3-08-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #65 (“Salmon Janet Evening”)

(John Bentley with friend -- at Crystal Palace zoo? circa '81)

Future trips down to Crystal Palace occurred on a bus through South London, through Catford and Lewisham. . . maybe even through Brixton, though I knew the southern line on the Tube went there so why take a bus?

Anyone who’s been to London knows how cool those double decker buses are -- and what nerves of steel the busdrivers possess. I loved everything about them, from the fares to the windows, to the upstairs seats -- even the color of them, screaming bloody red. Nice!

John Bentley’s house was small, with a little backyard and a little parking area in front. The kitchen was big enough for a table for two, so I guess it was an eat-in kitchen (EIK). The one-floor house also had one bedroom, a lounge or sitting room, and I think that was it. Not much cooking happened on-site, except lots of toast and tea, eggs, soups. Take-out was pretty much a standard, with Indian generally the ethnic food of preference.

John’s most-frequent friends who came by were Bob Suffolk, another musician and some kind of journeyman something-or-other, and John’s ex-girlfriend, Janet. A small, quiet, good natured, dark haired girl with a thick strong unibrow, she was fondly nicknamed “Salmon Janet Evening.” I loved her smile and serious, thoughtful outlook.

When she said “John,” it came out sounding like a caress. . . the way that only an English accent from the mouth of a loving human can sound. The way that words end on an upwards inflection always make them sound vulnerable, yet charming. Sentence endings so often sounded like question marks to me. I started to really understand why Shakespeare could use something like iambic pentameter and get away with it. . . spoken English really can have a lovely singsong meter to it. . .

Which was why I was still partially, irrevocably in love with that little island with the small-scale bell clear skies and the many limitations. . . like money, hope, and opportunity. Unemployment was riding high in ol’ Blighty, and so many people secretly “on the dole” turned to illegal or non-furthering pursuits (like daily drug us). Sigh.

Then John’s friends, Paul and Simone, burst through John’s door one evening, buoyant in spirit, bearing spirits: “We’re recording at Abbey Road -- and want you to produce!” Simone, a beautiful young mulatto woman, was looking to jumpstart her singing career with some pop songs. Upbeat as usual, John nodded, eyes twinkling, and said, “Err, so what’s the repertoire?”

Once that was established, I was asked to come along to the session and help with background vocal harmonies, as I knew those ABBA parts better than almost anybody (and yes, we did love ABBA -- the Eurovision song contest, right??).

And if nothing else, we sure respected success -- along with well-crafted pop music.

3-05-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #62 (“At Last I Am Free”)

In my UK adventure I now knew had a real friend now, somebody who gave enough of a crap to take the time to return a call and maybe hang out. The knowledge that I’d left behind my life in NYC and now was really on my own in a very strange land had begun to sink in, along with signs of depression. I fought them off, reaching out for whatever help might be possible.

So on a lazy late August weekday, John Bentley drove up from Crystal Palace. We went to lunch and the zoo. We took pictures there, too. . . especially loved the little ponies. We laughed and joked around a lot, horsing around for sure!

Again, I’ve got to say that Johnny B. was quite adorable and funny. In fact, he was rarely serious, except when it came to music. And he liked to eat, drink, etc. -- though in moderation, because he’s not a big guy at all. Suited me fine, because I am a slave to moderation.

Musically, John Bentley was into writing his own songs, which Squeeze wasn’t into recording. And he was really into Allen Touissant, Rick James, and the bands Chic and LaBelle -- really, anything really kind of cool and funky. “At Last I Am Free,” was a key song. . . and in Bentley’s living room, I picked up a bass and figured out that great bassline from “Voulez-Vous Coucher Avec Moi?” and if I had been a little less shy I’d have asked John how to finger it and play much better than the lame way I was going about it, but. . . at the time, I didn’t want to look musically ignorant, or be a bother. I sure did love the parts the bass played in great music of ALL kinds (pop, country, R&B, rock, jazz, and especially classical), as did Bentley.

I loved this one song Bentley wrote, “Workin’ Class,” and learned how to sing and play it on guitar. He also had a really cool samba-ish song, “Hidden Danger,” that I learned from him, and I still love it to this day. . . nice hook in it goes, “Five a.m., a voice comes on the telephone/Says ‘I’m sorry’ a hundred times. . . I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .”

And the lyrics to the end of the song went: “Talkin’ to some stranger/’Bout the Hidden Danger/Better Grab your coat and hat and leave before you fry. . .”

3-04-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #61 (“Farfisa Beat”)

You can be sure I spent a few days mulling over what happened at the flat when Jools Holland invited me for that really strange “party.” Moreover I felt creepy and most certainly fortunate to have escaped unmolested physically -- though they really did a number on my head.

This was the first of too many incidents where I’d be invited to something that was supposed to be fun and I just felt I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh well, so much for culture shock!

Shaken, I called and left a message for my friend in Squeeze (other than Glenn), John Bentley. He lived even further south, in a place called Crystal Palace, where there’d been a huge exhibition during the Victorian era, sort of a world’s fair. But in 1981, it was a sleepy suburb of London, very nice place to have a small house, which Johnny Bentley owned. Being so far from everything, trains -- the London tube -- didn’t go that far, but a bus would take you there. John also had a “motor” or car, kind of necessary if you were in the hinterlands of London.

I didn’t really feel like bugging John (we’d enjoyed each other’s company in NYC a few months earlier), but since I felt scared and alone and wondered how he was doing, I made the call and was glad I did. He called me back.

“Hullo, Lauren? Great to hear from you. Sure, come on by. Er, do you know how to get here? Or maybe I can come by and fetch you. Staying in Glenn’s old flat, aren’t you?”

Excellent! I knew I had a real friend now, somebody who gave enough of a crap to take the time to return a call and maybe hang out. John was from “ull,” or the northern seacoast city of Hull. He had a few Humberside (or northern) idioms and a bit of a Hull accent, was a Yiddishe Britisher. Almost goes without saying that his musical talent -- the great bassplaying was just the start -- was massive. Funny, boyishly handsome and just plain cute, he offered a welcome distraction to this sad, distracted Yank who felt suddenly out of her element.

“Well, all right, how about the day after tomorrow? Would you like lunch?”

God bless John Bentley for being there for me just then -- and then some!