Sick On You

by Andrew Matheson

  Tomorrow belongs to the Hollywood Brats.

  XIII

  Sometime in 1968, having survived a palace revolution or two, the King of Rock ’n’ Roll, Elvis Presley—freshly trimmed, newly drugged, and bedecked in black leather—blasted back into contention via a televised affair that came to be known as the ’68 Comeback Special.

  There, on a small square stage, surrounded by a sea of beehived American babes sitting close enough to be perspired upon, Elvis declared to all whipper-snapping pretenders that if they were looking for trouble, they could once again look right in his face.

  He teased, he tempted, he sneered, he smiled that knicker-elastic-melting smile. He fell to one knee and dabbed his brow with a proffered unmentionable then handed it back to a twenty-one-year-old stenographer who looked forty and who shed silent tears as she was led away to an institution for the psychotically infatuated.

  He crooned, they swooned—that was the deal. His Lloyd’s of London–insured pelvis still had all the power and crushed-chicken-bone voodoo it had once wielded. It was as though he’d never been away. Sure, there were concessions. He strummed an electric guitar, not acoustic. Brylcreem was out, shampoo was in. But there was no doubt about it: the King was back.

  His subjects were mightily impressed. None more so than sixteen-year-old Stein Groven back home in Trondheim, Norway, watching on a black-and-white TV. This was, coincidentally, the night Stein learned the English word “comeback.”

  Stein keeps saying, “Let’s have a comeback; the Hollywood Brats comeback.” It does no good whatsoever to explain to him that in order to have a “comeback,” you have to have been somewhere. We’ve never been anywhere, we haven’t done anything, and we certainly haven’t had the luxury of going, or even fading, away. So how can we have a comeback? Where did he come up with that word? He remains undeterred. His description of a comeback is vague, but the rest of us get the impression that a comeback is somehow wild, raucous, and decadent, the last thing anyone would imagine and the first thing they’d never like to experience again. Or something like that. Also, you have to dress up.

  It’s Friday night and Stein has designated it our “comeback” night. We’ve rehearsed for five hours and we have never sounded better. This is the sound we’ve been looking for. We are still bugged that we haven’t got it down on tape but, oh my, in our West Hampstead kitchen we’re untouchable.

  We play like we’re in some wild club in front of an audience we’re not even sure exists. We’re convinced that the Hollywood Brats are the greatest band in the world and that it’s only a matter of time before everybody else catches on.

  There is no escaping the fact that, since Mick came aboard with that lightning bass, our rhythm section is buzzing like a boomtown sawmill. The downside is that he dresses like a bus driver and he’s always having to dash back to Hemel Hempstead to his girlfriend. In our religion these sins are cardinal.

  Tonight is no exception: last chord and cymbal crash on the Kinks’ “I Need You,” and Mick’s out the door, down Dog Shit Lane, heading for the Tube.

  We’re in the big room, sharing two tall Carlsbergs, the Pretty Things yelling “Rosalyn” from the pile of junk Brady calls a stereo.

  One mirror (mercifully missed by the club-swinging apes), four Brats, plenty of makeup and finery. We’ve got bracelets, red fingernails, black fingernails, skyscraper heels, plexiglass bangles, a dress, a bodice, a waistcoat, and more—always more. Brady’s in black from barnet to boots: black velvet, black satin, black leather, black scarf and shades, boot heels worn down, toes so pointy that cockroaches in corners are cowering.

  I’m in topper and tails, red strides, and white shoes. Silver-topped cane, nails are black. We are ready to foist ourselves onto the London night.

  Then Stein reaches into a satchel and pulls out two bottles. Says it’s what Norwegian fishermen drink. Says it’s 98 proof. We are neither discerning nor fussy. We each have a swig. Wow! It tastes like fire, like petrol, and goes down the throat like contaminated gravel. In ten minutes we’re smashed.

  This stuff’s a blowtorch in a bottle, a flamethrower on the tongue, a napalm cocktail. Brady dances over to the stereo and screeches the needle across the grooves. He skims the Pretty Things like a Frisbee into the far wall. We applaud so he kicks a speaker to the floor, where it lies humming loudly in protest. He doesn’t need much prompting these days. Got to admit, this lad’s loosening up. He shuffles through a stack of records until he finds what he’s after, plops it on the turntable, and drops needle on vinyl.

  The record sounds like whisker rub then it’s Long John Baldry growling Willie Dixon’s “Hoochie Coochie Man.”

  Stein leans over to me, all shifty-eyed and conspiratorial, breath like industrial solvent. “Andrew, I’ve thought of a new name for me.”

  “Yeah? What is it?” I inquire, leaning upwind. The guitars and howling harp of “Hoochie Coochie Man” ensure confidentiality but still Stein and his breath lean closer. He sighs. Take it from me, a sigh isn’t always just a sigh. Close to my right ear, he hisses something that sounds like “Steel Casino.”

  Wow. That’s not what I expected and it’s not bad. But I want to alter it a smidge. “How about flipping it around . . . Casino Steele?”

  “Steel?”

  “Yeah, Steele.”

  “I said Steve.”

  “Casino Steve? I thought you said Steele?”

  “No, I said Steve Casino. But Steel’s good.”

  “Steele’s good? Steele’s great. That’s a great rock ’n’ roll name, Casino Steele, with an ‘e.’” I write it out for him. Stein nods. He loves his new handle. And why not? “Casino Steele,” now that’s a classic name. Then he holds up a finger and says, “I don’t want that last ‘e.’ I don’t want to be connected to Tommy Steele.” Fair enough, squire, nor would I. We tell the boys and they agree it’s a great name. From this moment on there is no Stein Groven. Arise and go forth, Casino Steel.

  Casino has a few quid in his pocket so we go out to celebrate. Tonight, we’ll go to the Speakeasy for the first time. Shame Mick can’t come with us (cue meow and sound of whip). The boys want to hit the Marquee first, which is a bit dodgy for me, considering I was shown the door the last two times I was there. Brady was turfed once too but he doesn’t seem to give a toss. Either that or he can’t remember.

  We catch a bus, grab the top pew, and away we go, sharing tugs on the second bottle of Norwegian barnacle remover. We are flying and decide to get out of the bus at Marble Arch and walk the remaining two hundred miles to Wardour Street.

  We stroll along Oxford Street, north side, swigging on the bottle. Tourists give us a wide berth as though we carry bubonic plague. Brady has to slash so we pop into the first convenience we find, a ladies’ public loo. Women scatter. It is all very dignified and elegant.

  We finally arrive at the Marquee criminally, toxically drunk, and yet we are allowed in. Oily Jack must be out for the evening. While the rest of us head to the bar, Brady goes to check out the band. He’s soon back with a babe in tow, the kind he favors: petite, dark, heavy on the eyeliner, half-undressed, and not fussy.

  Soon, though, it’s time to split. It’s time to head to the Speakeasy, the blessed Speak—and by special invite, too. On Wardour Street rubbish bins set out for collection the next day prove too tempting a proposition for Brady and Lou, who set about kicking them to smithereens and throwing them into the street.

  The sound at this odd hour of the night is deafening, and a solid citizen yells something about the police so we leg it until we hail a cab.

  We’ve never been to the Speak. Well, of course we’ve never been to the Speak. We live in a rat-infested squat. We eat rice and, on a good day, wash our hair with Fairy Liquid. And you can’t just go to the Speakeasy. You can’t just show up and sashay in. You have to be somebody to go to the Speak; you have to have been on Top of the Pops; you have to
have hit records or you have to be in films or you have to be a BBC slash Pirate DJ or something like that.

  Goes without saying that John, Paul, George, and Richard Starkey, MBE, have been to the Speak. The only other way to get in the Speak, which goes without saying too (so excuse me while I say it), is if you are a gorgeous chick.

  We fit none of the above criteria. And yet, after one phone call our carte is apparently and unbelievably blanche.

  The entrance to the Speakeasy is at Margaret Street level, then a dozen or so steps down to the first landing, then a tight right-corner turn and down another dozen steps to the foyer. There, a kiosk with a couple of central-casting heavies at either side, beyond them the entrance and on into the club itself.

  I’m first out of the cab, first through the door, and—having only been here once and at the time gone upstairs to Mr. O’Leary’s office and also at the time not been sozzled on Norwegian nitroglycerine—one of my feet goes for the upstairs flight and the other, acting independently, decides on the downstairs. My legs get tangled up and I plunge headfirst in a tumble like a Romanian gymnast and land with a splat at the first landing.

  Summoning a facsimile of dignity, I attempt to reassemble myself vertically, only to lurch in a spine-crunching backward plummet down the next flight of stairs, spilling like a trunk from Granny’s attic into the lobby of the Speakeasy.

  Eyebrows shoot upward, eyes pop, mouths are agape. I’m lying facedown, arms stretched out. Not my best look, first impressions and all. I’m rescued by the none-too-soon arrival of my three best pals, who can barely stop laughing for long enough to feign concern. They get me to my feet, rearrange my garb, straighten my scarf, check for protruding bones. All squared away.

  Lou addresses the doorman with two magic words: “Hollywood Brats?” And wonder of wonders, the doorman checks a list and then says, “Right, this way, sirs.”

  A long rectangular room, stage at the far end. To the right as you enter there’s a wraparound bar. Elevated tables and booths at the back, round café booths dot the floor leading to a twenty-foot semicircular parquet dance floor in front of a low stage. To the left of the stage, a curtain, which, when pulled aside, reveals a small dressing room.

  But that’s not the point. The point is that out there in the club, lounging around the tables, leaning at the bar and posing, always posing, are the glitterati of the London music scene. They judge and criticize, beaming supercilious smiles out of both sides of their faces, digging daggers in the backs of best buddies. They pretend not to read the New Musical Express, Sounds, Record Mirror, Disc, and the sainted Melody Maker every week, but in fact devour every page of them (except the jazz sections, of course) as soon as they hit the newsstands, scouring them for any snippet of a mention of their fabulous, shiny little lives. Doing this, signing that, and trying to make some girl.

  We may be zonked out of our minds but we’ve arrived.

  A short conga line later, we are shown to a fine table. We sit back and spy, among other fascinating things, Messrs. Stewart and Wood—Roderick and Ronald, respectively—at the bar having what appears to be a conversation of sidesplitting hilarity, featuring much slapping of the bar top and bending down laughing at one’s shoes. Mr. Wood’s hairdo is particularly startling. It’s like he’s got a dead porcupine dyed black and plopped on his skull. It could poke your eye out.

  Bryan Ferry from Roxy Music is in a booth not far away, with a companion as glamorous as she is gaunt. For Christ’s sake, buy the bird a burger, Bry. Then again, perhaps he is entranced by the allure of her emaciation.

  This is a million miles from our world of squats and slums. We’re not walking the late-night streets of West Hampstead with our drummer eyeing the pavement for cigarette butts. This really is the Speakeasy, and that really is Bryan Ferry sitting not twenty feet away. He is nattily attired, naturally, in a shiny gray double-breasted number, cigarette dangling from his pout. His music may be rubbish but I must say his hair is fab, all floppy and blackened.

  We’d better get used to breathing in this rarefied atmosphere.

  A waitress arrives with an unordered tray of drinks. Just what we need. For some reason I’m drinking Southern Comfort for the first time in my life. She announces that the drinks are compliments of the management. This brings forth a chorus of appreciatory, drunken hurrahs. As the waitress leans over, distributing beverages, Casino, in the manner of a farmworker testing the ripeness of a grapefruit, reaches up and squeezes her breast.

  This is not well received. After a sharp intake of breath she jumps upright and delivers a stinging slap to Casino’s hand. Not overly perturbed, Casino shrugs, sits back, and smiles like a glassy-eyed Buddha.

  Affronted, not to mention tested for ripeness, the waitress jiggles off in the direction of officialdom. I’d say our evening is getting off to a roaring start.

  The DJ plays the usual tripe, perhaps slightly more upmarket tripe, more Floyd than Cassidy, more Focus than Sweet, but who cares, it’s all dross. We are not short of a derisive jibe, the odd hiss, the succinct boo. This milieu is amazing, though, and it’s undeniably where we should be.

  A new pair of grapefruits arrives with yet another tray of drinks. She says that they were sent by someone at another table and points a fingernail in the direction of our benefactor. Good Lord, it’s a famous television personality whose name we can’t remember.

  He waves. We wave back. He throws his head back showbiz style and laughs, displaying many fine teeth. We do the same.

  ’Tis a panorama of music bizzers. Top of the Popsters mingle with power-trio bass players, girls hanging off their elbows. Quasi-sensations abound. Seen ’em once, can’t wait to never see them again.

  A beefy guy comes over to make disapproving noises about our treatment of the staff and our disapproving noises. We all point at Casino. It won’t happen again, guv.

  What on earth is his name? That chap who sent us drinks? He charms the babes and catches the bad guys every week on ITV. His mustache, karate chop, and god-awful neck jewelry are his trademarks. He has a devilish smile and a suave macho charm that women seemingly can’t resist.*

  We are beyond drunk. Casino lays his head on the table to either die or go to sleep. You can’t always tell with a Norwegian. Brady leers at women who thus far seem uncaptivated, some looking actually repelled, by his Irish charm. Lou is heavy-lidded, chain-smoking, and cheerful. I desire nothing more than to go somewhere and throw up. I try to focus on the blond haystack on the table.

  I poke him in the shoulder. “Casino, are you okay?”

  One of his key factors in making a band truly successful is if one of the members dies. Beatles, Stones, Doors, Glenn Miller—they’ve all done it. But he can’t choke to death on his own vomit yet. What’s the point? We have to at least record an album first.

  Three pokes later, he sits up slowly, mascara smeared around his eyes. He’s smiling, which I suppose is an encouraging sign. He slurs, “Fucking great. What a comeback.”

  Great it may be, but I’ve had it. I’ve reached the end. The beers, the Viking moonshine, the Southern Comforts, and the no food are not getting along at all well. I barely make the stagger to the loo. I barge into a stall, lock the door, and fall to my knees. Scarves and brown tresses frame the porcelain as I regurgitate again and again all the liquid excesses of the last few hours.

  I then want nothing more than to die in shame and squalor right here on the floor of the loo in the Speakeasy.

  Lou, out of concern or a need for entertainment, has climbed up the side of the stall and is hanging over the edge, urging me to breathe. I now have another wish. I want not only to die, but to kill Lou before I do. He persists, keeps telling me to bloody breathe, and finally, twenty minutes later, he convinces me to exit the stall and wash up at the sink. I do, splashing my face and rinsing my sour mouth.

  After a few more minutes devoted to regaining equilibrium we
head back to the club proper, just in time to see Casino and Brady being yanked from their seats and escorted out the door.

  That actor is sitting in our booth. Right next to where Casino was. He has a wistful smile on his face. My brain is too fuzzy to sort it all out so Lou and I leave the club right behind our comrades and their muscle-bound escorts. We hear something about Brady throwing an ashtray. An hour ago we were given a golden ticket, allowed into the Speakeasy for the first time with free drinks and all, feeling as though we’d arrived. Two drinks later, we’ve been kicked out. My head’s killing me.

  Poured into a taxi on the way back to the squat, my head hanging out the window, painting the streets of London, it hits me. Peter Wyngarde, that’s his name.

  * * *

  Next day is a dead loss: massive, hellish headache; more nausea (the sensation, not the Sartre book); lying in bed, moaning; staring queasily at the phlegm wall and cursing Norwegian fishermen.

  Lou, for some reason a touch perkier than Brady and me, finds a can of black paint and a paintbrush in a cupboard. He spends the day painting his room—walls, ceiling, door, floor, window frame—pitch-black. Looks great. But at night, after lights out and a couple of pans of boiling water down the fireplace to boil the vermin, we’re nodding off when the door opens and it’s Lou, dragging his slab behind him. His room is too scary to sleep in.

  We are teeth-grindingly worried that getting turfed from the Speak might have jeopardized our upcoming Saturday-night engagement. How could we do that? We seem to have a death wish, constantly flirting with bandicide. However, Casino shows up for rehearsal on Monday at noon with news direct from his hall phone. We’ve got the gig. O’Leary’s secretary has called with all the information so, incredibly, for once it appears we haven’t blown it.

  Mick rolls in on the dot, daily, from Hemel Hempstead and we rehearse relentlessly, driving each other on. In the kitchen, I’m leaning on the sink, singing away into the microphone. Lou’s set up over by the dead Norton motorcycle; Casino’s got his back to the window, tempting snipers; Brady and Mick ponce around in the center.