain me, the dear reader…’ The boy sat up straight and allowed himself one more breath.
‘I’ll… uh… talk about how I make music, and what I… how I…’
‘How can I say this, John?’ Pond made a pillow shape with his hands and yawned. ‘You’re sending me off to the old Land of Nod a little too… prematurely…’
It really was extremely rude behaviour. Pond picked up the knife and sliced open another missive. A large, crown-size envelope with red sealing wax.
‘Thing is… we’re just starting a relationship here, so we… we need to be honest with each other.’ There was no response. Pond pulled out another exclusive-looking card, raised his eyebrows and placed it to one side. ‘Because… to be honest… if you don’t me mind me being honest, for a minute… You can be a little… “innocent”…’ The manager looked disappointed with himself. ‘“Inexperienced” is… yeah… a bit inexperienced about these things… about… the world in general maybe… If you don’t mind me… saying so… ISN’T THAT RIGHT, BABE?’
Pond aimed the rhetorical blast directly at his secretary, who almost jumped out of her knee-length boots. He gathered the remaining pile of envelopes, straightened up and realigned the tower as best he could, edged it over to the corner of his desk, checked the wastepaper basket was positioned directly beneath, and tipped it in.
‘You talking about music does not get us the coverage we need, that “good copy” everyone wants… and that… the journalists, those dopehead pillocks, are looking for. It doesn’t.’ Cornelia scribbled furiously, continuing to pretend to make notes.
‘These days, when everybody and their grandads are making records, you do need an angle… a good one, as well… in terms of promo: Pro-mo-tion… harmless stuff, promotion… A crazy old inconvenience no doubt, designed by Stone Age managers probably, to promote things, so that people – general public, God bless ’em – realise that the damned record exists; so that in turn, knowing it exists, they can maybe even hear it once or twice on the radio… if we can get those pillock dopeheads to play the thing, the blessed public might even go out and buy it.’ Pond took a breath. ‘That in turn makes you very happy, gives us a chart position we can work with, and eventually, though it’s only kind of a… by-product… in a way… of the whole… condition or “procedure”… s
hebang, perhaps…’ he laughed. ‘Anyway… eventually… hopefully… sooner or later, sometime in the not-too-distant future, it makes both of us, very… well, happy… “money-wise”… Rich!’ He looked up at his audience – first at Cornelia, then the boy – before nodding conclusively in agreement with himself. ‘Guess that is definitely the right word.’ The manager seemed relieved. ‘And that – not the rich bit, but the whole thing – the whole spaghetti… is the one and only reason I’m…’
‘… I understand that. I really do. But the music I have is actually good…’ The boy paused, ‘so it doesn’t really…’
Pond picked up his cube of fudge and took a bite while finishing off John Nightly’s sentence for him. ‘Doesn’t need promoting!’ The manager whispered. ‘I know, man… I know. IT – DOESN’T – NEED – PROMOTING! Because good stuff doesn’t, does it?’ He got up from his chair. ‘It’s that good! That powerful! Like the Queen doesn’t need promoting. Mickey Mouse doesn’t need promoting; the Pope doesn’t need it. I do know what you mean. Coca-Cola doesn’t. That’s why they’ve all spent one hundred-odd years promoting these things, I guess? Heard that one before, y’see.’
The sticky stuff affixed itself to the manager’s front tooth as he continued to proclaim. The scene having become farcical, Sand and a new visitor could be heard stifling laughter from the safety of the corridor.
‘We know you’re good at music, John.’ Pond detached the piece of gunk from his mouth. ‘That’s why we’ve signed you… We think you’re a genius at music. We hope you are, anyway. Bit of a mistake if you’re not!’ he laughed.
