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.

3-06-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #63 (A fiduciary aside & busking for bikkies)

(snapshot of me and my sister, Carrie, mugging for the camera in a staged "holdup" shot. Note b&w Nervus Rex promo pic and Krushenick print on wall behind us)

Hmm. Hidden Danger, eh? To the preternaturally aware, there was ample foreshadowing there. At the time, I held on to every little pleasure every day -- laughter, jokes, a nice cup of tea, crunchy toast, my favorite “bikkies” (biscuits -- McVities chocolate covered home wheats), writing letters home & writing songs, making music, partaking of the occasional Silk Cut, kisses, hugs, a good night’s sleep -- and dreamed of bigger things, like being taken seriously for my music.

I’d come to the U.K. with a limited amount of $, maybe around 400 pounds. Because of its sterling rep, I went to London Central and opened up a deposit account at Lloyds of London. I looked at my bank book and felt the stirrings of fiscal confidence -- just from the logo and the great rep of Lloyd’s of London!! Yes, friends, marketing is a powerful tool, as is money a powerful salve and healer and aphrodesiac -- TO THOSE WHO NEED IT. At least, that’s how it’s gonna go down in my book.

Living in London at last, I figured out that I could easily go out and do some “busking” for much-needed change in the tubes. Glenn Tillbrook said he did it (probably for a lark -- he didn’t NEED the spare change). I knew a pretty big repertoire, including songs from the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, mostly rock and country and folk. I could play original songs, too -- mix it up, you know? I had my trusty old Guild F-30 acoustic guitar and several pocketfuls of chutzpah (as if you could hold chutzpah in a pocket!).

Anyway, it was a plan. Different days, I took to different places in the tube stations and played and sang my heart out, doing “Up On the Roof,” “Carey,” “Labelled With Love” (Squeeze), “There’s a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Thinks He’s Elvis” (Kirsty MacColl), “Almost Saturday Night” (Fogarty), and “You’re So Vain,” along with my own numbers like “December Pledge,” “Bandages,” “Pour Out Your Heart To Me,” “I’d Like to Think,” “Reminders,” “Mercy Killing,” “London Rain”. . . and, of course, those two John Bentley songs I loved, “Workin’ Class” and “Hidden Danger.”

Did I make much money? Was it fun? Did I get arrested or molested? Hmmm.

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?”