Bass for Lulu
Suitably relaxed and enjoying Max Headroom on VHS, I was thinking about chocolate biscuits when the flat’s owner called me through to his office (more or less his bedroom with a large set of brass scales on a coffee table) and asked whether I still owned a bass guitar. I was happy to confirm that I was indeed the owner of an Ibanez Roadster Series 2 in beech with a black scratch plate (an afternoon of jazz cigarettes inspiring needless attention to detail). Ignoring my waffle, the bedroom bloke peered round his scales to deliver his next question: “Would you like to audition for Flesh For Lulu?”
Younger readers may imagine he was inviting me to try out for a leftfield pornographic magazine, but FFL were a rather popular and semi-successful goth band with a sizeable following in 80s London.
I pondered the question. Asked him to repeat it. Nodded. Replied that it sounded like a delightful idea and finished with a puzzled expression. My host may well have been a champion purveyor of exotic substances, but I didn’t recall him being a member of any band – gothic, semi-successful or otherwise.
It transpired he knew the band’s road crew and they were pestering him to find them a new bass player. If my clouded mind understood the proposition correctly, Flesh For Lulu were holding open auditions at rehearsal studios in Chalk Farm the next day and my agreement, followed by a swift phone call secured me a slot. From stoner to stardom in just 24 hours, this was tremendous, thought I – returning to the videos and king-size Rizlas.
As is often the case with very good news, there was a catch. Or, in this case, two catches. The principal drawback was this: I really wasn’t very good at playing the bass. I’d bought the instrument at college in order to start a band, but with the exception of learning the whole of the first Psychedelic Furs album and a few bits of Joy Division’s ‘Closer’, I’d never really bothered to make any progress.
Then there was the issue of the band itself. I wasn’t averse to the odd bit of goth. I had the crimpy black quiff and actively relished The Cult and Sisters of Mercy, but had failed to be particularly attracted to Flesh For Lulu.
Cushioned from real concern by the weed, I wandered down Camden High Street and bagged a couple of 12” singles by the band in the Record & Tape Exchange before heading south of the river and home.
Morning. The day of the audition. Also, by some cosmic coincidence, the day of Live Aid. A couple of guys who were dossing on my floor agreed the prospect of an hour with Flesh For Lulu followed by a Live Aid party would fill their day perfectly, so I grabbed my bass, shoved on my motorcycle boots and off we headed to Chalk Farm via the Elephant & Castle bus stop (I had the boots but no actual motorcycle).
The nagging thought that I couldn’t actually play and had had some difficulty twanging along to the two discs the night before, was evolving in my head. So, while changing buses in Trafalgar Square, I nipped into Budgens and invested in a large bottle of Thunderbird wine – the consumption of which made me feel considerably more confident. One of my pals went a bit further and dropped some acid he’d brought with him. And he wasn’t even auditioning.
By the time we alighted on the Chalk Farm Road we were bubbling along in the the manner of The Furry Freak Brothers (if they had been two gothic punks and one soul boy tripping his nuts off). More by luck than design, we found the rehearsal place almost immediately. Not really listening to our babbling, the reception guy pointed us to a room at the back of the building. We entered with trepidation, caution and nervy grins.
The Clash (who had a bass player),
but they did have a record contract
and toured and were ... well ... a
proper band. I didn’t want to look
too much of a fool and was glad of
the reassuring Thunderbird glow.
The studio wasn’t big. But it was large enough to contain a hefty PA system and a sofa. What it quite obviously didn’t contain was the up-coming, quite popular goth rock troupe Flesh For Lulu. Or anyone else. We were entirely alone.
Accepting the possibility we’d arrived too early, the three of us sank into the bizarrely scented, collapsing couch and shared a Turkish roll-up.
An hour passed.
By now, I had plugged my instrument into the PA and was banging out the bassline to ‘She Sells Sanctuary’ with no little enthusiasm and plenty of repetition. One friend was now sleeping soundly and the other was gazing out of the window as purple dragons and giant wolves frolicked through the London sky.
Eventually tiring of my clumsy Cult plonking, I put the bass down, looked to my companions and announced with great profundity: “Fuck it. They’re not coming. Shall slope off and watch Live Aid?”
“Yep” said one.
“I’m think I’m flying” said the other.
And that’s what we did.
To this day, I have not the faintest idea what went wrong. We may have turned up at the wrong venue. Or the right venue on the wrong day. Or maybe the bloke with the brass scales was just making it all up. What I do know, is that I am not, never have been and probably never will be the bass player in Flesh For Lulu. And for that everyone should be grateful.
Magnus Shaw, October 2010
Suburban Spaced Out Man
1974. The Bonzos had split up four years earlier and Viv Stanshall was not only at a bit of a loose end, he was broke.
One day, the agency for whom I worked, in that less than rock and roll environment of a mews in Paddington, found its rooms enveloped by a tall, eccentric looking, but immaculately dressed Stanshall. He wanted to go back on the road as a solo artist, but had neither a manager, nor any vague idea of what he would do if he found himself on stage. We took him on immediately.
Now I say he wanted to perform, but I was later to learn that it was, in fact, the very last thing on earth he wished to do. How fine it would be if this part of the story (or any part of this story) had a happy ending. It doesn’t.
After many assurances that he had a veritable barn-load of new material, Viv turned up on the opening night (Twickenham, I recall) of this series of College and University gigs, overwhelmingly stressed. He told me he wanted to cancel the whole tour, that I didn’t understand (I didn’t) and that he had ‘nothing’. Somehow he found himself (maybe I shoved him) on the small stage, and with some help from ‘Doctor Footlights’, he cobbled something together. A sort of mish-mash of stories, music hall songs, and bizarre silences where he just stared into the distance, rather in the fashion of a distracted Gussie Fink-Nottle. It was not good. The audience of, mostly, students, gave him the sort of respect one might engender for a lunatic uncle who has been allowed home for a few hours. They drifted away, in sizeable numbers, to the bar, and the gig ended with Viv ‘playing’ some sort of hosepipe contraction, which he waved above his head, generating a rather unmusical whooshing noise. No encore was requested or given. If you’re hoping the tour got better, it didn’t. The opening night set the tone for what followed, and it was with a sense of amazement that we found that we had received no demands for the return of his fee (I think it was £125.00 per gig). I was walking along the towpath of the Thames, just before Shepperton, and there, sitting on a patch of grass next to a houseboat was a familiar figure. Familiar only if someone you knew seven years before, was now looking like the Children’s TV favourite, Catweazle.
I couldn’t help show my surprise. “Viv? Bloody Hell! Bloody Hell!”
“My darling fellow, how are you?” he responded. The words were drawn out, and laboured. He was possibly ‘medicated’, definitely drunk.
We spoke for such a long time, that it began to get gloomy as the afternoon turned into evening. He drank quite a lot. I just sat, and mainly, I listened. Viv was under the devastating spell of repeated panic attacks. He told me he had been suffering terrifying spells of them when he went out on that tour in 1974.
He said he thought he was going to die every night. Literally die, not just in the theatrical sense. When I got up to go, Viv walked back with me all the way to Chertsey Bridge. He was, essentially, dressed in rags. If you had come across him as he ambled back across Chertsey Meads, you would have run the other way. Remember I told you this won’t have a happy ending.
I went back to see Viv many times over the next year or so. He was always there. He had nowhere to go. He would always greet me with a “Hie!” That is, not the familiar “Hi” that we say with a smile when greeting a friend, but a dramatic, Shakespearian, “Hie!” as if he were Caesar seeking the attention of Cicero in the Senate. Viv’s life and lifestyle had descended into chaos. He was mixing medication and drink, in copious amounts. He was obsessed with, and always wanted to talk about, Stevie Winwood’s ‘Arc Of A Diver’ album. He had been asked to contribute lyrics (he said) for the whole album, and I suspect he also saw some financial light at the end of the tunnel of royalties. It had, he said, broken his heart and spirit, when, after delivering the lyrics, he found, that with the exception of the title track, all of his lyrics had been dropped, and that he had been replaced by the American songwriter, Will Jennings. He recited some of his lyrics. They were, in general terms, very esoteric, grandiose, and probably unsuitable for a Stevie Winwood album. Every time I saw him, he returned to this subject with, it felt like, growing despair.
Each time I saw him, he was wearing ragged, not-quite-clothing. A sort of dressing gown/toga/muumuu of depression and melancholy. It got worse. The houseboat sank, and was destroyed.
He bounced back a little bit, had some moments of clarity, and undertook some work, sporadically. Then, on 6th March 1995, Viv Stanshall died in a fire, caused by faulty wiring, in his flat in Muswell Hill.
Terence Dackombe, 2010
Songs for the soon to be executed
1. Gallows Pole – Page & Plant
Percy Plant offers the hangman his brother’s silver & the errr... charms of his sister, but still ends the day a-swinging.
2. Firing Squad – Penetration
Pauline Murray pleads guilty to a thousand crimes. This song isn’t one of them.
3. Hanging Song – Fairport Convention
“Wake up John, it’s time to go” Oh bugger. I was hoping for a lie-in.
4. Gary Gilmore’s Eyes – Adverts
Five policemen formed the firing party for US murderer, who subsequently had no further use for his eyes.
5. Dead Man Walking – Mary Chapin Carpenter
Even Mary CC’s sweet voice can’t convince Sean Penn to renounce his crime ridden past.
6. Green, Green Grass Of Home – Flying Burrito Brothers
Gram Parsons wakes up to find it was all a dream, just a dream.
7. The Mercy Seat – Johnny Cash
The Man in Black says “I didn’t do it, oh ok then, maybe I did.”
8. The Hangman’s Knee – Jeff Beck
Rod Stewart, Ronnie Wood, & Nicky Hopkins’ perky piano show devil may care attitude to the hangman’s noose.
9. Hangman Hang My Shell On A Tree – Spooky Tooth
Late 60s supergroup attempt to confuse executioner by requesting he takes good care of their respective shells.
10. Strange Fruit – Billie Holiday
Lady Day’s moving view of the American South’s propensity to lynch black people little more than a lifetime ago.
Terence Dackombe 2009
We deserve Jedward ...
Hambi & The Dance, Delta 5, The Lost Loved Ones - just three of the bands I thoroughly enjoyed - and paid to see - around 25 years ago. Even at the time I was aware they were highly unlikely to enjoy mass market success of any description. Not because they lacked distinction, ability, personality or charm, but because it was so bloody hard to arrive on the higher rungs of the music industry.
The problem in the early 21st century is easily defined: we've made the game too easy. Not only will we readily accept cookie-cutter plastic soul from the likes of Leona Lewis and Mariah Carey with hushed awe, but we apply the same over estimation to modest, bouncy indie like the Arctic Monkeys, to the point where the PM sees their name as a conduit to instant cool and cred.
This goes beyond music, of course. The quite appalling witterings of Fearne Cotton have recently earned her a daily show on Radio 1. This isn't snobbery. By any measure Cotton and her ilk have gained their lofty (and incredibly well rewarded) status with abilities which are now sufficient, but in years hence would have been deemed trite and hopeless. Perhaps this is because they can deliver demographic bums on targeted seats, rather than providing insight, humour or intelligence. But, hey, they're our bums and we're grown far too happy to park them on seats for diminished and diminishing returns.
So, average is the new genius and mediocrity the new splendour. We no longer expect too much from recording artists and that's because we don't demand that much. The recent Spandau Ballet reformation (pun intended) has been so well received because it has ignited a memory of a high watermark in the middle aged. Spandau are far from being one of the rock era's finest bands, but they certainly rose to prominence at a time when originality, a striking image and inspiration were the bare minimum required to make the big time.
It is very easy to blame the televised talent shows for these reduced standards, but up until now, the performers were at least judged by public and panel alike on their technical abilities and charisma. The dullness and unimaginative state of Hip-Hop is just as illustrative of our willingness to buy into poor quality output and praise it without applying the critical faculties which were once the norm. If you're in any doubt on this matter, try playing a Public Enemy record followed by a Kanye West record.
Which brings us to John and Edward. It is ridiculous to blame these fresh-faced Dublin brothers for their position. They're probably having the time of their lives and it's what they were asking for when they auditioned. If the status of Jedward is really a cause for concern, then we should rather blame ourselves for saying 'yes' to them. And if it's our teenage offspring who have actually said 'yes' then we should have ensured they were better informed. We should have told them they are entitled to ask, no, demand better. We should have told them the bar is way too low and they have the ability to raise it. And when the bar is set high, wonderful things happen.
Like sport, high success in the field of recorded music was never meant to be easy. Indeed, that is the whole point. When absolutely anything is accepted as brilliant nothing truly is. The harder the game, the greater the prize and the more rewarding the spectacle. But unlike sport, we get to set the standard. So let's set it as high as we possibly can.
Magnus Shaw, 2010