Sick On You

by Andrew Matheson

  So, on Guy Fawkes Night we travel for thousands of miles on the Tube from Fulham Broadway to Acton and show up at a very nice house indeed on a very nice street indeed. Inside, it’s crowded but you can’t really say the joint is rocking. The joint’s not even swaying—it’s more like flinching. Student types are standing around chatting, holding drinks politely and talking earnestly. One couple are holding hands and doing a sort of Tourette’s twitch to the naff music on the stereo.

  So muted and tweedy are the crowd that, for the first couple of minutes, we think we’ve got the wrong house and instead have stumbled into a retirement party for a particularly dull Ecclesiastical Studies professor. But no, soon enough one or two of the Queensters come over with beverages and bonhomie. Not to mention loon pants and cheesecloth shirts. Spare me.

  I find a mantelpiece to lean on near the stereo and immediately wish I hadn’t. It is nonstop prog rock, Genesis, ELP, and unidentifiable others of the same pretentious ilk, interspersed with Queen, Queen, and more Queen. Casino can’t stand it either and takes a much more aggressive approach to the problem, rifling through the LP stack until he finds something palatable. He commandeers the stereo, tosses Genesis aside, and puts on Mott the Hoople. I don’t particularly like Mott, but Cas does and it’s a huge improvement on the progs. What isn’t?

  There are precisely no attractive women at this party. None. Not even sort of. Not even a halfway reasonable looker to whom one would, out of a sense of Christian charity, administer even the most perfunctory of porkings.

  Even the firework display turns out to be a damp squib. We’ve got way more exciting fireworks, competitive fireworks, dangerous fireworks every night in our front room. Early on, we take our leave and start the long journey back, trying to make last call at the Greyhound. As we walk the dark streets toward the station Lou lights the way with a torch he has conveniently brought with him.*

  The next day, Guy Fawkes plus one, the office sends us to Camden to meet a “highly rated” bass player for a pint and a chat. I don’t know who rated this guy “highly,” probably his foster mum, but when we meet him he reeks of patchouli oil and is wearing patched denim jeans, an Afghan coat, and a hat. And we all know why he’s wearing a hat.

  Right, Brady is, I’m told, under siege. He is being bombarded by calls from the shag-rug Siamese cat man. He wants a meeting about this Derek character. The four of us convene at the Mitre pub at the corner of Bishop’s and Dawes Roads, and over a pint we debate the pros and cons of the man. The number-one consideration on the agenda is that the endless search for a bass player is grinding our spirits into dust. Why can’t we find a bass player? It is four strings, for Christ’s sake, and they’re big, too. You can’t miss them. You put a finger down and there it is, E.

  Anyway, from what we remember, Derek does fit the bill looks-wise, sort of. His clothes are pitiful but what can you do? And Brady claims he can play.

  The main grudge all of us have against him, one we each bring to the table separately, is that we offered him the gig when we were starving, living in a squat, and had nothing but an idea, a concept, and he turned us down flat. Now that we’ve got a contract and money and new gear, and are about to start recording in Olympic Studios, suddenly the chump’s had a change of heart and is on the phone, pleading, every five minutes.

  We get a couple of other things off our chests: the white shag carpet, the Siamese cats, things like that. Then we take a vote, outcome 3–1 in favor of his admission. We discuss things some more, each Brat making his case, and then we vote again, outcome 2–2. Three more pints go down the hatch before we come to the realization that time is flying by. Mainly, we’re sick of auditions. We have to get back into Olympic.

  Another vote is taken: outcome 4–0.

  Back down Bishop’s Road. Here we come, walking down the street, we get the funniest looks from everyone we meet. We stop and admire a beautiful ’72 lime-green Lotus Europa. One day, when I’m rich . . .

  We open the door of number 26. The phone is ringing. Guess who?

  * * *

  Ken sets up an audition at the Pied Bull in Islington, and on November 22, 1973 (ten years to the day since Lee Harvey Oswald shot that policeman in Dallas), we put Derek through his paces. He turns up looking not a million miles removed from one of the chaps in the New Seekers. Nondescript hair, tame threads, but his bass case contains a Fender Precision and there are hints that the man might have a sense of humor. He’s familiar with the Kinks’ “I Need You” so we give that a bash, along with the obligatory Chuck Berry, and we even have a go at “Nightmare.” He’s okay. He’s not Mick or the session guy, but he’s okay.

  We all repair to the nearest rub-a-dub-dub where pints are sunk and Cas, Lou, and I continue to inspect the man over the rims of our drinks. He likes a pint, he knows “I Need You,” he can hold his own in the chat department, and he has some kind of rapport with Brady. What the hell? Three rounds down five throats and Derek’s in the band. Ken will work out what to pay him and whatever bass and amp he wants.

  This guy’s not backward about stepping forward. Next day, he rushes out and picks up a Rickenbacker 4001 Fireglo bass then pops over to Roxy Music’s house and from them buys a Fender setup with reverse eighteen-inch speaker and an extra twelve-inch cabinet. Says send the bill to Worldwide Artists. He’s not shy.

  No more auditions, thank Christ. Now the office sets up block time for serious band rehearsals at a great facility in Walthamstow. The studio is spacious and carpeted, with fantastic acoustics, an in-house roadie to assist Louie, and best of all, it comes with a complete bar and bartender. There is only one problem. Where’s Walthamstow?

  A quick scour of the A–Z and there it is, way out at the end of the Victoria Line, last stop, past Seven Sisters, Tottenham Hale, and Blackhorse Road.

  We arrive to find our equipment set up perfectly, the keyboards, the Gretsch drums, the Firebird, the microphones—and this time they are joined by a certain bass man’s Rickenbacker/Fender ensemble.

  Thus ensconced in deepest Walthamstow, we begin the task of teaching the Hollywood Brats repertoire to Derek. Day after day, working hard, getting better and better. He’s starting to fit in, starting to give lip back when he gets it, which is often.

  Ken wants to come and see us but we tell him to forget it. We’ll let you know when we’re ready. And the thing with Ken is that he loves that kind of attitude. He says he’ll wait. Don’t worry, squire. We don’t need much time.

  Thank you for the days in Walthamstow. Four days, six days, it’s starting to sound like something interesting is going on here. More and more often, in the middle of a song Casino and I look at each other and give a slight nod. There’s no denying it. This thing is starting to cook, just like Bo Diddley backstage with his chicken and his frying pan.

  Casino and I have a new song we are working out with the boys called “Tumble with Me.” It’s not entirely finished lyrically but we’ve got the musical arrangement sorted out. This must be a relief for Derek because he gets to learn it from scratch along with the other lads, for once. I’ve written all the lyrics except for the chorus. I haven’t yet come up with something that fits the rest of the mood of the piece. Stay tuned, I’ll figure it out.

  But then suddenly I don’t have to. We run it through again and, when it comes to the stop at the chorus, I’m just about to mouth some gibberish when Casino leans into his microphone and sings:

  So wake up little Susie

  Stop picking your nose

  We all break up laughing and the song clatters to a halt, but when we settle down I tell Cas I like it and we’re going to use it. He can’t believe it—he was just joking.

  XXII

  The New York Dolls are on The Old Grey Whistle Test tonight, November 27, so we wrap up the rehearsal at Walthamstow and Louie picks us up in the van. He lives in one of the delightful tower blocks nearby and has invited us to go there to catch
the program. Derek declines the invite. Eyebrows are raised, glances exchanged, but we leave it at that. So it’s just the four of us, as usual.

  The tower block in which Louie resides is right out of A Clockwork Orange. A bleak concrete maze with nary a sprig of greenery in sight. Broken glass, underground walkways full of debris swirling in the wind; all it lacks is a soundtrack featuring the lovely Ludwig Van.

  Up the creaking, stinking lift we go to the fifteenth floor. The lift doors open to reveal five skinheads standing there, bored stiff, smoking, waiting to descend. One is having an unabashed slash on the wall opposite. Judging by the stain and the stench it’s not the first time this has occurred.

  They seem as surprised to see us as we are to see them and, because the lift doors are beginning to close, for once it’s a draw. They all hurry to get in and hold the door while the urinating chap shivers, zips up, flicks his fag end down the hall, and saunters in to join the droogs of the Walthamstow chapter. He must be their Alex.

  Once safely, mercifully, inside Louie’s flat, we are introduced to his missus, who is gracious and welcomes us into her home and serves us as many beers as we like. She’s a good lass. We settle down with our usual Doll trepidation to watch Whistle Test.

  We can’t stand wheezy Bob Harris, his beard, his asthmatic whisper, his clobber, his program, his phone-perv voice, or anything else about him. But, as British viewers, we’re condemned to this monopoly. It’s this or Top of the Pops. These two programs have UK music sewn up—we’ve got no choice. We’re doomed to watch them.

  The difference is, though, that TOTP has no pretensions. Absolutely none. If you’re in the charts this week you’re on, simple as that. Plus, they’ve got Pan’s People. Cue coyote howl. Whistle Test, meanwhile, is nothing but pretension. It is the hippy ideal of what music should be. And into this nuthouse stagger the Dolls.

  Roberto del Wheezer introduces them with some preamble claptrap, something about comparing Monkees to Beatles, a “pale and amusing derivative,” he says. What? What a dink. But I don’t have time to reflect on it. The Dolls kick off with “Looking for a Kiss.” Brady is familiar with it. I look askance at him. He must be secretly listening to the Dolls album. Still, on TV it sounds okay to me. And I can’t help but be transfixed by two things: firstly, the rhythm guitarist’s a Lilliputian; secondly, where do you get a set of pink drums? And, speaking of drums, given our recent bass woes, look at these guys. Their drummer dies in a bathtub in London and five minutes later they’ve got another one, plays fine, looks fine. What’s New York got that London hasn’t?

  The four of us give the TV screen serious lip while they’re playing—sneering at this, deriding that—but really, what a relief. These guys no longer present a problem. Later in the program they wrap up their Old Grey experience with “Jet Boy.” And oh, my, does “Jet Boy” love the spotlight. “Jet Boy” can’t get enough of itself. “Jet Boy” goes on forever. I sniff Todd Rundgren’s overkill influence here. Any normal rock genius would have edited this baby at the three-minute, twenty-second mark, if only to maximize the two ounces of dynamics it possesses, but no, on it plods to just short of five minutes.

  That’s verging on prog rock. Cue catcalls and boos from the Walthamstow Tower Block Chorus.

  As they finish we sit back, yak away, and relax in the knowledge that this band we had worried so much about is in no way a threat. We are about to give them a couple more verbal jabs, kick them when they’re up, when something happens that shifts our allegiance like only an 8.6 Richter-scale earthquake can shimmy, shimmy, ko ko bop a tectonic plate. As the last note dies away, wheezy Bob sniffs, chuckles, goes to pick his nose but deflects his finger at the last second, and then dismisses the New York Dolls as “mock rock.”

  Mock rock? The New York Dolls may not be my cup of hemlock but let me tell you this: they are great compared to most of the navel gazers I’ve seen on Old Grey Whistle Test. Mock rock? Go rinse out your beard and buff your incisors.

  The Hollywood Brats don’t consider the New York Dolls musical rivals, but this is different. Maybe now we see them as philosophical allies aligned against all the dinosaurs of this world.

  Oh, there is one supremely annoying thing. The Dolls’ bloody guitarist has a Vox teardrop.

  * * *

  We rehearse diligently and effectively throughout the first two weeks of December and are actually beginning to sound like the Hollywood Brats should sound. One night, on the wheels of a whim, we decide to pop out and find a pub, just for a break. The nearest one is a beauty, a throwback, prewar time capsule. Not fancy in the slightest, in fact Edwardian dowdy, twenty or so customers, coal fire blazing away at one end. Six patrons standing, pints in hand, around an old upright piano, singing “All of Me.” We love it. Publican and patron alike treat us better than we get treated in Chelsea or Oxford Street. Friendliness, politeness, and good humor are the order of the day.

  After the first pint we can’t resist joining those at the piano in a bit of a singsong. You took the part that once was my heart so why not take all of me? Brilliant. What an interlude here, far away from the Speak, the Marquee, and all the ultrahip rest of London.

  * * *

  On a freezing night, while we’re watching Parkinson, the kitchen ceiling at 26 Bishop’s Road collapses with a mighty, dusty, terrifying thump. This is how we get the distinct pleasure of meeting our landlord. Two days later he comes over to inspect the damage. He is a drunk, stoned, pleasant-enough Jamaican fellow called Jasper Beauregard III, who finds the scene hilarious and can’t stop laughing. He has to sit down on a kitchen chair amid the chaos and ask if we have a beer we can spare. I can barely understand his charming, musical patois and have very little interest in doing so. Just fix the ceiling.

  Next day, three more Jamaicans arrive, waking us up at the crack of 2 p.m., to sweep up the plaster and broken bits of wood lathe and such, rabbiting away the entire time and taking many “tea” breaks. In a mere three hours they get all the rubble out the front door, into the boot and backseat of a beat-up Ford Cortina, and drive away.

  The drummer, the guitarist, and I spend our evenings throwing firecrackers at each other, watching TV, drinking cans of Long Life, and gluing together and painting plastic models. Lou buys a ’55 Chevy, Brady a ’31 Model A Ford, and I, a Stuka dive-bomber.

  Ken has booked us into a rehearsal space on King’s Road on December 16 so he can see what we’ve been getting up to out there in darkest Walthamstow. We get in, set up, give it a bash to get loose, down a tube or two to get looser, then send Louie to retrieve Ken, who is also warming up, after a fashion, down the street at the Chelsea Potter.

  He arrives, the epitome of cool: just nudging drunk, ten-foot-long white wool scarf wrapped around his throat, and, dragging across the floor as he walks, a gray overcoat; Ray-Bans, plimsolls, ever-present fag, and, as always, killer hair. He refuses to sit, insists on standing, or rather leaning.

  We then proceed to pin him to that wall he’s leaning on and knock him completely dead. “Tumble with Me,” which he’s never heard, kicks off proceedings, then, whammo, “Sick On You” has been distilled into the raw essence of the Hollywood Brats. This is custom-made mayhem. The drums are primal and pounding, the vocals sneering, retching, the guitars finally at maximum razor howl. We’ve created a perfect, snarling, four-minute chainsaw symphony. This is it. This is what we are.

  Two songs later, we wrap things up with a blistering, not to mention entirely riff-free, “Chez Maximes.”

  Ken’s cool has evaporated. He ceased leaning about ten seconds into “Tumble with Me.” He can’t stop talking. He loves it, he’s got plans, Wilf has got to see this, the world has to see this. He pulls out a notebook and scrawls something unreadable down. It’s plain, he’s slain. This ain’t the Speakeasy anymore and this ain’t Gooseberry and this sure as hell ain’t last month’s Olympic Studios riff-stravaganza.

  This is the Hollywood B
rats plus one in Chelsea, December 1973.

  XXIII

  Ken is so pleased with his pilgrims’ progress that he hands over £30 for us to go have a drink after rehearsal, a rehearsal that ends, of course, within two seconds of him leaving the building. The poignancy of the moment falls somewhat short of poignant, but I nonetheless recall that this marks the second time we’ve been given £30 by a manager after seeing us rehearse on King’s Road. The first episode seems like it occurred a century ago. We’ve come a long way since Chris Andrews, good chap though he was.

  And there’s another key difference between that time and this. Along with thirty nicker, Ken also hands us an invitation for the Hollywood Brats to attend the Penthouse Christmas party at their eponymous club in Mayfair on December 21.

  Life just keeps getting better and better. Penthouse magazine, created by Bob Guccione, the Mafia’s answer to Hugh Hefner, is a magazine much revered in Bratdom. The young ladies featured in the pages are distinctly attractive and don’t appear to have the slightest qualm about not only disrobing, but also contorting their bodies into various gymnastic poses so as to give the viewer maximum visual advantage when it comes to perusing every square inch of their delectable selves.

  Now Penthouse is throwing a Christmas party, and the Brats are invited? If this is a dream, for Christ’s sake don’t wake me up.

  Of late, Brady has been spending time with some minx named Lynn. I’ve met her; she’s generally drunk and her top half is blonde. Seems all right, I suppose, except of course for her appalling taste in men. I would ordinarily not give her another thought but the boy has developed a whining tendency, when drunk, for moaning about her and pleading for her attendance and suchlike. This behavior is utterly unacceptable in our world.