3-18-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #75 (“(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes” -- Oh Yeah!)

(young Elvis Costello wearing some RED!!)

The autumn of 1981 in London meant a new season for many.  So, of course, the art crowd was having its new season too.  I was invited along to an art gallery opening -- somewhere hip, in London -- but I do recall it was a nice “lig,” with free food and drink. Of course, living on very limited means and wanting to win friends and influence people, I was there. 

Also on hand were my Squeeze pals, Glenn Tillbrook, Chris Difford, and probably John Bentley.  Best of all, I got to hang a bit with the affable Elvis Costello and his then-wife, Mary.  They -- and I -- proudly sported our red cowboy boots.  I kept thinking of the Elvis Costello song, “(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes.”  I wondered if they were the SAME red shoes that he and she were wearing.  For myself, I just liked the novelty of red shoes in high heeled cowboy boot form, and thought they looked cute with puffy tiered skirts above the knees. I guess it was one of those ‘80’s trends or aberrations, bright red footwear.

Elvis as I recall was laughing and drinking a lot, and Mary, his wife, seemed nervous -- but seemed really warm and kind to me.  Earlier in 1981, I was balancing my armpits on crutches that I padded for comfort, watching from the wings of the stage at the NY Palladium, enjoying a spirited Squeeze/Elvis Costello concert with my right leg in a full leg cast.  I reminded Elvis of that and how he and his band signed the cast for me, and he laughed and said he certainly hoped my leg had healed. A real nice guy, that Elvis.

I wish I could recall more about the art at this opening party -- but as I hadn’t the means to buy anything and was so involved with the socializing aspect, I can’t remember it. Well, I could say they were generous to provide refreshments for a whole lot of liggers, the likes of us musicians and whatnot.

I am sure there was press there, snapping pictures and getting good captions for the next week’s NME or Melody Maker.  Who knows, could have also made it into the Daily Mail or The Sun.  (How about the caption, “Pop! Goes the Art Scene”??)  I was more of a Guardian reader if truth be told. . . . 

3-17-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #74 (“Shattered Dreams” not just for jazz-haters!)

Click on below link for more info:

Daily Mail article on Calvin Hayes: Dire Straits for Scion of Pop Mogul

As beforesaid, the suspense was killing.  Mickie didn’t say anything while he listened.  His face was hard to read, and I held my breath for the entire three minutes Most listened to my cassette.

“Ah, this won’t sell,” he pronounced. I said I came to London to write songs and make records with a country music feel. “This Country music craze in London’s over, and your songs are too eclectic. I’m afraid they just aren’t up to snuff.”

Not a knife to my heart, exactly, but I wanted to blurt out, “Oh, but you’re wrong!  You’re not hearing it right. And besides, I have the talent to work as a staff writer at RAK and help co-write more of your hits!”  In that way, I wouldn’t mind being a musical “whore” at all, really. 

And I should have mentioned working with Glenn Tillbrook of Squeeze.  But I couldn’t think straight. I never can, on the spot.  So I write. . .

Instead, I said to the big man, “Well, thank you for taking the time to listen.  It’s good to meet you.”

“Well, darling, thanks much for coming over. Nice meeting you. Ta.”

Within the space of ten minutes, my meeting with the famous Mickie Most was done. Finished. Kaput. He handed my tape back to me, at least.

Calvin walked out of the great room back to the den with me. His face had a sorry look, but he didn’t say anything.  Maybe he was feeling as crushed as I was.  After all, it was HIS idea to come meet the old man and present my songs.  He was kind to try to help me, so I don’t fault him one bit for the lack of foresight of his father.

Calvin wound up dating Kim Wilde, a very successful Mickie Most artist whose song, “Kids in America” was a huge worldwide hit in the early ‘80’s.  He was also in a Brit “sophisti-pop” band in the mid ‘80’s who had a modicum of success as Johnny Hates Jazz.

In 2009, a story came out in the Daily Mail about Calvin, who’s not been doing too well of late. . . that link is above. 

3-09-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #66 (Aside - The Mushroom Men and the 66th Trip)

(pics of me from a London photo booth circa Oct. 1981. . . many moods, indeed!)

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I do believe I told Glenn Tillbrook about busking the tubes in London while I was doing it, and he laughed and thought it a brilliant thing. Then he asked, “Would you come along with us -- we’re meeting at a pub and going to do something. . . “ I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he did mention dressing up in hippie-ish garb and being silly, which I was definitely into.

Had I been better at keeping a journal those days, I might be able to say the name of the place we convened, but just play along for now, OK? I believe it was in the West End. . .

We all arrived at the appointed pub in the late afternoon, donning silly garb, like tee shirts with peace symbols, long skirts, and flowers in our hair. We had tambourines, maracas, guitars. There was Glenn Tillbrook, Chris Difford, me, John Bentley (I think), and a few other friends & Squeeze fans. I even think that Glenn’s first love, Jo (a very sweet, soft spoken woman with long blonde hair), might have been with us. We sat in a booth and drank a bit, then got up and marched around, indoors, outdoors, in single file, chanting, “The Mushroom Men and the Sixty-Sixth Trip! The Mushroom Men and the Sixty-Sixth Trip!” on and on. Very silly, and much fun, making music, making noise, nothing planned.

That sort of silliness reminded me of the times that Glenn would parade out in the streets of NYC in years previous, in a vintage dressing gown or long smoking jacket over his shirt and jeans, with a stylin’ fedora, derby or porkpie hat (I always confuse them all). Not sure why he’d do that, but what the hey? He IS a front man and fun is fun, right hon?

I’m still not sure why we were doing the “Mushroom Men” thing -- would have been a good name for a sixties parody band & all, but nobody had time to put such a thing together, what with being a top-of-the-charts band like Squeeze, or a struggling Yank on the town, like me. Whyever it happened, we made a good hour of it, being noisy-silly, making a performance art sort of thing out of a mantra we all intoned together, “The Mushroom Men and the 66^th Trip.” If there was a camera crew or photographer who was shooting that day, please do step forward and help enlighten/refresh us on where, when, and why. But of this I’m sure: it happened in the late summer/fall of 1981. And I think it might have been mentioned in the NME or Melody Maker. . .

My take on it, in hindsight: The guys in Squeeze needed to blow off a lot of steam, because they were riding high at the time and Jake Riviera (Elvis Costello’s manager) was courting them, and Miles Copeland had always been their manager & agent and so. . . either it would be a new, unknown entity guiding their thriving but fragile music careers or, as Difford would say of Copeland, “The devil you know.”

The Mushroom Men were on their 66^th trip, and this is my entry #66, in honor of that bizarre memory. . .

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. . .

2-19-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #47 (“Labelled With Love”)

(photo of me circa '81 by SF photog R. . . please help get this guy's name, it's a great shot!)

Real Squeeze fans know about original bassist Harry Kakoulli breaking his leg. So when Glenn called me a few weeks after I broke mine, inviting me to hang with them at their gig in NY at the Palladium, opening for Elvis Costello and the Attractions, I winced and lamented into the phone:

“Oh, Glenn, I did a Harry Kakoulli!”

“Ohhhh. . . sorry!”

“But hey, I can get around OK. I have crutches and there are lots of cabs, you know?” A feisty gal such as I won’t be held back by a silly thing like a 20-pound full leg cast -- right? So, I got all gussied up, hopped down the five flights of stairs one step at a time, and arrived at the Palladium on 14^th street, bedecked in my New Wave best, plus. My boyfriend had all but deserted me, and I was a free gal out on the town -- which suited me fine, as I am madly independent of action and thought.

I went backstage before the show, and was cleared to sit in the wings during both the Squeeze and Costello sets. Sweet! Even if my broken leg was throbbing, I was feeling no pain and very happy to be there, hearing my favorite songs one after the other. Then again, I probably wanted to dance my lil’ ol’ ass off. . . and I doubt I tried it, considering the full leg cast & crutches.

Backstage, Elvis C. was in a great mood, and when I asked him to sign my cast, he gladly did so -- as did the rest of his band and the guys in Squeeze. Of course, would YOU save such a gross thing as a big, dirty old plaster leg cast from 1981? I did, for years -- then one day, I probably came across it and saw the terrible shape it was in and tossed it. Oh well.

I also saw Bebe Buell backstage -- she was madly in love with Elvis Costello, and quite the beauty. I always thought “Girls Talk” was about her. . . anyway, I’d seen her at the Peppermint Lounge, also, maybe it was the year previous? She was chasing after one of the guys from Echo & the Bunnymen. The layout of “the Pep” was a large circle, and I was sitting on a barstool in the bar area. Bebe and the lad must have come through three or four times. It was like a Sylvester and Tweety Bird cartoon. . .

Liz Derringer hung out with Bebe sometimes. . . anyway, the funny things you remember, the visuals! I tend to recall comical scenes -- and maybe a few tragic ones, too.

Anyway, having a broken leg didn’t much slow me down. . . because I played gigs with that leg cast (then they re-set the bones with a half cast), and went out on the town. I got great at hopping up the stairs, pulling myself up with one arm, crutches under the other armpit.

One day, I went up to the hotel where Squeeze was staying to hang out. They had a large suite, and in the middle of this afternoon, quite the party was going on. At a table in the room, Nick Lowe sat with Carlene Carter, his then-wife (or fiancé?). They were both charismatic, warm, sweet, very attractive people. Nick was drinking heavily, and probably she had a few, as well.

At this time on the music scene, the drug of choice was cocaine. For some, they chose heroin, or speedballed both. As a rule, I knew few junkies but a lot of people I knew snorted enough coke to make them foolish, stupid, and rather broke. Coke’s an expensive habit that makes you feel great at first, then you come down, need more, feel great, drink copiously, smoke like a fiend, need more coke, babble like a mad fool with nobody listening, then your teeth start to grind and chatter, then you need more coke, more vodka, more cigarettes. . . then you’re up all night and a total wreck long after daylight. You need a valium or two to get to sleep, and after all that drinking, do you really want to be taking a valium??

‘Twas a vicious cycle at best. Several friends of mine, gifted musicians, were in the grip of that cokefiend weirdness. Eventually they stopped, but the wreckage that behavior left behind was never pretty, and certainly sad.

Because Glenn got preoccupied with band business and a certain Rockette named Sunny, John Bentley, the great Squeeze bassplayer, and I started to hang out. We developed quite the rapport. . . he became a good friend, indeed.

I told the guys in Squeeze that I dreamed of moving to Blighty -- as that’s all I thought about, laying around my little NY apartment, thinking about the great new songs I was writing. I wanted to try to move to England and go solo -- and Glenn and Chris thought that would be cool.

Lo(we) and behold, in a few months, that dream would unfold -- thanks in part to Freddy Laker and his cheap transatlantic flights. . . .

2-18-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job # 46 (“Mystery Achievement” into “The Wait”)

(Photo by the famous Moshe Brakha, circa '79, of the glam new wave poppers, Nervus Rex)

One of Dianne’s great talents was as an amateur athlete. Besides being a swimmer and a golfer, she was an ace on the slopes, a really good skier. She and Jonathan knew people (Jon’s relatives?) who had a place up in Massachusetts at Mount Brodie ski resort, and we were all invited there for a long ski weekend in the winter of early 1981.

At this point, as a band, we were rather dispirited -- with no management, no booking agents, and a record company who were fast losing interest after sitting on our debut album for a year, then releasing it to meager attention and lukewarm reception. Our personal relationships within the band were approaching an all-time low as well. Shawn and me, Jonathan and Dianne were bickering and at odds.

At any rate, I was happy to be on that “break” and keen to learn to ski because I love ice skating (which is similar, balance-wise to skiing), and a new challenge is always fun. I may not be greatly coordinated, but once I get a rhythm going -- on an instrument or dancing around -- I’m all right. So, Dianne dressed me in one of her cool ski outfits and we went to the ski rental place to get me outfitted.

One thing that the people running the rental place forgot to mention to me (and Dianne didn’t check) was the importance of the ski boot releasing from the ski when the ankle bent at a certain extreme angle. That release prevented bone breaks. At least, that’s what I understood after the fact. I didn’t know about it beforehand, and everybody was so busy nobody checked my boot and rental skis for the release.

So, I spent three marvelous days skiing downhill on an easy slope (I did the side to side or “S” pattern skiing down to be safe -- no straight down skiing for me!) but on my last run a real game-changer happened: I broke tibia & fibula while my brain switched Pretenders songs in the jukebox in my head: from “The Wait” into “Mystery Achievement.”

‘Twas a mystery, indeed, how my ski slipped and crossed over in front of me JUST ten yards outside the First Aid Station at Mt. Brodie! Truth told, I had music in my head that slipped and the thought of some yummy hot chocolate by the fire at the ski lodge. Oh well. The boot didn’t release from the ski and BOOM! I went down, hearing the SNAP! of my brittle bones (not helped, no doubt, by years of near-starvation). Ouch.

Dianne rushed over on her skis, seeing me. “Laurie, what happened?”

“My leg broke,” I gasped.

“No!! No, you couldn’t have!” Dianne gasped back in disbelief.

“I heard it! Ow, it hurts. Help!” With help from the First Aid station, I was rushed there, then rushed to the nearby hospital, where they x rayed and set my leg, putting a real kibosh on the first and last Nervus Rex ski trip. I remember the Iranian Hostage Crisis -- and the release of the hostages -- was televised in the background, so we must have been away in 1981 between January 19^th & 21^st.

I remember the Presidential elections a few months earlier, where Reagan won and I felt sick to my stomach (I was eating dinner with Shawn at one of our favorite little Italian Restaurants at the corner of Spring and Sullivan streets). That kind of resolved me to leave the country -- I was so ashamed to have that bozo, Reagan, as our leader!

So, the Nervus Rex ski trip was a bust, and I went home to a fifth floor walkup on Thompson Street in Soho with a broken leg and no elevator (yet), a broken band, and a boyfriend who ran after “midget models” and had acquired an expensive habit that kept him up nights and upped his cigarette and vodka intake.

1981 was shaping up to be a real doozy. . . but I still had friends in bands like Squeeze. . . so one night in February, I got a phone call from good ol’ Glenn Tilbrook. . . .

2-17-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #45 (“Another Nail in My Heart”)

Some other bands Nervus Rex double-billed with back in the seventies/eighties: Bloodless Pharaohs (Brian Setzer’s band), The Erasers, Richard Hell & the Voidoids (“You look like you got BLOOD on your lips!” Hell pointed out to me one night when he was blitzed, between sets), Milk & Cookies (Sal, the bassplayer, is still out there rockin’ & I bump into him occasionally), The Sic F*cks (or at least, I remember them, playing -- Russel Wolinsky, Tish, Snooky, Andy Bale & Jason), The Foolish Virgins (had a thing for Jim Morrisson and the Doors), and some other cool combos I’ll remember soon enough. We played CBGB’s, Max’s, Club 57, The Space, The Mudd Club, Hurrah, Peppermint Lounge, and more. . . I’m not remembering every place, every club, every band, but that was a strange way of paying my way through a few years.

I probably felt guilty I wasn’t doing more, but between rehearsals, promoting, gigging, and schmoozing with lots of the inevitable “hanging out” in between, it was a real bohemian living, all right. Of course I finished college and graduated in 1978, and kept writing freelance, too.

But if you ask, was that a “survival Job,” being in a working band who actually made a (meager) living, making music? Sure!

Another English band that Nervus Rex double-billed with -- and I just loved; they were my favorites: SQUEEZE. Their amazing lyrics, melodies, vocals & musicianship gave them the early albatross (‘cause it’s hard to live up to, consistently) of “The New Lennon & McCartney.” Difford & Tillbrook were two very different personalities, South London boys who had a great time thrashing out intelligent pop songs onstage and having fun with it. They became a great hit in England, and also in our musicianly “New Wave” circles, circa ’79 - ’81, especially.

Managed by Miles Copeland (of the FBI agency, who also managed and booked The Police), they toured the U.S. often and made a splash with airplay and record sales. Being very pop & fun, Nervus Rex was a good double bill, and we had a great time sharing the stage.

Squeeze’s music was so uplifting and fun, I couldn’t stop dancing and singing along to every single song on Argybargy. What a great pop album! Few others come close, even today. . .

Anyhoo, because we worked together, I got to hang out with Squeeze & became friends with Glenn, especially. Chris Difford had an American girlfriend who became his wife, Cindy. So it was kind of hard to hang with him. . . though my designs on those guys weren’t anything more than platonic -- and perhaps wanting to work with them. After a bit, Jon Bentley became a great friend. . . he was sweet, cute, and so funny.

While in town and not into other shenanigans (he DID have a girlfriend, Jo, back home on the first tour or two), Glenn T. came over my Thompson Street apartment to play my rinky little studio piano and sing songs like “Paper Roses” with me. We even recorded a little on my TEAC 4-track. It was a riot, and such fun. We both loved classic, old country music. This was around the time they were working with Elvis Costello, who was writing “Good Year for the Roses.” Glenn & Chris wrote and recorded “Labelled With Love” with Squeeze, and that country ballad hit the British charts.

But one of the best feelings, ever, was to hear “Another Nail In My Heart” or “Vicky Verky” live, with all that adrenaline, the octave-unison double vocal of Glenn and Chris, with Gilson Lavis pounding away on drums, Jools Holland finessing on keyboards and Jon Bentley on melodic but driving bass. What a band! I still smile to think about how awesome they were at The Ritz & all. . . the levitating kind of energy from a band in top form.

But that’s not all! Stay tuned for more Squeeze stories whilst scraping by in seventies New York, just stayin’ alive and surviving in the belly of the beast. . . .