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. 

3-10-12 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. . .

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. . .

2-27-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #55 (Preparing to move to the U.K. for Keeps. . .)

(great pic of young Nervus Rex me by SF photog. who needs to remind me of his name & whereabouts!)

My leg had now healed from my great skiing adventure with Nervus Rex. We’d played a few more gigs, but signs were pointing to a parting of the ways with the group. Two years before, we were so hopeful; two years later, everything was an uphill effort, and people in the band didn’t even seem to like one another. We’d recruited a young lead guitarist, Seth, who was a wonderful musician and a sweetheart of a guy, but our musical arrangements onstage had become long and somewhat overblown, though brilliant (the intro to “There She Goes,” our opening number at the Peppermint Lounge in the spring of 1981, was pretty over the top. . . five minutes of spacey, then driving, guitar riffs with the Panther organ and synth sounds -- not exactly poppy any longer, which suited Shawn’s mood but not the audience’s expectations).

Around this time, Nervus Rex had gone into the studio with a young Mike Chapman protégé, a recording engineer named Doug. We recorded a demo of a few tracks for our second album that we thought were pretty cool: “Funky Surfer Boy,” “Out of Love,” and “What I Really Want” (“We Learn To Live With a Little Pain, My Dear” was the chorus of another song Shawn was writing at the time -- a song that Shawn did later on with his pop group, Burning Puppets). At any rate, the titles of those songs sure are telling, hm? Whatever was going on in his brain, Shawn wasn’t into the relationship, and I was fed up, too. The record company passed on our demo, and Nervus Rex was label-less, too.

Shawn and I had been fighting for a year, and after my leg broke, we had pretty much broken up -- there were other romantic interests and a lot of “flirtin’ and hurtin’” happening. I reacted a lot to how I was being treated (I got mad and kind of suspicious when I was not invited out with Shawn when he hung out with his druggie drinking friends, and assorted “midget models” -- ouch and ouch). One young man I was “seeing” briefly (probably to hurt Shawn back -- yup, that was bad) lent me his cool black leather motorcycle jacket and wound up giving it to me (I’m lucky, see?). Crossing 14^th street on foot, he even said, “I’ll marry ya if you wear that leather jacket.” (Sadly, he was the wrong guy at the wrong time -- I was getting bored because he wasn’t real smart, just good hearted, which is good, just not enough for me.) After him, I was seeing a guy who was a real smooth talker and a big fan; he came from a well to do family in Connecticut (!!) but was kind of slimey -- of course hard drugs were involved. He was friends with a guy at Madonna’s record company who’d helped Madonna get a deal in return for sexual favors, so I thought all that inside info was quite titillating. . . anyway, it really was a mistake to date that guy but hey, I was young and had a right to make some pretty big errors in my life -- right? (just go with me on this!)

Above all, I’d wanted to move to England for some years. . . . and as if an answer to that prayer, I got a letter from my friend, Glenn Tillbrook, who knew I wanted that. He said, “Come on, move to England; you can stay in my flat in Blackheath for a few months.” He also hinted around that he and Chris Difford wanted to produce a recording project with me as the singer. Wow! Who wouldn’t jump at such an offer!

In the course of a few months, I sold my synthesizer, my Panther organ and a guitar or two (keeping my old acoustic Guild F-30), found a subletter for my apartment (and my mean- spirited calico cat, Claudette), and borrowed money from my sweet old Grandma.

Ask a relative for money? I really didn’t know how to do that, and was pretty scared and confused if it was the right thing. . .