We set up camp and I go off to have a pee behind a cactus. I look up and see the vet a couple of feet away, staring at me pissing. He stares at me all the time; wherever I go he’s watching me. I can’t sleep, I lie on the hard ground in a sleeping bag, listening out for any movement, not of wild animals, but this madman. I thank god when the sun rises and the night’s over; the desert is freezing at night and boiling during the day. We set off back to our hotel. Driving through the endless flatness is oppressive, just white plains, they look like salt, stretching ahead of us as far as the eye can see. I discover that I’m a bit agoraphobic: I can’t bear to look out of the window, I get anxiety attacks from the nothingness, I have to look down at my lap the whole time. We wrap up in dark clothes and tie scarves around our heads, it seems the only way to protect ourselves from this relentless heat.
The photos from this trip were used as the basis for the cover of our second album, Return of the Giant Slits. This artwork was also by Neville Brody.
Our hotel in LA is called the Tropicana, on Santa Monica Boulevard, which is on Route 66. Jim Morrison, Rickie Lee Jones, the Byrds, Janis Joplin and Tom Waits have all stayed here, and you can feel the history oozing out of the walls. It’s the most exotic and deliciously foreign place I’ve ever seen. It’s like a building in a film noir or a Raymond Chandler novel. There’s a sign reaching way up into the sky, saying ‘Tropicana Motel’ in fake Tahiti bamboo-style lettering. Wedged underneath the hotel is an ordinary-looking cafe called Duke’s Coffee Shop. Ari says she’ll meet us at Duke’s in ten minutes, she’s going there straight away because she’s starving. She comes running to find us later, all excited because she sat next to the singer of Rose Royce for half an hour, chatting about music. We soon realise that Duke’s is the place to hang out in LA, it’s always packed and there’s always someone interesting in there. The most amazing thing about Duke’s, for me, is the breakfast. There are pancakes, bacon, maple syrup and cream squirted out of a can, cottage cheese, three types of melon, exotic fruits like mangos and kiwis, things I’ve only ever seen pictures of, all piled up on top of French toast. You never look at your plate with disappointment here, eating seems to be a penance back home but in America they make food fun.
Our first show in LA is at the Whisky a Go Go; we walk onto the stage acting like Stepford Wives because we’ve just watched the film back at the hotel and we think it perfectly describes LA – a tranquil surface with sinister undercurrents, I’m surprised how much I like it. Whilst we’re here, we try to meet up with a friend of ours called Ivi, a sweet, gentle Jamaican guy Don Letts introduced to us in London, but when we call his apartment we’re told he’s been shot dead in a drug feud. We dedicate Return of the Giant Slits to him.
With Ivi at Regent’s Park
57 RETURN OF THE GIANT SLITS
1981
The greater the success, the more closely it verges upon failure.
Robert Bresson,
Notes on the Cinematographer
There are two kinds of people in the ‘punk’ scene. There are the psychopathic, nihilistic extremists and careerists, who are very confident because they have no fear, lack empathy and don’t care what others think of them. The second kind are drawn to the scene by the ideas – I hope the latter will endure much longer than the first type, who are like the collaborators during the Second World War, just want to be on the side that’s winning. It’s new to me, this mercenary streak in people. I didn’t notice it in my teens, but now I’m in my twenties I see it more. Or maybe this attitude only started to rear its head after Margaret Thatcher became prime minister in 1979.
I’m doing an interview on my own with a journalist from Melody Maker. Halfway through, he asks me what I think of Island Records. I say, ‘I think they’re great, they really get us.’ ‘They’ve just dumped you,’ he replies. He tells me he rang Island for a quote and spoke to Jumbo, an A & R man at the label, who said we’re rubbish and they’ve dropped us. So that’s how I found out, with a journalist watching my expression keenly to see what he could write down. It’s devastating news, but I keep my composure, I’ve learnt a few tricks by now. That’s the music industry for you; no manners, no kindness, no morals, not even from a so-called ‘indie’ label.
We don’t find out why they’ve dropped us; we delivered a great album, we loved the label, got on well with Chris Blackwell: it doesn’t make sense. I tell Ari and Tessa, they’re shocked and upset too, but after a couple of days we rally and start to make plans to find another label and make another record.
We have fresh energy in the group as Neneh Cherry has joined us as backing singer and dancer – ‘vibe master’ I think the term is – and she stays with us for two years. Neneh really is lovely to be around, warm, friendly, calm and enthusiastic. Her attitude is a great help in getting us back on our feet emotionally after the Island blow.
We hear that CBS are interested in us and make an appointment with a guy called Howard Thompson. When he turns up at the cafe in Covent Garden for the meeting, I look him over. He has white-blond hair, pink cheeks and blue eyes, it can only be him: Howard Thompson from my junior school. It’s so extraordinary that we both went to this tiny little tin-pot school in Muswell Hill, it creates an immediate bond between us – he’s a lovely man, so we sign to CBS. It’s not much of a deal, but ‘punk’ has had its day already as far as the majors are concerned. We’ve already made our next album, Return of the Giant Slits, in different studios, bits and pieces here and there. It’s more experimental than Cut and brings in even wider musical influences. In some ways I think it’s a better record.
There is a mistake with the artwork, the cover comes back with the title written as Giant Return of the Slits. I have to argue for it to be put right, trying to explain that it really matters that it’s the Slits that are giant (either us the band, or giant vaginas), not our return. The title is based on science-fiction films and comics, like Attack of the Fifty-foot Woman.
Even though we love our new record, it was exhausting to make without any support and things are disintegrating within the group; the musical climate has changed in England, it’s more careerist, bands go to record-company meetings dressed in suits with briefcases and do business deals. It’s not an environment the Slits fit into at all. Honesty and outspokenness are yesterday’s papers. In the back of the van on the way to one of our last gigs Ari tells us she’s pregnant; as she talks, she tugs absent-mindedly at her eyebrows, pulling them out one by one. By the time we arrive in Bristol, she has no eyebrows left.
The Slits memorial photo, 1982. L–R: Tessa, me, Ari, Bruce Smith, Neneh Cherry
We played our last show at the Hammersmith Odeon in December 1981. It was a great show, with Neneh Cherry and Steve Beresford in the band; we were really ‘tight’, for what it’s worth. Touring America had really sharpened us up. One of our support acts was the London Contemporary Dance Theatre. I loved modern dance and wanted to give them the support slot instead of a band.
58 OVERDOSE
1981
Physician, heal thyself.
Luke 4:23
‘Wake up, Tessa!’ For fuck’s sake. I can’t believe anyone can sleep so much. It’s midday and she’s still crashed out on the sofa fully dressed. I’m so pissed off, I’m going to put a record on full blast and dance around the living room to spoil her sleep. I feel exhilarated by my naughtiness and anticipate a bit of a showdown when she wakes up. I pirouette round the room for five minutes to ‘Dancing in Your Head’ by Ornette Coleman, a deliciously annoying piece of music. I keep glancing over at Tessa to see if she’s woken up, but she doesn’t stir. I turn the music up even louder. Still nothing. I’m bored with this now, I go over and peer at her. She’s very pale, extremely white, even for her.
‘Tessa!’
I put my hand on her shoulder and shake her. She flops up and down like a rag doll. I look at the coffee table in front of the sofa, there’s an empty bottle of pills and a tiny scrap of paper, and written on it in Tessa’s
elegant script is:
I’m sorry, some people just don’t have the courage …
A feeling shoots through me but I don’t know what it is so I ignore it. What does she mean? Is it a lyric? It dawns on me: she’s taken an overdose. I have to be grown up. I have to be very calm. This is important. I think back to a party I went to when I was thirteen, a boy had taken acid and was threatening to jump out of a window. My friend’s parents were terrified, they didn’t have a clue what to do. I told them that I’d heard of an organisation called Release (founded by Caroline Coon) which gives advice on drugs, it’s non-judgemental and run by volunteers, they have a helpline that’s staffed twenty-four hours a day. The parents phoned Release and the volunteer told them what to do. This is all I can think of to do now, no need to call an ambulance, this can’t really be anything serious. Don’t want the police coming round. I get the telephone book and look up Release. That was so long ago, does it still exist? Yes, thank god. I tell them my friend’s on the sofa, she won’t wake up, she’s limp, there’s an empty bottle of pills. No, I don’t know what kind of pills, there’s no label. They tell me to get her on her feet and walk her round the room. I try to lift her but she’s a dead weight, I drag and pull but it’s hopeless. I call Release back and say it didn’t work.
‘Is she unconscious?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
What does unconscious look like? This must be it.
‘Dial 999. Call an ambulance.’
For a second I think they’re being dramatic and overreacting. There’s nothing seriously wrong, is there? Tessa’s just a bit out of it, don’t want to call an ambulance unnecessarily, I’ve got too much respect for what they do to waste their … A voice in my head cuts in, Do it, Viv.
I feel a fool, but I make the call. The paramedics arrive and carry Tessa out of our basement on a stretcher and slide her into the back of the ambulance. I put my coat on and walk alone to the hospital. It’s only a few streets away. I feel stupid and guilty. Tessa might die. From the hospital payphone, I call Don Letts, who Tessa’s seeing off and on. He’s out so I leave a message on his answering machine telling him she’s in hospital. I call our manager, Dick, he says he’s on his way. I’m so relieved. I’m out of my depth and Dick’s grown-up and capable. I call Ari and tell her what’s happened. She says she’s going out to meet some friends and has no respect for people who do things like that.
I go and visit Tessa every day. I sit by her bed and talk to her even though she’s unconscious. So does Dick. Her family come and go, they get a priest to say something. She remains unconscious, so still, her body ‘a rock of blue-veined stone’, like Lizzie in ‘Goblin Market’. Tessa’s pale face is framed by tumbling black hair spread out across the white pillow, her expression serene – she reminds me of Snow White lying in her casket after she’s taken a bite of the poisonous apple – beautiful, fragile, in eternal sleep.
At the end of each day I walk back to our flat through the streets of Victoria. Such a soulless, transitional place. I stop and stare into the window of Cornucopia, my favourite second-hand shop. A man approaches me:
‘Are you on the game, love?’
‘No. Are you?’
He slithers away. I’m bereft, but not just because of Tessa. If I’m honest with myself, if I look myself in the eye and the heart, I have to admit – hateful and weak as it is – that visiting Tessa every day gives me something to do. Something important. Something to live for. The Slits have split up, Ari’s already making music with new people, I have nothing. Twenty-seven years old and all I’ve got ahead of me is living in a box room at my mum’s. No band, no money, no job, no husband, no children. I’m finished. I tried to do something different and I failed. I’m using Tessa’s situation to make myself feel good, needed, worthy, useful. I’m no better than Ari who isn’t interested in coming to see Tessa; in fact she’s more honest than me, I’m just pretending to be good.
Tessa wakes up and smiles the most radiant smile I’ve ever seen. She’s transformed. I ask her if she minds that I brought her to the hospital, that she’s come back to life, and she says, ‘No, no, I’m happy.’ She keeps apologising for what she did. I feel so differently about Tessa now. I love her. I’ve watched her sleep day after day – looking so innocent and vulnerable – thinking she might not come back. I feel differently and she acts differently. She’s open, communicative, happy, reborn.
59 THE END
1982
I smell the stench of peace.
Gabriele d’Annunzio
Tessa and I can’t afford to keep the flat in Victoria any more, so I move back to my little bedroom at Mum’s. I dye my hair back to brown and wear dull, drab, shapeless clothes. I want to disappear. Other people disappear too. They vanish from my life in an instant, no invites, no calls, no interest. Boys in bands find it so easy to have girlfriends, there’s always a pretty – even smart – girl to be found who’s willing to be a sidekick, but it’s very difficult for girls to be in the music industry and keep a relationship together. Boys don’t like it, not many of them feel comfortable in the supportive role that’s required.
I call Mick. Even though we’re not together, he’s always been there for me. I burst into tears of relief when I hear his voice. ‘Mick, it’s all gone wrong. Life’s gone wrong, not how I thought it would go.’ He says, ‘Come over, I’ll pay for a taxi, I’ve got a bottle of champagne.’ Mick is a success. A survivor. I thought I would be too, but instead of being the equal I expected to be, here I am asking him to rescue me again. We sleep in the same bed but I don’t want to have sex – I do want to, but I want him to love me, I couldn’t bear to have sex with Mick and not be in a relationship with him. I hope he’ll tell me he loves me tonight, but after I’ve said no to sex (I thought rather coyly) he snuggles down under the quilt and falls asleep.
The next morning he has to go out and suggests I come back later if I’m still feeling upset; I say I’ll come back in the afternoon. At four o’clock I ring on his bell but there’s no answer. I stand on the doorstep and ring the bell every few minutes for an hour – maybe he’s fallen asleep. I go for a walk and try again: he’ll be back soon. After two and a half hours, I have to face it: he’s forgotten. Mick’s forgotten me. I understand, he’s moved on.
The pain I feel from the Slits ending is worse than splitting up with a boyfriend, my parents divorcing or being chucked out of the Flowers of Romance: this feels like the death of a huge part of myself, two whole thirds gone. Now the Slits are over and Tessa has recovered, I’ve got nowhere to go, nothing to do; I’m cast back into the world like a sycamore seed spinning into the wind. I’m burnt out and my heart is broken. I can’t bear to listen to music. Every time I hear a song I feel physical pain, just to hear instruments is unbearable, it reminds me of what I’ve lost.
The Slits naked on Malibu Beach
Side Two
1 LOST
1982
That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.
Lord Byron
The only music I can stand listening to now is by This Heat. At least three times a week I go to their rehearsal studio, Cold Storage, a concrete room with a thick metal door in Coldharbour Lane, Brixton. I sit on a speaker for hours as Charles, Charles and Gareth play the loudest, purest, heaviest, ugliest, most beautiful machine-music noise in the world. A sound so honest and passionate that even a broken person can tolerate it.
I need some love. I know a nice drummer who likes me; I invite him over to the flat I’m house-sitting. We go to bed, we have sex. The second it’s over, I want him to leave. I feel terrible. My skin is crawling with a thousand insects, Curse-of-the-Mummy type thing. I lie next to him, counting the seconds until it’s 7 a.m., then I can get up without looking rude. I don’t want to be rude, I like him. It just feels wrong.
Lying here, staring across the room at the white veneer wardrobe, trying to see shapes in the lines of fake grain, I make a decision. I’m not going to have sex with anyone again unless I can
bear to have their baby. Not that I want a baby, the thought still horrifies me, but that’s surely the purpose of sex. If I can’t bear the thought of having a man’s baby, then I shouldn’t be having sex with him. I think this caveat will bring meaning back to the deed. At the moment, sex is like scoffing a box of chocolates and then feeling a bit sick afterwards.
After three years with no sex, I gave up on that rule.
As soon as the drummer leaves, I pack up my carrier bag and get the 31 bus back to Mum’s – she’s moved into a housing co-op flat on the top floor of a large Victorian house in a tree-lined street off Finchley Road – where I have a small bedroom with a skylight over the bed.
I lie under the skylight whilst a rain storm drums on the glass just a couple of feet above me. I think, I’ll have a go at masturbating, everyone’s always going on about it. I take all my clothes off and stretch out, imagining the rain hitting my body. I put my hand between my legs. Boring. Wanking doesn’t work for me. I’ve got to have a man in my life that I have feelings for to be sexually excited, but I don’t think I’ll ever fancy a guy again. It’s difficult to like someone else when you don’t like yourself.
Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys. Page 21
