Sick On You

by Andrew Matheson

  On the day of the Penthouse party we pop into the office on Dover Street for a quick meeting with Ken to discuss progress with Derek and, more importantly, to pick up another of those little brown envelopes stuffed to the gills with tenners. The plan is to then scarper back to Bishop’s Road and get ready for the party. Alas, Ken, the consummate host, brings out a bottle of gin and pours us all a stiff one. Brady, though, cannot let it be. He commandeers the bottle and upends it down his throat, an act he repeats two or three more times. On the way back home he halts the taxi outside an off-license and buys his own personal bottle of Gordon’s, which he proceeds to crack open and gulp all the way home.

  Thus, at 5 p.m. he has turned himself into a vaudevillian Irish-caricature drunk.

  I am repelled. Lou, on the other hand, is kind and helpful and packs the moron off to bed, telling him to get a couple of hours’ sleep and then we’ll head off to the party. Brady gets into his fire-blackened bed but doesn’t shut up, baying non–Hollywood Brat sentences like, “Oh, where’s my little Lynn? I must talk to my little Lynn.” Then he passes out.

  Three hours later, Lou and I are looking sharp and ready to roll. I’m in a tux with tails and Lou is the epitome of drummer chic, pardon the oxymoron. Shamrock Seamus, however, is dead to the world, in a nasty yellowish singlet, arms spread wide, pits on hairy display, and snoring like a bent trombone. Not his most attractive look.

  But worse is yet to come. He awakens and drunkenly pleads for the phone to be brought to his bedside. Lou obliges. Brady then calls his “little Lynn” and mews drunken inanities to her while Lou and I look on, appalled. However, I’m not quite so appalled that I don’t go to get my tape machine and sit on Brady’s bed taping this ridiculous, embarrassing conversation for future blackmail.

  “Lynn, Lynn. Oh, my little Lynn, I miss you. What, what? No, I do, really. But I have to go to this party, this situation. What? No, no, purely business. I could come by later. Oh, don’t say that, my little Lynn. What? Oh, sorry. What? Two pints, that’s all. What? Maybe three. We’ve been up late, I’m tired. What? Of course I do.” This Shakespearian repartee could theoretically go on forever and, compelling though it is, I reach over and disconnect the phone. Brady collapses back on his pillow and falls instantly asleep.

  Forty-five minutes after this, Lou gives him a shake, says, “Come on, man, it’s the Penthouse party. Let’s go.” I’m watching this pathetic scene. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes with or without this clown, and I know what my vote is. Lou, though, is persistent, pleading with his guitarist.

  Finally, I’ve had enough of this crap. I grab a bucket from the backyard, go to the bathroom, and fill it with cold water. English December cold water. As I enter the front room Lou catches a glimpse and says, “Uh, oh.” I walk to Brady’s bed, where he lies splayed in drunken Irish oblivion, and hit him right in the face with an entire bucketful of frigid, wet wake-up.

  Twenty minutes later, the three of us are in a cab, heading for Mayfair.

  * * *

  The Penthouse Club is beyond fab. We are disgorged from the cab and walk, with the help of our pink Penthouse invitation, through a gauntlet of beefy security into a party palace, a glittering expanse of revelry and excess. Tables full of exotic grub, bartenders dispensing every drink known to man, celebrities kissing each other’s every visible upper cheek and making arrangements to smooch the lowers later.

  The centerpiece of this hedonistic playpen is a ten-foot-high pyramid of a thousand crystal champagne glasses atop a table surrounded by hundreds of bottles of Moët & Chandon. Must have taken an age to get it right, and it looks amazing in the lights.

  Thespians and pop personalities abound, stuffing their gobs, glad-handing and gushing compliments to one another while all the time looking around for somebody more important to talk to. The funniest looking among a funny-looking lot is Rick Wakeman, from the dreadful Yes. He does not remotely have the physique to pull off the head-to-toe tight-red-leather abomination he’s wearing. His doughy nether regions look particularly distasteful.

  Suits everywhere, rich-looking corpulent coves standing around, smoking cigars and slurping champers. Beefy Italian types are also in evidence, including, unmistakably, the man himself, Bob Guccione: beige lounge suit, ridiculous lapels, peach shirt open to the navel, worse lapels, gold medallion like he just won Best Extortionist at the Cosa Nostra Olympics, thick gold rings, bracelet, chest like an oily welcome mat—he’s got it all. Everything you need to be a caricature of an Italian-American porn king.

  Best of all, of course, are the women on display. The joint is dripping with gorgeous babes in all the three main hair colors. I’ve never seen so many knock-outs all in one place. And that extends to the waitresses, too. The Penthouse waitresses, dipsy-doodling around with trays of champagne, are even better than the civilian babes. They’re stunning, and they’re dressed like extra-saucy French maids, with dresses so short they make a miniskirt seem positively Amish. Frilly little hairpieces, lace cuffs, and underneath those ultrashort skirts, checked underpants trimmed with frothy white lace, designed to be glimpsed.

  As soon as we get situated, one of these serving wenches comes over with a tray and hands us all drinks. Casino is so pleased and grateful that he pats her on the rear as she departs. This is not as well received as he possibly might have hoped for. Second round, new waitress, same pat on the checked white-froth undergarment. Cas considers this a compliment, not to mention top-drawer funny as well, but this girl begs to differ, complains to management, and soon enough a side of beef in a bad suit arrives and delivers a short, polite, but firm lecture. Basically, saying hands off the merchandise.

  We’re eating smoked salmon on baguette and knocking back the champagne like it’s the eve of Prohibition. Brady, still soused on gin from earlier, looks as though he’s out of his tiny little raving mind. His mascara is smeared across his cheeks, he’s giggling hysterically and shouting at people. He and Casino head out to the small dance floor near the champagne glass pyramid, holding on to each other’s lapels and laughing. Horrid American dance music blares annoyingly from huge speakers.

  A little bloke shows up at my elbow. Even in platform shoes a carnival freak would die for, he still winds up talking to my pocket-handkerchief. I can’t picture where I’ve seen the top of his head before, but that’s no problem as he’s quite prepared to tell me at length. He’s Jack Wild and he played the Artful Dodger in Oliver! Oh, of course you did. One of my favorite films. Can you sing me a chorus of “Consider Yourself”? He says funny I should say that as he’s about to launch a pop career. I start to edge away.

  But things can change rapidly, can’t they? First, the Artful Dodger’s eyes get very wide, then there is a lady’s horror-film scream followed by an almighty crash that sounds very much like a collapsing table, the shattering of a ten-foot-high pyramid of crystal champagne glasses, and the smashing of dozens of Moët & Chandon bottles. This is instantly followed by the synchronized gasp of five hundred guests, the sound of running feet, and a huge fist with ostentatious ring protuberances smashing unannounced into the middle of my unsuspecting face, sending me flying backward across a table for eight. Glasses, tablecloth, napkins, cutlery, and various wine bottles travel messily and noisily with me as I slide across and fall off into a painful heap under the next table.

  I am not allowed long to reflect upon this sudden, confusing turn of events, as I am grabbed under the armpits by two large chaps who have quite obviously performed this sort of task before and dragged between the tables, across the floor, through the entrance to the club, and tossed arse first onto the freezing Mayfair pavement. Two seconds later, Casino lands in a heap beside me.

  I lie there on my back, stunned, bleeding heavily from my nose, eyes watering, my face one big pain zone, and every other part of my body hurting from the various iniquities visited upon it in the last ninety seconds. I finally open my eyes, squint, look up, try to focus,
and finally see there, leaning over, staring at me, well, who else could it be, really? It is none other than Andrew Loog Oldham. He peers down, shakes his head, adopts a disapproving look, and says, “The last time I witnessed a display like this it featured Brian Jones.”

  Then he kindly steps over me and continues on his way into the party.*

  * * *

  A Yuletide get-together at the office on Dover Street on a wintry December 23 afternoon. Everyone is here, all the bands—Hogs, Sabs, something called Stray—friendly Mandy and her friendly friends, Wilf and Ken, Patrick Meehan, various other liggers and scoundrels popping in and out.

  Miraculously, my eyes were not blackened in the Penthouse sucker-punch incident, but my nose and right cheek are red and puffy and my lower lip has never looked so pouty and sultry. I’m wearing my tails again, but with a red paisley bow tie to match a long red silk scarf. Wilf catches my eye, crosses the room, and stands in front of me, looking me up and down. He says, smiling, “Andrew, you look like a fucking waiter.” I hand him my empty pint glass.

  “Give this a top-up, will you, Wilf?” Astoundingly, he laughs and does just that. We even have a good conversation when he comes back. Must be the spirit of the season.

  Ken introduces me to Jimmy Helms, who has scored a top-ten hit with an irritating number called “Gonna Make You an Offer You Can’t Refuse,” sung in a falsetto that makes the fillings in your teeth vibrate. Dead fish handshake, but other than that he seems harmless enough.

  There’s a weird fat man with a greasy comb-over, resplendent in polyester leisure wear, swanning about, annoying the secretaries, and blowing cigar smoke everywhere. Ken keeps trying to avoid him.*

  He takes us in the other direction and introduces us to Mike Faraday, a friendly sort dressed in wall-to-wall denim who is, we are told, from this moment on our “personal” roadie. I take Ken aside and ask him to clarify this word “personal,” and he explains simply, “Louie handles the gear, transportation, and all the organizing. Whatever else you need, ask Mike.” Crikey, what did poor Mike Faraday do to get this assignment?

  Near the end we are each given some cash as a Christmas present. Four seconds later we bid everyone goodnight, Happy Christmas, and make our way by cab to the Greyhound, where we get legless, sing naughty Christmas carols, stick sprigs of mistletoe in our hair and in the waistband of our trousers to lure in the cute, the curious, and the seasonally soused.

  Christmas Day, and what a difference a year makes. Last Christmas, in Bushey, we were hungry and freezing, huddled around a one-bar electric heater with barely a gas-meter shilling to our names. This year we have it all. Sure, we’ve got a hole in the ceiling but Lou, not only a drummer and lock-picker but also a naturally talented chef, cooks a full roast-turkey dinner, and we’ve got bottles of whiskey and wine, umpteen cans of beer, mince pies, trifle, the works.

  Later, we watch Christmas telly until late in the eve then, last thing before we go to bed, we load the turkey carcass with all our remaining firecrackers and blow it up.

  I visited Ken one day in Olympic Studios. He was producing the love of his musical life, the Hollywood Brats. I came up the stairs and perched outside the door of Studio A. Ken was doing me, and his band was doing the Stones. I suddenly felt very strange.

  Andrew Loog Oldham

  Bogotá, 2012

  1974

  I

  Okay, now. To hell with auld acquaintance. It’s already forgot. This is 1974. Let’s go. Back to Walthamstow to blow away the Christmas cobwebs. It doesn’t take many minutes of rehearsal to realize that we are ready. Let’s get this noise on tape. The office has block-booked Olympic Studios, starting on January 17, and we can’t wait.

  Casino and I have decided two things. We don’t want the engineer twiddling the studio knobs and we want Ken to gracefully retire from the producer’s chair. The second part is easier to arrange than the first. Ken gets that he is not a producer, and he gets that Cas and I understand completely what we’re going for and that we’ll figure out how to get there. Ken wants the engineer on the sessions but says he’ll keep him in line. Yeah, well, if you say so. We have just one ultimatum.

  Get us a young engineer that will follow orders.

  There is a design meeting: the band plus Ken plus art director to discuss a poster and album cover. Some stupid ideas come up but at least the poster concept looks good. The art director brings with him an impressive full-size mock-up: the five of us standing in front of a night cityscape, black skyscrapers with glowing yellow windows and yellow sky, buildings a cross between Art Deco and Surrealvador Dalí style.

  Two o’clock on a frightfully cold January afternoon, Louie pulls the van up in front of Olympic Studios in Barnes. The five of us pile out and bundle through the doors to a surprise the surprising Louie has awaiting us. Expecting to be led to the cozy confines of Studio B, where we endured the riff debacle, we enter the cavernous, mighty Studio A and, behold, there is our equipment, set up perfectly in a neat, carpeted semicircle just below the elevated plate-glass windows of the control room. Mike Faraday, personal roadie, kneeling down, adjusting Lou’s hi-hat, stands up and smiles at us. Wow, can it be? Yes, it can. The Hollywood Brats are in Studio A.

  I notice, far away in a back corner, equipment stacked fifteen feet high with the stencil “The Eagles” plastered all over it. Who are they? Then I notice their huge, idiotic brass gong. Drips, whoever they are.

  Into the control room we venture, goggle-eyed, each of us a stranger in paradise, and there, awaiting us, Ken and the engineer. Ken is pouring a lager down his throat, as a gentleman should, while the engineer is dicking around with a couple of sticks, shoveling brown rice into his beard. Mate, the British invented the spoon a millennium ago. Give it a try.

  Out in the studio, roadies strum things, poke this, smack that.

  And just look at the control room, will you? I don’t know anything about the capabilities of Studio A’s recording desk, but have a gander. Look at it. It’s five feet by fifteen feet, loaded with row after row of knobs, dials, and mysterious meters. Look at all those needles whipping back and forth on all those channels. What are they meant to represent? All I do know is that, when we crunch a chord, whap a snare, or coax a little feedback out of the speakers, those needles whip into the red zone and engineers go into panic mode.

  But what Casino and I have learned to be Brats’ gospel—from Alvin’s toxic marital-hell studio in Hackney Wick through Chris Andrews to one-take, to-heck-with-mistakes Gooseberry—is when those needles are zapping back and forth, like when a psychopath is strapped to a polygraph machine, that’s the sound we like. When those little needles are bashing into the red zone and making the engineers weep, only then do we like the way the band sounds.

  So Ken, just keep those needles in the red zone, will ya?

  From the first moment we hit a chord in Studio A in 1974, we are on fire. We knock down the takes, the tracks, the songs, one by one. Brats cruise, engineers seethe.

  Next day, next formula. We shake this up and move that around. The engineer maintains his seat at the desk, just about, but now Cas and I have moved in either side and we talk across the beardo. Also, Ken has hired a new lad as tape operator. He’s young, with good hair, and he’s ambitious—three admirable traits in Bratdom.

  We lay down a second day of tracks, each one sounding nastier than its predecessor. Late that night, after the session, we grab a bottle of cheap cognac and four straws at an off-license and head to a cinema Brady has sussed.

  Throughout January, recordings are going fantastic, with minor, acceptable irritants. In Studio B, Donovan is recording an album with the great Andrew Loog Oldham at the helm, but we haven’t seen the Sunshine Superman yet. Andrew Loog, that is. Sometimes, during the session, I walk down the corridor and press my ear to the door.

  I used to quite like Donovan when I was a lad. “Catch the Wind”? Brilliant. Not to mentio
n “Hurdy Gurdy Man.” But no note can I hear through the door. Back to the big studio; I wonder what Oldham’s doing over there in Studio B.

  We nail the basic tracks to “Chez Maximes,” “Nightmare,” “Southern Belles,” “Drowning Sorrows,” “Courtesan,” and “Tumble with Me.”

  David Bowie is spotted lurking about in the halls and pops in to say hello. He hears a bit of “Nightmare” and says, “Luv it, luv it.” He looks great, naturally. We’ve heard his new single blaring out of Studio C for the last three days: “Rebel Rebel.” We “Luv it, luv it.” Excellent riff, best I’ve heard in years. Go, Bowie. Everything else in the charts is utter rubbish.

  Need I remind you, children, that on this day something called Mud is number one in the charts?

  Just saw the Eagles. They are a Californian caricature. A band full of roadies, all hair, beards, and denim. The drummer’s got a perm. They’ll never get laid in England.

  Brill, our pal, benefactor, and former life-support system, comes by the studio with his dog Max. We want to show off for him, impress him. Max, that is. Brillo couldn’t care less. “Running Wild” is next up. It’s a typical Brats song, maximum attack, breakneck speed, noise, nihilism, and nuisance. The usual. But for some reason we can’t even nail the basic track. Time and again it eludes us.

  We give it go after go but there’s always something wrong—usually Lou, not that I’m pointing fingers. So we decide to take a break and head down the street to the Red Lion, where all life’s problems take on the rosiest of hues.

  Part of the Hollywood Brats’ philosophy is never to do more than two or, at the maximum, three takes on any song. And if we do three takes we can’t look at each other, we’re too embarrassed. We consider it an insult to the music, slovenly musicianship. But on “Running Wild” we end up doing twelve takes before we finally get it. Like we’re Pink Floyd or something.