3-15-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #72 (Tottering up to Totteridge, London, N20 - Pt. 2)

So, as last described, I deigned to accompany Calvin Hayes, a young drummer, up to the paternal home, in scenic Totteridge.  The goal: meeting Mickie Most.

I’m not sure any ulterior motive other than meeting the famous producer happened, because in my head I knew the kind of music he produced (though I did love many of the songs from the sixties -- and later on, even -- including the Yardbirds, Suzi Quatro, Kim Wilde, and Alan Merrill’s Arrows (“I Love Rock & Roll”).  It seemed to me that the  of British music scene of late included some very, er, disposable stuff.  I wasn’t sure how you could characterize the music I was making, but it was more like “Mother Maybelle Meets Chrissie Hynde,” and I was a huge fan of Roseanne Cash’s “Seven Year Ache.” 

And, as you already know, Squeeze was my favorite band in 1981. And yes, I did love really tight 3-minute popsong gems and wasn’t beyond believing that they worked.

The day of the fateful Most meeting (born Michael Peter Hayes, he changed his name in 1959), I was wearing my black-tinted hair in a long shag style, a black pullover that had a dipping round neckline with a 4-inch ruffle, a modest-length 3-tiered skirt, navy with tiny white polkadots, and red cowboy boots with 2-inch heels.  All that was topped with a blue-black-red-green tartan shawl. That outfit may sound strange, but somehow it all conveyed, for me, the cute country punk rocker of my dreams.  I tried dressing the part, which was always fun (still is!).

The Most/Hayes homestead in Totteridge was impressive but not “over the top.” An appealing sense of moderation governed the successful producer’s family digs, so they didn’t live in any sort of McMansion yet (a concept and word that didn’t yet exist in 1981), but a comfortable, attractive, large house. Very upper middle class and not showy -- kind of perfect.  (This must have been before he built a “palatial home” in Totteridge, which sold for 20 million pounds in 2005 or so.)

(again, here's pics of me at the time -- I really was quite stylin' in my quirky fun country-punk rocker way)

So, we’d arrived at the house, made some tea in the kitchen, then Calvin and I settled in to a home office type room, adjacent to the living room (or great room), readying for the meeting.  What had Calvin said about me?  Had he played the songs for him already?  Was he receptive?  Would it matter? . . . 

3-14-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #71 (Tottering up to Totteridge, London, N20 - Pt. 1)

What a long way from Blackheath, SE3, to Totteridge, north London, N20 to be precise!  A few weeks after meeting Calvin Hayes and checking him out -- meeting with him a few other times, over tea, to be sure he was “legit” and not just a wanker trying to get into my knickers -- I deigned to accompany him up to the paternal home, in scenic Totteridge. 

Being the second-to-last stop on the black Northern line on the underground, it wasn’t a bad ride, actually, from where I was staying (nearest tube station was Tottenham Court Road) at Gervaise Soeurouge’s.  I had Calvin listen to some of my songs -- my demos on cassette -- and he seemed to like them all right. We talked a little bit about putting together a band. . . I don’t think I was really into it unless there was some kind of record deal because I KNEW that Mickie Most -- and Chapman and Chinn, for that matter -- were really into making music that was, er, to be diplomatic, disposable.

And as much as I want(ed) to be successful, I’d like my music to be perhaps more like the kind that’s got a healthy cult following for life -- not just some pop songs that are Shite and over and done with in a few weeks or months.  At any rate. . . so much for my philosophy on where I want to be (I’m almost there, almost there, almost there. . .).

I was pretty happy with the way that my songwriting was going, and sure that, with the right producer and treatment in the studio, my songs had merit.  They were sort of eclectic, pop/country/rock songs. . . not unlike Elvis Costello, Squeeze, or Kirsty MacColl. . .

And while in London I was really trying to figure out how to get me sold as a singer-songwriter, and how to sell my songs. That’s when I met this strange but sweet young guy, Calvin Hayes, in a crowded West End pub one night.  He was a drummer, and his dad had produced numerous hits in his day (he knew Chapman & Chinn, of course).  Calvin seemed innocent, young, kind of lonely, and very eager to be liked.

Within minutes of meeting him, he says, “My dad’s Mickie Most. . . I’ll get him to listen to your songs, awl roight?”

3-13-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #70 (Clubbing in the ‘80’s -- a pretty silly scene)

As I mentioned in previous blog, I spent time in London, being suspected of working as a prostitute (by a crazy imaginative geezer, Alfie) but in actuality just hitting some clubs, going to gigs, whatever I could do to meet new people and schmooze.  This was before the word “network” was popularly used, but that was the angle.  I’m going to hope that you believe me when I tell you that nightclubbing was a job, of sorts. I say that especially because I don’t like loud music, crowds of people, people acting stupid en masse (individually, it’s fine!), and standing around, drinking. But, it WAS part of the job of a pop musician, going out on the town when not playing gigs. Really!

But to my way of thinking, I mean, if you didn’t really have to go somewhere and you’re going to make a night of it, drinking and acting stupid, have a party at home!! 

(I’m very well suited to my current lifestyle as a homebody -- sitting here writing at night is really the most fun, to me -- and part time party giver, thank the Lord!  Circumstances dictate “potluck” nowadays, but it’s still cool.)

OK.  I realize that my NYC clubbing days before going to London were certainly interesting and not without incident, especially around closing time.  Because most people’s guards were down and their booze etc. consumption up, this was the most amusing time of the night. 

Here are a few highlights, leading up to London:

·      At Max’s Kansas City, sitting at a booth with Peter Gabriel & some other writers including my boyfriend at the time and us being too cool to acknowledge Gabriel;

·      At the Peppermint Lounge downtown, darting across the almost empty basement dance floor to the bathroom, being accosted by Richard Butler of the Psychedelic Furs, having him insult my “long face,” and then me whacking him with my hand out of anger;

·      At Hurrah’s, saying my goodbyes, shuffling towards the bathroom, almost being knocked over by Iggy Pop and two girls on either side of him, propping him up;

·      At the uptown Peppermint Lounge, meeting Doug Fieger of The Knack, finding him basically insufferable -- THEN meeting this twerpy girl, Sharona, who was Fieger’s “inspiration” for “My Sharona.”  She was convinced that she’d made it big by being the subject of a pop song, and talked loudly about the various offers she was fielding -- from made-for-TV movies to tell-all biography books.  I didn’t mean to be cruel, but inside I was snickering away, cynical of the attention she was getting, knowing that song would soon be off the charts, leaving her and The Knack thoroughly knackered. .  .

And I’d say, “Look, there’s more!” but really, that’s just gilding the lily, isn’t it?  I was only really happy going out if I had a job to do (like playing a show); other than that, I felt I was wasting time.  OK, if I really loved the music or the people playing, I’d have a good time, too.  I dance to the music unabashedly, jump around and just have a great time -- when the music moves me.

And, of course, as a rock writer, it was fun to know my thoughts and opinions counted -- as I was being paid to write a review of whatever show I’d been sent to cover.  THAT wasn’t a waste of time, certainly -- it was using to good advantage that old Dr. Johnson adage:  “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.”

Somehow, I never tried to break into writing in London.  Strange, isn’t it?  Now I ponder how life would have been different had I pursued writing things other than long letters and dozens of pop/country/rock songs. . .

And while in London I was really trying to figure out how to get me sold as a singer-songwriter, and how to sell my songs. That’s when I met this strange but sweet young guy, Calvin Hayes, in a crowded West End pub one night.  He was a drummer, and his dad had produced numerous hits in his day (he knew Chapman & Chinn, of course).  Calvin seemed innocent, young, kind of lonely, and very eager to be liked.

Within minutes of meeting him, he says, “My dad’s Mickie Most. . . I’ll get him to listen to your songs, awl roight?”

3-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #69 (What’s It All About -- Alfie Maron!)

Gervaise’s neighbor, Alfred Maron, went by the nickname “Alfie.” He invited me down to his flat for a cuppa and a chat, and as I didn’t have a heck of a lot on my plate, so to speak, I was glad for the company.  He was an actor, and had lived a life on the stage. . .

(From All Movie Guide: British actor Alfred Maron played character roles on television, stage, and in feature films. He was typically cast in comical roles and specialized in playing Orthodox Jewish people. Before he became an actor, Maron was a tailor. ~ Sandra Brennan, Rovi)

Alfie was a small man, about my height, weighing maybe 20 pounds more (as I weighed around 110 pounds, he was still slender at that weight).  Somewhere in his sixties, I imagine (he was 70), he still had a head of hair and twinkling brown eyes.  I do believe he was gay, though he didn’t come out and say so, he hinted around at it and his mannerisms were “swishy.” He didn’t dress the part of a total “queen,” but I suspect his working class roots were partly to blame (older “queers” and queens like Quentin Crisp came from upper middle class beginnings, homes where culture and beautiful clothes were valued).

Alfie served me tea in his basement flat, a darkish place but comfortable, decorated in browns and deep greens.  We had some nice small talk, and I was enjoying his colorful, dramatic verbal meanderings and turns of phrase.  Alfie was born a cockney, then he went into the theater.  He smiled at me, cocked his head, and asked, “Are you on the game, love?”

“Er, what do you mean? What game?”

He smiled again and repeated, “Are you on the game, love?”

I looked at him again, blankly. “What do you mean, game?”  This was a new one on me!

Alfie started to look slightly annoyed. “Come on, love. You’re on the game, aren’t you?”

I started to feel frustrated. “Alfie, that’s a new one on me. I’ve never heard that expression, so you have to explain to me what ‘on the game’ means. I’m a Yank, remember?”

Hi expressive face now registered comprehension. “Oh.  Well, are you a prostitute? Are you on the game?” 

“Huh? NO!!”  Trying not to feel insulted, I chuckled. “Whyever would you think that? It can’t be that I’m bringing men home -- I never have, over here!!”

Alfie explained that my comings and goings late in the day and into the night -- with me not getting home until the wee hours, half the time -- pointed to that sort of lifestyle. Then he waved his hand, “That’s all right, love, your secret’s safe with Alfie!” 

I spent the next half hour alternately laughing, then protesting.  I guess it’s cute that he thought me a real working girl and all, but come on!!  If I say I’m not, believe me! 

Clearly, Alfie was a mischievous man, a bit of a “king mixer”: he liked to mix it up and cause trouble. Maybe he was bored. . .But he did give me an idea that I might try getting work somewhere “under the table,” working in a bar or restaurant. . .

. . . though I still wasn’t sold on working “on the game,” under a stranger.  And yes, life WAS getting ever stranger. . . 

3-11-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #68 (Almost Losin’ it in London -- Part II)

As glad as I was to have almost miraculously been introduced to another expatriate American who successfully lived in London and seemed to be having a great time (Gervaise was around 40 years old at the time, dating a younger, handsome guy named Gary, a Cockney who sounded alarmingly like Dick Van Dyke as Bert the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins), all was not well.

I might as well fess up and admit: I’ve been waging war with depression most of my life, along with (un)healthy amounts of anxiety. This may be why I work so hard at everything and rarely relax.  I am driven by a force that’s part terror, part high energy nervousness.  Sure, I love most of what I’m up to, but you can be sure I have a lot of darkness I’m trying to avoid, meanwhile.

But in general my outward mien is cheerful, optimistic, and funny.  In fact, after meeting Ms. Soeurouge and staying with her a few days and nights when we’d go to north London to catch Nick Cave’s band The Birthday Party and a few other cool London bands (we also needed to go over stuff at the flat for the few months she’d be out of town, get to know the kitties & such), she blew up at me:

“Do you HAVE to be so damned cheerful?  You’re like Mary fucking Tyler Moore!  It’s insufferable, really.  Knock it off, Lauren!”  I guess I should have laughed, but I was stunned and hurt.  Overcompensating for my darkness resulted in an overdose of sweetness and light.  Ugh.  Of course I apologized profusely -- a reflex action, like a gag reflex -- which pissed off Gervaise even more. 

LUCKILY, she was leaving the next day, cute boyfriend Gary in tow, to work on a documentary or something in the U.S. and so I wouldn’t be getting on her nerves much longer.  But before going, she showed me her stash of “good acid” in the freezer. “Feel free to trip, I have plenty,” she commented, breezily.

Oh yeah.  I’m nearing suicidal with worry and deepening depression, and here’s this erstwhile hippie telling me to go ahead and drop some ‘cid.  Oh really.

But three days after they’d left, one of the kitties had a new litter of babies -- which lightened my mood, considerably.  I mean, how can you be depressed with such cute little mewling babycats? 

And then came a knock on the door from a neighbor, a little old man who called himself “Alfie”. . . .

3-10-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #67 (Losin’ it in London -- Almost)

Yes, the good times were to be had in south London, but my moods were sinking fast -- as were my available funds.  I had no source of income other than busking, and was spending (even without paying rent yet) easily 30 quid a week on just eating, going out to pubs, and transport.  I’m sure I went to little Oxfam & other thrift stores to find cool stuff to wear (it’s an addiction of sorts).  Oh right -- we went to a lot of “white elephant” sales at churches & the like.  “Elli-phonts,” as Bentley called ‘em.

So, after three months of spending 30 pounds per week, that left me with about 100 pounds -- which was scary.  I knew I’d have to get work somewhere, but where and how?  I wasn’t legal to work there, and my options were limited -- even though I could write, I could waitress, I could type . . . and take care of old people.

I faced an even bigger problem: Glenn Tillbrook’s Blackheath apartment had been finally all cleared out and I could no longer “squat” there.  Damn!  So not only did I have no income, I had no home.  Luckily, all I had was a few suitcases and a guitar to tote along to my next digs. . . .

This being the days before cheap phone calling, cell phones, and the internet, I wrote letters back across the pond, regularly.  There were these thin blue-papered “air letters” with postage included, that folded into itself. You’d lick the edges to fasten them sealed.  Cute -- and practical!  But I didn’t like to write longhand; could never fit a lot of words and I DO like to go on (as you can read!).

Fortunately, I found a little portable British typewriter (with the pound sign rather than a dollar sign), a manual one from the twenties or thirties, at a Camden town flea market.  It cost a pricey 25 quid, but I went to town on that, and soon had a thriving correspondence with several friends in NYC and my sister back home.  (I still have that typewriter and it still works. . .)

Even more fortunately, my friend, photographer Stephanie Chernikowski, knew a woman, a photographer/filmmaker from the south named Gervaise Soeurouge (from New Orleans), who lived in London Central and needed a flatsitter and catsitter.  I so missed my (hell)kitty, Claudette, and just jumped at the chance to be near cats AND stay somewhere, anywhere, really. 

At the end of my rope, I read a letter from Stephie that included Gervaise’s phone # and a suggestion -- or an introduction -- to her.  Whew!  I called without even thinking -- and the rest, as they say, was

Ver-r-r-y interesting. . . .

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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On to the full fish moon blog:

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. . .