6-08-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #118 (There’ll Always Be an England. . .)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

This point is inarguable: Alan Rickman possesses the all-time greatest speaking voice.  And to think, when in drama school, his teacher told him he’d better work on his voice -- that it was one of his detriments!  Will the mundane ironies in this world ever cease?

Actually, there is nothing mundane about realizing, in hindsight, that Alan Rickman’s drama teacher was just so, so wrong.  That gives me such hope: that anybody who told somebody else they’re misguided or some sort of “loser” might well be so, so wrong.

How about Einstein?  He was rumored to have been called a stupid kid. . . and I’m sure there are so many other examples. . . so all right, you can laugh at me for thinking I’m going to write books and songs of greater consequence . . .  but I’ll just remember Einstein and Rickman. . .

But I digress.  In this blog, I thank my fates for taking me to London and living amongst the English where I learned firsthand their ways and culture.  The pub lifestyle, the unspoken class system, the humor, humanity, and keen minds that could knife through a situation with panache and grace (and neat sounding accents).

Basically, I was ready with a deeper understanding of those limeys and their ways when “Absolutely Fabulous” came out.  And when the Harry Potter series exploded on the page and on the screen?  Yup.  ‘Twas I who realized that Harry’s nemesis, Draco Malfoy, was at times putting on a lower-class accent so as to mitigate his ruling class upbringing. . .

“Slumming,” as it were.

Sigh.  There’ll always be an England. . . in the coney island of the mind.

6-07-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #117 (Reasons to leave England: One, Two, Three!)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

. . . As much as I wanted to stay in London, I didn’t really know why I was there other than sheer mulishness and an inability to admit perhaps I was misguided and it was time to move on. . . . but nothing was clicking monetarily, creatively, or romantically.  It was probably time for a change -- albeit an only begrudgingly accepted change, one taken whilst I was being figuratively dragged kicking and screaming.

An air letter came one day to my basement flat at 87 Earl’s Court Road from my Soho, NY apartment’s subletter, Diana (remember, this was in the days before cheap overseas phone calls and emailing).  She was a music scene fringe-hanger, the ex girlfriend of a guitar player I knew from one of the many CBGB’s bands.  Diana made good money being a court stenographer, but she also had an artistic side and wanted to open a little bakery.  She had a kitty cat so I knew she wouldn’t mind my little terror-kitty, Clawdette, who she was kind enough to “foster” while I was gone. 

The letter was dated September 22, the day after my sister, Carrie’s, birthday.  “Lauren,” she wrote, “How are things there?  Hope you’re having a good time.  I heard from my sister in Fresno (California), and she says there’s an opportunity here for me and her to open our own little bake shop and tea room.  So, I’m moving to California!  I’ll be needing to move out of your apartment November 1^st, so please let me know what you’d like to do about our sublet arrangement.  Sincerely, Diane   P.S. - As I’ve been feeding your cat these past 16 months, I’d like to take her with me.  Or you can reimburse me for her food. . .”

 (I tell you, that Claw-dette was NO Captain Kitty, nosiree!)

Damn!  Not only was I losing a reliable subletter from a thousand miles away, I was losing my kitty cat!!  What terrible luck.  Well, that Claw-dette never was a very nice cat; she scowled at me from the highest bookshelves in the apartment and batted off all sorts of breakable things with her paw.  This all the while I’d yell at her, “NO!  No, Clawdette, bad kitty, don’t do it!”  I was pretty broke, too, and couldn’t really pay for 18 months worth of kitty food.  So, I had to let that little calico cat go to California.

Around this same time, two other coincidences occurred to me in London: 1. My visa extension was denied, and I was told I’d have to leave the U.K. by October 31, and 2. My Earl’s Court Road landlord had just sold the building and was buying out the tenants.  Although the offer wasn’t good money by a long shot (maybe like $250?), it was something for nothing, basically.  I’d take it.

I mean, I had to move, anyway, return to NY, reclaim my little Soho apartment, see if my former boyfriend still loved me, see if I could still make music and write songs and, well, continue being my creative -- albeit older and wiser -- self.

4-23-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #111 (Why England? Lessons learned)

It’s probably worthwhile to reflect over why I went to the U.K. -- and London  -- in the first place.  Fair enough, I was captivated by the people and the places I’d seen in England -- and I thought it was a place of destiny for me.

I also had friends there -- lots of musicians -- and found life there, as in New York, a struggle still but very nice.  That was, until. . . well, more unfortunate things happened to me on a personal level that I can’t even put in words here, on a screen or a page.  I’d met some disrespectful men who didn’t honor the words, “NO!”  It came as a shock to me, and was totally depressing and humiliating. . . and it only happened to me in England. 

At one point, I thought that I’d marry an Englishman, but the closest I came was asking Patrick to marry me for convenience if it came down to that -- if I really wanted to stay and it was the only thing that would keep me in the country.  A true gentleman, he nodded, yes, I’d do that for you.  That thought -- to marry for convenience -- was fleeting, thankfully: I believe in marrying for more legitimate reasons, like romantic/sexual love. . . and stuff that I could go on for quite a while about.  But, mercifully, I won’t!

In London I also learned that, for some reason, I wasn’t being taken seriously as a musician and writer, and I didn’t know how to change that.  Perhaps everyday life as a young cocktail waitress was so full of struggle and distraction that I didn’t even have the energy or the nerve to try to make a change and show how serious I was. I did, however, spend a lot of time clacking away at my typewriter, writing letters home to various & sundry family & friends (I used those blue foldover air letters from the Post Office -- they were economical and forced me to write just the amount that fit, like a journalistic assignment).

In England, there was a common comment about my hair color -- I dyed it black in NYC because I liked that look -- was, “Oh, why are you doing that?  Come on, grow it back to your own natural, pretty brown colour, darlin’.”  Jeez, even when it was brown, it had been hennaed with a reddish rinse from age 20 on.  I never liked mousy brown colored hair: not interesting enough.  Anyway, this lack of being accepted for a dramatic look was kind of tiresome. . . nobody in NYC gave a rat’s ass about my hair color, or at least they had the sense to keep it to themselves.

So. Many strikes were mounting against me staying in the U.K.  And then, I heard from immigration: my visa would not be renewed past November 1982.  I’d have to leave the U.K. unless I did something drastic, like marry Patrick.

Lovely man, great friend, good looking gent, but -- no way!  

4-22-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #110 (Back to Blighty -- again -- and the Mo-Dette’s trial by fire)

(photo by Ralph Alfonso -- small world!  He's BongoBeat records, who released my first solo album, and a friend of mine, too)

After seeing Paris for the first time on my bank holiday trip, I settled back into life in London in the summer of ‘82, living in my bedsitter in the basement at 87 Earl’s Court Road, hanging with Patrick & Nora & other friends, trying out for a band or two.

I kind of remember the time I auditioned for the Mo-Dettes, who were looking for a vocalist/guitarist.  I was nervous and didn’t have an electric guitar so I had to borrow one from the band’s guitarist.  Back home in NYC before coming to England, I’d sold some equipment, among the casualties a sweet cherry red Gibson SG junior guitar, worthy of Joan Jett-dom.  Let me tell you, showing up at an audition without an axe when they’re looking for a rhythm guitarist in an all-girl punk rock band. . . just isn’t good.

They were also scary people with nasty attitudes.  They made me feel really small and uncomfortable.  Part of me was blisteringly angry at them for being such unnecessary assholes.  Another part of me was chiding, “Lauren, why can’t you just be confident?  You were in a BIG NY band -- to hell with these London snobs!”

They’d told me to practice that hit song of theirs, “White Mice,” and added another one that I really liked with a descending chord structure like the Raspberries’ “Tonight,” but of course I don’t remember the title of the Mo-Dettes song -- sorry.

In the audition (in North London?) I didn’t play well, fumbled the chords, didn’t hit the stage with that bigtime pun attitude and charisma (which I can turn on when I feel more welcome)/  Ultimately, as much as I’d wanted to be in a band, especially one with a solid reputation, I really wasn’t into being around these people.

In summary, my Mo-Dettes audition was a total bust (LOL).

According to Wikipedia, they disbanded in November of 1982, anyway, so I guess I’m lucky I didn’t do well & get into the Mo-Dettes. . . just another heartbreak I’d have to withstand, another broken up band. . . and the Nervus Rex breakup had affected me more than I thought it would.

That was all a big part of why I left NYC was because I couldn’t take it: our band failed, it broke up, we were no more.  The other reason being, obviously, that I had been an Anglophile and wanted to live there. . .

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.

3-07-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #64 (Busking for bikkies - part 2)

(here's a snapshot of John Bentley circa '81 -- a CONFIDENT musician, unlike I was!)

Hmmm. Busking in London. Well, I believe I started out at Piccadilly Circus, underground, in one of those long winding tiled hallways joining subway lines.

I’d start singing and strumming a Cmaj7 chord (fancy!), “When this old world starts getting me down/And people are much too much for me to take/Up on the Roof. . .” Memories of sitting on my Thompson Street, NYC, rooftop wafted through my brain, and the songs poured out of my mouth and fingers. Although I’d played to crowds of hundreds, even maybe a thousand in Nervus Rex, I was TERRIFIED playing so close up to people who didn’t give a crap and were just rushing on to the next train, the next big thing in their lives. I was an absolute mess inside, though outwardly I think I was the plucky, punky young thing, with long, dyed-black straight hair that made me look half oriental. I was skinny, quick, cutting, and cute. But confident? Nah.

On I sang at Piccadilly, picking up songs like Gary Stewart’s “Out of Hand”: “I never intended, to even know your name/Except for the woman waiting at home, they’ve all been the same/I’ve always been true, except for you, not even a one-night stand/And I never intended, for it to get so out of hand. . . “

Or how about “Please Help Me I’m Falling/in love with you/Close the door to temp-ta-shun/Don’t let me fall though/Turn away from me, Darlin’, I’m beggin’ you to/Please help me, I’m falling -- in love with you.” (Hank Locklin song)

But one of my favorite country songs was always “Paper Roses”: “I realize the way your eyes deceive me/Those tender looks that I mistook for love/So take away those flowers that you gave me/And send the ones that you remind me of. . .”

Just to mix it up, I’d temper those old country songs in my busking repertoire with funny and uptempo numbers, too, like “I Knew The Bride” and “Almost Saturday Night.” And, of course, I wrote funny country songs like “Mercy Killing”: “It was a mercy killing/Oh Lord please listen/You’ve got to understand/I warned him more than once or twice, now the fire’s hit the frying pan. . . “ Cute, for a country punk Yank, looking for pounds in all the wrong places. . .

Though nothing untoward happened to me, I just about lost it when the cops strolled near me in an ambling manner, and quaked in my boots when gangs of tough looking skinheads and other yobbos marched by. Once I got too freaked out, singing in the bowels of the city at Piccadilly Circus, I took the train to a place Glenn said was a good busking location, Hyde Park Corner. Once there, I played aboveground, but didn’t like the acoustics (no echoes to bounce off tiled walls).

I was still working at a disadvantage, scared, unconfident, not digging the lukewarm reception. I soon gave up the idea of making money by playing music in public -- at least, by busking in public. Oh well.

It was on to the next thing -- but first, a visit back to Crystal Palace and my new musician friends there, with good ol’ Bentley & co.

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!

3-03-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #60 (“Cool For Cats”)

As I was saying, two weeks into my great adventure -- moving to the U.K. -- I started to realize that maybe things weren’t going to go the way my optimistic view was envisioning.

Then Blackheath co-denizen, Jools Holland, rang up.

“Allo? Is that Lauren? It’s Jools. I’m having a bit of a party tonight, would you like to come by?”

Being open to anything that sounds remotely interesting, “Sure,” I said. Now, what constitutes a party to some isn’t exactly the same to others. That’s why shared definitions are important. There are “parties” -- woo hoo, lots of people, music, good food, drinks you like, cold and hot -- and there are “hangs” (or hang outs, just a few peeps, very low key).

I leave it to you, dear reader, to define what happened that night:

This so-called party occurred in a small, dark room in the basement at Jools’s flat. Two other guys were there, and everybody was drinking Bitter, from cans. I can’t drink that kind of beer at all, so I asked for a cup of tea and they all laughed. One large young man with an almost indecipherable accent was incredulous.

“Gor, the Yank’s wantin’ a cuppa?” Bollocks, wrong choice!

The guys drank, sat around, mumbled a bunch, every now and then shot me a look or asked me something.

“Um, sorry, could you repeat that?” or I’d ask, “Um, not sure what you mean?” The conversation wasn’t exactly scintillating, as their garbled talk, peppered almost entirely with south London slang, escaped me. Hey, it could have been the most brilliant small talk in the history of tiny parties, but I doubt it.

Jools put on some records, Ray Charles and Professor Longhair, of course. He wasn’t much of a talker, but he and his mates had a comfortable, very familiar exchange. I don’t know why I was there, maybe they were checking me out.

I drank sips of water (didn’t get tea after all) and struggled to understand and be polite. Soon the spliffs, or hash joints, came out. Several pieces of rolling paper were fastened together, rolling tobacco added. Then lumps of green (or black?) hashish wrapped in foil were produced, burned for a short while, then pieces picked off and added to the tobacco leaf. The spliff was then rolled up, tightly, and a piece of semi-tightly wound cardboard about ½” thick and 1 inch long, was stuffed into one end as a makeshift filter.

Well, I can’t say I didn’t inhale.

Social anxiety running high, the hash joints weren’t really helping, but at least it was something to do. More time went by. The bigger bloke moved closer to me on the couch. I squirmed. He shot a few glances at me, shyly but kind of creepily. He moved closer. . .

The party went downhill from there.

Suffice to say I left the party shortly afterwards, and was never again invited back. I never did get chummy with Jools or become a friend (aaawww). Anyway, what happened that night wasn’t a real party, it was more of a “hang” in my book. . .

. . . an uncomfortable one at that.

3-02-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #59 (“Blackheath SE 3” -- an original Blues number)

(picture of Jools Holland at the 88s. . . )

Glenn had an old upright piano in his Blackheath flat, and one of the first songs I wrote on English soil was a blues number called “Blackheath SE 3.” I was hearing John Cale singing it and pounding away on the ivories in my head. . . though of course, such a song would be just naff for such a punter as Cale!

I picked up as much slang as was thrown my way, and every day came a new expression that just tickled my love of words (linguaphilia?). Reading the NME weekly in my previous NYC life came in pretty handy. So did having British friends and hanging out with them prior to moving to London.

I just wasn’t ready for the way people talked and acted while at the pub. Such warmth, merriment, volatility, and optimism -- peppered with hilarity -- happened over pints of bitter and the lagers, ciders, etc. etc. Accustomed to people really meaning what they said and saying what they meant whether in a bar or not, I wasn’t ready for the way people acted the next day, when on came the famed British reserve, like a mask. I thought I was going crazy, imagining that they were different people just the night before. But after repeated nights of fun and abandonment -- compliments of the pub -- then comparing the same people the next day (probably hungover!), it dawned on me. . .

Having a laugh up the pub -- that’s all it is. Had to tell myself, don’t delude yourself thinking they’re being sincere, whether it’s talking about making big plans or even being “chatted up” -- it’s just not “on.” I had and still have a really hard time kicking back and just being silly and fun. Life was a VERY serious business to me, and even though I hid that most of the time, I’m best at planning, worrying, and getting things DONE. I’m better throwing a party and WORKING during it than kicking back. Yes, it’s crazy and probably unhealthy, but I was ill equipped to do the pub scene unless I felt useful and secure -- which I felt neither of, on my own, in South London.

So, I tried to talk seriously to Glenn and Chris about this album they were talking about doing with me. The next day, I marched to Glenn’s Greenwich flat; he gave me a cassette tape of some songs that they thought I’d like to sing. I gave them a cassette of my songs, too, which I doubt they listened to.

Now, you have to understand that I LOVED (and still love) Squeeze, and I’m a big fan of Difford & Tillbrook. Besides the fact they’re sweet guys who were always nice to me (and didn’t make any sexual overtures at all, so at least their motives weren’t carnal!), their songs were magnificent.

Not so THESE song demos they gave me. Recorded on Glenn’s four-track, then bounced to cassette, these songs were VERY long, kind of monotonous, and didn’t say much. I was crushed. Disappointed wasn’t the half of it. I was also outraged that they were trying to foist off those “discards” on me (I was sure these were songs that were passed on from previous recording sessions).

Two weeks into my great adventure, the wind was knocked out of my sails and I hit the doldrums. . . then I got a call from Jools Holland, who lived nearby.

“Allo? Is that Lauren? It’s Jools. I’m having a bit of a party tonight, would you like to come by?”

3-01-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #58 (“Working Class Hero”)

What could have been a better plan: move to England, work on a solo album with Difford & Tillbrook, be recognized for my great passionate vocals and guitar playing -- and songwriting -- and be a best-selling recording artist? Then I’d fall in love with a dreamy Brit (who adored me, of course), make a ton of money hand-over-fist from my music and writing, buy a country cottage and a flat in the city, go on the road, get married, get dual citizenship in the U.S. & U.K., maybe have a family and a couple of animals as pets, maybe a pony, or maybe a cookie that looks like a pony. . . all in that order!

I confess, some of my dreams were very old-fashioned. . . and not many of them included a very ordinary or average life. I didn’t want to be a rock star; I wanted to the best at what I do and make a good living from music and writing. Not very lofty goals, eh? I just loved England and the whole funny/weird Brit sense of humor. I understood the class system and loved that the commonly held thought was that the U.S. has no class system (ha ha -- right, right).

What class does the artist rule? What class does the nonconformist, the entrepreneur, the lifelong creative belong to? Income may dictate “class” to some, but you can’t buy TRUE “class,” dig?? I’ve struggled against the economic confines of (upper-middle-lower) middle class my entire life. Or maybe now I’m working class -- because all I do is work for ridiculous low wages in survival jobs most of the time these days?

John Lennon’s “A working class hero is something to be. . . .” is one of the best scathing songs about society -- the truths cut like dull knives to the heart.

So I start out life, at age 25, in a foreign country where I thought I knew the language. I thought I knew how to read people, how to know if they were sincere or full of shit. I thought I knew how to take care of myself and say the right things at the right time.

Everything I thought I knew got turned onto its figurative ear within two months.

I got to Blackheath and Glenn’s old flat. He was moving to Greenwich (the next town over), to a flat in the same building as Chris and Cindy Difford. Until the lease ran out on his Blackheath flat, I was welcome to stay. I don’t recall if I paid rent, but as I went over with about $900 or the equivalent in pounds sterling (the exchange rate was around $2.00 to the pound), maybe about 400 pounds (or “quid”).

The first week I was there, I’d walk around the scenic little town, go to the greengrocer’s, buy those long French cucumbers called “courgettes,” buy nice bread & cheese etc. I’d cook eggs and toast, cheese and toast, and have that great PG Tips tea. Heaven! (I was a vegetarian then -- no meats, maybe some fish.) I walked out on the “heath” and thought about the thousands of dead bodies and souls from the black death (the bubonic plague), buried there. . .I went to the lovely old Anglican church there and sat still, praying for the past, present, and future.

Soon after arriving, I was invited out to “the pub” with the Squeeze guys a few times. The place we went was in Greenwich, and I can’t remember how I got back to Blackheath from there. But no matter! I ordered half pints of lager & lime (sissy drink -- but that’s me, not much of a beer drinker). I learned to say, “’Alf lager ‘n’ lime, please!” in my best non-American voice. I hated when people would say to me, “Oh, you’re from AMERica! Say something like the Mafia!! Say something like Brooklyn!”

Ugh. I was trying to escape from something all these Brits just seemed to love.

And weirdly enough, little by little, I started to realize that they didn’t behave like New Yorkers one little bit. . .

2-29-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #57 (Grandma Ethel’s Role in My Moving to the U.K. for Keeps. . .)

Reminiscing on the kindness of my Grandma Ethel:

When I was a hapless 10-year-old, I broke my collarbone in several places as the result of rolling too-quickly downhill on a faulty skateboard (obviously!). My grandma sent me a get-well card and a little book called “Captain Kitty.” No matter I was ten years old, practically reading Proust, and the card and the book were probably for kids who were just starting to read. It was the thought that counted, and the kitty was SO cute.

Every thoughtful, she’d written on the back of the card: “… I received Holy Communion for you last Sunday & asked God to make you well soon and to spare you as much pain as possible – I hear you are getting very good care and are being a real good patient.” There were riddles in the card, silly ones like “Why is a half moon heavier than a full moon?” (A: because the full moon is lighter.) or “What kind of bank has no money?” (A: a river bank.)

Grandma’s funny get well card concluded, “Try these riddles on your nurse or doctor or even your company. Lots of love from Grandma.” Ah, my grandmother, the card – who loved puns and cheery cards. Now I know where I got that trait!

Anyway, in order to pull off my big moving-to-London, England, scheme, in a carefully worded note (persuasive writing is my forte), I sweetly asked her to help fund my foreign travels. I didn't really think she'd agree, so the $500 check was a pleasant surprise indeed. At the time, it was like having $2 grand or so. It meant a lot and was very helpful to me. I paid it back – or meant to; can’t remember now. I don’t know if anybody else asked her for any help, monetarily. It’s not like I was her favorite or anything; in fact, I don't remember her ever seeming to favor any of her grandkids -- except for those darned Seattle cousins!

I was starting to pack up, reflect on where I was & where I was going. I learned some cool old country songs and was writing a lot of new songs on the piano and guitar. I sang them, too -- but playing piano was laborious for me at best. On my TEAC 4-track, I demoed a bunch of stuff that sounded pretty amateurish, but the harmony vocals were nice (I always do a good harmony or two) and the songs were as good as any others, really. I was on fire.

Seth, the young lead guitarist with Nervus Rex, joined me on electric guitar for a few sessions while I strummed away and sang, including a videotaped segment for a friend’s cable TV show. . . “Please Help Me, I’m Falling” was one of my favorite songs, along with “(S)He Thinks I Still Care.” Of course, I learned all the feisty Loretta Lynn and weepy Tammy Wynette songs, too. . . I was convinced I’d be part of the “New Country” wave out of London, England; be produced by Glenn Tillbrook and Chris Difford of Squeeze; triumph musically, financially, and romantically, in England.

Oh what rose-colored glasses that little gal wore -- with the Guild guitar and several big suitcases in tow -- on the Freddy Laker flight that August night in 1981. . .

2-28-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #56 (“My Perfect Cousin(s)” role in my Preparing to move to the U.K. for Keeps. . .)

(this is my Grandma Ethel, a year or two before her death in 1984)

How did it come down to my asking a relative for a loan -- something I’d never do? Perhaps a quote from the New Testament had come back to me (I’d studied the Bible over the years on different occasions for different reasons). In the book of Matthew, that great quote Matthew 7:7-8: “Ask, and it shall be given you. . . and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.” How could you not love such amazing, consoling words?

Anyway, by the time I was grown up enough to care and inquire about her and her really interesting but possibly unglamorous life, Grandma Ethel in general didn’t have much to say, didn’t tend to reminisce out loud, just kept more and more to herself. It really was rare to have a conversation with her, and she never seemed to mind, oddly enough.

One of the high points to her life was when she’d visit our cousins in Seattle, Washington, from time to time in the sixties and seventies. Grandma would return from trips out west with our “perfect” Von Der Linn cousins, simply raving about what nice, well-behaved children they were. The implication being, in my head, why can’t YOU, Barbara’s kids, be good like THEM? We definitely resented those Seattle cousins, thought of them as “goody-goodys” and wanted to prove to them that WE were better ‘cause we were cooler and smarter and all of that. And certainly we were hipper, 'cause we were older and urban and cool, and liked better music. Besides, New York was cool, and Seattle (at that time) definitely wasn't.

When the Undertones came out with the song, “My Perfect Cousin,” I sang along, loudly.

Being a "free spirit" like my cousin Karen, and also deemed the sensitive, artistic one in my family, I would get these urges for free-ranging wanderlust, doing adventurous things like moving to London, England in my mid twenties. I was in search of my heart's desire, of course, so I could not be stopped. Not that my family ever tried to talk me out of any of my schemes -- either they were too accepting, or too lazy, or my ideas just weren't actually too weird and dangerous enough to veto. I had to live with that disappointment of not being badass enough, so I sighed and got on with it. Another adventure, another experience to write about later on and embellish – like here and now!

Anyway, I knew I'd need money and cash just wasn't my strong suit, being a musician and freelance writer. In writing, I nicely asked grandma to lend me $500 so I could make the trip. I wanted to go to England and make it as a songwriter and vocalist, just like Chrissie Hynde. It was 1981 and I admired her music & spirit in a huge way; we’d just met at my friend and bandmate, Dianne Athey's, apartment (as mentioned before, they were best friends in Akron, Ohio, at college), where the two old friends polished off a bottle of wine and pretty much entertained me. At one point in the evening I told them of my plans to move to London. Chrissie said to me, in her part Ohio, part Brit accent, in an offhanded drunk manner, "Sure, go to England, it’ll be good," so I figured it was the modern-day Delphic oracle predicting success and firmed up my plans.

Grandma, at this point a sweet tempered, forgetful old lady who daydreamed a lot, mostly communicated with me through the mail. I'd get a page-long handwritten note from her every now and then. She had a flowing, gentle scrawl, almost perfect handwriting but starting to taper off absentmindedly at the ends. . . .

Did the money from grandma come? What about those darned perfect cousins?

You’ll just have to read #57, next. . .

2-01-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #30 (Rock Writer Trixie Goes off on a tangent: Anglophilia and the Douglaston Syndrome)

(This is me at a tender age before Anglophilia kicked in. . .)

I like to use unusual words, words from other cultures and places. One such word is “lig” -- a “lig” is an opportunity for free stuff, esp. drinks and food. I intended to write about the free stuff that I lucked into back when I was a broke rock writer, student and new wave musician, but come on, humor me while I take off on a tangent. . .

Truth be told, I’ve always been an anglophile -- and who wasn’t, growing up in the 1960’s with the whole “British Invasion” on the radio and TV? Movies, too: we loved the sound of the native tongue -- English -- as spoken by the limeys. Oh yeah. And even though the Beatles spoke with working class Liverpool accents, they sounded charming. The Rolling Stones and their lot came with a different accent, that of middle class London.

As a kid, I remember “Mary Poppins” and “My Fair Lady,” the movies and the albums, very fondly. So at an early age, I knew what “cockney” sounded like. Even those careless and rough accents had a very romantic aura. Professor Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle had such an interesting exchange, when it came to accent, class, and attraction. I didn’t know what a Pygmalion was, but it seemed kind of like what happens between a prisoner and her captor. . . that’s called the Stockholm Syndrome.

Well, why not a new syndrome where people who aspire to a new life -- away from their cloying past -- and change their accents, change their lives? Why not “The Douglaston Syndrome” whereby people do just that? (I grew up in Douglaston, NY -- nice ring to it, eh, kinda?)

When I moved out of Queens, NY, I vowed to not sound like a “Queenser,” so I watched the way I spoke, and altered my diction so people couldn’t place me so readily. And then, when I finally did move to England in 1981, I developed (not consciously) a sort of British accent. But that qualified as “Linda McCartney syndrome,” whereby an American woman, a yank, undergoes changed speech because of culture shock/immersion in the new, somewhat preferred, culture.

Anyway, wow, this was a freaky tangent! Let’s review just a few cool new words from the lexicon of Londoners:

Buck’s Fizz -- like a mimosa, but with more orange juice (2 parts OJ to 1 part champagne)

Skint -- broke, in need of dosh (dough, money).

Loo -- rest room.

Barnet -- hair (“Barnet fair = hair, Cockney rhyming slang)

Lig / ligger / Ligging -- opportunity for free stuff / opportunist who looks for free stuff / the act of getting that free stuff on a lig while being a ligger, ligging

Now that I’ve explained what it is, I’ll continue with an excerpt on rock writer ligging, next. And in the foreseeable future, I’ll write about living in England in ’81 - ’82. Another great survival job adventure, overseas -- and a great cure for Anglophilia, living amongst the English!