Coke in the '80s - Nels tells all. (Mr Stickleback returns, too)

Where we got to in the story...

Can you trust a guy (called Guy) who drinks shandy? Nels thought, as she pulled apart the bag of scratchings and inhaled the salty fug of putrified fat. She was starving, a consequence of drinking strong cider.

"You said Matt was being a bit silly back in '82. Why?" said Guy, crunching a segment of pig trotter.

"One day he chucked a guitar amplifier out the window of the Torpid Emancipator. He was paranoid, thought we were hiding from him," said Nels, chuckling, "too much Coke."

"Well, I suppose, 1980s, cocaine, all the rage in the rock world, I bet," said Guy, sounding even uncooler than the blazing open fire.

"No, not cocaine, Coca-Cola. Matt was on at least 8 cans a day. When he chucked the amp, he was on a sugar rush. Big time. Totally manic," said Nels.

By now Nels was desparate for a fag, her leg restlessly jiggling; but she didn't want to move away from the warm bar to the windswept, umbrella enclosed, courtyard area full of smoking builders. Anyway, she was in her 50s now - although no one believed it - and should really think of giving up.

Nels continued, anything to take her mind off cigarettes: "We looked out the window and the falling amp had caused a couple of teenagers to dive for cover onto some old geezer's car. Smashed up the bonnet. The oldster was giving them a hard time, so Matt invited them up to watch us rehearse. I remember asking Matt if he really wanted people to see us - 'Hair Tom' - in a bloody mess like this. And when the kids arrived it was like a scene from 'Let It Be'."

Guy looked kind of confused. He took a big glug of shandy, primarily to wash away the chemical taste of the pork scratching, and coughed as a bubble went down the wrong way.

"Am I boring you yet?" said Nels.

"Oh my God! No!" said Guy, "I, I'm just amazed, that's all. I thought you were such a strong unit"

'Unit' thought Nels. Guy sounds like he's on 'The Old Grey Whistle Test' or something...she shuddered, then realised that it was the pub dog, not Guy, rubbing her leg.

[to be continued - Me and Duggie are back next time!]

[Mr Stickleback says: Just wanted to say, Steve, that I'm really enjoying the blog. It's starting to reel me in (my word, I'm a fish saying things like that!)
Loads of others in the river are reading it, too. Trout was a little confused and Pike spluttered and coughed a bit after I read it to him - well, you know what a stick in the muddy riverbed he is! The Newts are well into it, as is Toad. Thing I'd like to point out to readers is that we're all in this for the long haul. Each blog kinda connects. If you don't get something, look at earlier posts. But don't try to make total sense of it all...let's face it. Life isn't that easy.
One thing, Steve. Could you, maybe provide some descriptions of things like the 'Torpid Emancipator' and the prog-rock movement: 'Sound of Torpidity'? Also a short biog of 'Hair Tom'? See ya!
Steve says, in reply to Mr Stickleback: Sure. I might just do that...let's get Duggie and his mate back into the story and I'll see what I can do. Thanks for reading, Mr S!]

Nels: strong cider, spliff and The Hour of Bewilderbeast (Badly Drawn Boy, 2000)

“By 1982 it was all over for 'Hair Tom' really,” said Nels, soaking up the heat from the Inglenook like a black towel laid out on a summer beach, “Matt, you know, Matt Score, was being a right pratt.”

Matt. Pratt. She was aware of the rhyme, she liked choosing her words like that.

Guy, the guy she met on the bus (Nels liked that, too), who had bought her a nice cloudy cider said: “but you did your best stuff after '82, I mean, 'Illustrations of Gargoyle, 1985...”

“Shh!” said Nels, striking a kestrel-on-the-alert pose, “that's 'Badly Drawn Boy', isn't it?”

“Um, I'm sorry, I don't know any of the locals...” said Guy.

“No! The album, 'The Hour of Bewilderbeast' by Badly Drawn Boy. They're playing it. Thought I heard something that sounded like it on the way in. Must be playing the whole record,” said Nels, taking a large glug of the strong cider.

“Oh, yeah. They often play whole albums in here. I heard the complete 'White Album' once. Don't know much about this pop stuff,” said Guy.

Pop stuff! Thought Nels, conjuring up the image of a spliff in her mind - this album always did. She remembered, she was holed up in a flat on Brighton seafront when it came out, back in 2000, the year the computers didn't crash. Matt had been paranoid about his state-of-the-art digital mixing desk exploding or something for months. He was a bloody nightmare!

Yeah, the flat. Brighton seafront. Salt-lashed and crumbling, part of a kind of modern 1930s place that had gone to rack and ruin [it's been renovated now]. Full of illegal immigrants and squatters. Nels and Matt were squatting with the remnants of a festival group, a mix of Hawkwind session guys and some bloke who said he'd been in the Levellers, although must have been airbrushed out of the band's history, if indeed he was ever part of it.

Dope was constantly in the air during that time. Probably no need to smoke a joint in that flat, just inhale the ambience of the place.

So, one day, Nels had skinned up a nice, mellow, early-morning-slowly-wake-up joint. A hazy sun was enveloping the horizon, turning the sea apricot colour, when the flippy floppy riff that leads into 'Once Around The Block' came on.

Nels can't remember who put it on, probably Pauley, it was his kind of thing. He was crashed out on the balcony. “I'm fascinated by your style/your beauty will last for a while/feeling instead of being/the more I live on the inside the more that I give...” Yeah. What a track. Must be a cover, who did it first. That fantastic “dooby-do-wah” chorus and the inbuilt crackles. No. (she glanced at the cover) It's an original! What a song. What a writer. 'Hair Tom' and prog-rock seemed a neolithic age away. This was vital. “Take a left a sharp left and another left...” Even a little solo on the vibes [vibraphone] as the track fades out. Retro, yet soooo fresh. And then 'This Song', trips in like when 'Abbey Road' fades out to 'Her Majesty'. Hmmm.

Nels remembers placing the stylus on the first track, sparking up her spliff and listening to the whole thing, all the way through. It played like a patchwork of the best riffs, words and melodies that someone could come up with, jammed on a totally-full two sides of vinyl. There were even glam rock and sitar riffs on there - in the same song (check 'Bewilderbeast', opening track, side two). Respect. 'Hair Tom' could hardly fit one song on an entire album towards the end.

It's funny how music, like smells, can take you to a particular place in time. Not just anywhere, a certain somewhere. That record. That flat. That day. That spliff. It turned out that someone had switched Nels's gear. She was monged out for the rest of the day after her wake up smoke. Missed rehearsals. Matt spoke about commitment, professionalism, got pissed in the Zap Club and got off with an 18 year-old student. Just to get back at Nels.

Back in the pub and Nels eyes resembled a stained glass window to Guy: glazed over, animated by the pictures created in the dancing flames of the open fire.

She shook her head and swigged some cider, coming round. “Where was I?” she said, as Badly Drawn Boy warbled about “causing a rockslide”, through the pub speakers.

“I don't know,” said Guy, “somewhere else. I think.”

“Yeah,” said Nels, “that's where I am. Can I have some Pork Scratchings?”

We now meet Nels, bass player with Hair Tom...on the bus.

“So, you are Nels from Hair Tom. I knew it,” says the man in the leather coat. Nels just looks up at him, through her fringe. She's holding her bass guitar close, to protect it and to shield hereself from freaky 'fans'.

“I was so into Hair Tom in the early '80s. It just took me away from that early '70s hippy stuff, the stuff my father used to listen to,” he didn't half go on.

Typical, she thought. He even says 'Father'. Not 'Dad' or 'the Old Man'. Thing about this prog rock stuff is that it's mainly middle class lads that are into it.

Nels just got carried away by the dope. The bass lines Hair Tom needed were flowing. Like you could see the notes coming out of the amps. You could easily play stoned.

“...so, I just had to buy the box set. Had to have it! I even bought the sheet music, I can't play a note...” and he's still going on.

“'scuse me, mate,” says Nels, blowing her fringe out of her eyes, “want me to take you back?”

He looks flumoxed, “What? To your place?” adding a nervous laugh. She hasn't got a place, she's dossing down in Matts caravan at the moment.

“No, you dirty get,” says Nels, she can take lecherous guys in her stride after a couple of decades touring with the likes of Hawkwind, “back in time. Want me to tell you what it was like in the band back in '82?”

“Why, yes! I'd love to hear your anecdotes...” she stops him.

“Let's get off at the next stop, then. You can buy me a cider in the 'Juggling Rosary' (a pub in Thursby Down).”

Anything for a cider, thought Nels, anything for a cider. And at least it'll be warmer in there by the fire than in Matt's van.

[But why was Nels walking around in the pouring rain with her guitar? She'd had a bust up. Hair Tom, or what's left of it, were rehearing in a barn owned by Mansell (an associate of 'Torpid Emancipator' supremo, Ricky Fleese – the man who' desperately trying to get Hair Tom to reform and tour - “don't worry, I'll tell you all about this later,”says the Narrator.) The rain started and leaked in, shorting out the electricity supply to the new keyboard player's Korg synth, “Bollocks! I'm still paying the HP on that,” he said as the smoke poured from the instrument and his ponytail swung violently. An argument ensued. Nels stirred it up in order to get out the door. She wasn't really into this reforming the band thing in the first place].

Taking the story forward - The Bus Driver, oh, and New Boots And Panties!! - Ian Dury (1977)

Driving a green bus, like the guys from On The Buses, I see things other people don't.

I'm also like George Formby cleaning his windows and peeking at the ladies, or a butler in a massive mansion turning a blind eye to misdemeanors, we're the invisible people who listen-in to your lives, while earning our living.

So, one day, on a lonely route. I pick up a girl carrying a bass guitar. Soaked she is, the guitar's dripping wet, too. It hasn't got a case or anything.

She buys a day-rover ticket. Cheapest way, see. And I say, "so what, you a musician or something?" And she looks at me like I'm taking the Michael. Suit yerself, I think.

A couple of stops later, this guy gets on. Hair slicked back by the rain and long black leather coat glistening like mink. So, he gets a ticket to Thursby Down, 'bout two miles away.

I really like the rain on this route. It's clear, pure as if it was glass. The drops are huge, much bigger than normal. If you're caught in a shower round these parts and you're a bit thirsty, just lift up your head and take a few gulps. Amazing.

The guy sees the girl with the guitar, stops for a second, as if he thinks he recognises her but isn't sure, and sits down. A few minues later, I see him in the 'rear view', he moves to sit next to her. She looks pissed 'cause she's gotta move the guitar and that. But he looks well into it.

I wonder if she's famous or something. I'm not up on new bands, so I wouldn't know. Anyway, that's what I saw. Might be something developing there. Who knows.

Us 'invisible men' will keep you up to date, don't worry.

[Bus Driver's bestest record: I'm into Ian Dury, of course. What bus driver wouldn't be, eh? Bus Drivers prayer, you know? It's New Boots and Panties for me, though. That was THE coolest album to have when I was a kid. That and Setting Sons by The Jam.

The opening bit of 'Wake Up And Make Love To Me' - first track on the album, a oriental sounding piano riff - great one. Sweet Gene Vincent, My Old Man. Blockheads. What a cracker!

I'm totally partial to Ian Dury's Abracadabra, you know. Even better, I'm from Essex! Straight up - not Billericay, though. Unfortunately (Fortunately? Surely!)

I remember the LP being available for about £3.99 from Woolies. Too much for me in them days. I had to wait 'til Christmas to get a copy. Up until Christmas Eve, I was certain me granny was gonna get me a pair of shoes and some underwear instead.

You can never trust your grandparents with important stuff like records. I couldn't wait to play them that track with all the swearing at the start - Plaistow Patricia - I thought that meant I was being a total punk, rather than a total prat.]

"Oi, get that bus aht!" (says a voice, slightly off-stage).

Better go. Don't forget, us invisible men will keep you up to date. Know what I mean? (says the bus driver, tapping his nose as he speaks).

Head On - Bobby Hutcherson (1971)

[Just for a moment, Me and Duggie are back. Laying on Duggie's bed. They've had a few beers. It's Thursday night, 'the girls' are off late-night shopping, or something. They've taken the kids with them.]

Duggie's mate has been itching.

Sorry, I mean he's been itching to play this new CD that he's carrying around.

Bobby Hutcherson on the Vibes back in 1971. 'Head On'.

“'s 'is must udventurous wurk,” says Duggie's mate.

Duggie, trys to sit up, spilling the remains of a can of Fosters on the duvet, “Y' jest red that sumwear, y'dick 'ed.”

“Nur, nuh.” syad Duggie's mate. “Nur. 's rev.rev.revo. It's revolootionry vibes, man.”

Duggie has a little bedside CD player and his mate slots the CD in.

The first track of Head On: 'At The Source' starts up. A few squeezed notes, opening into a mellow vibraphone riff, then moving to blusey free jazz and a bass solo.

“Kinda chall'nging,” says Duggie's mate.

Duggie's snoring, blowing lager bubbles through his nostrils.

“I mean, I'm getting more inta, or outa jazz these, um, daze. Y' know?”

Now it's gone all high-speed bing bong playing.

Duggie grunts and wakes: “what's that diggin' in me 'ead. Like a drill.”

“It's a marimba solo. Bobby Hutcherson. Hutch? Yeh?”

Within seconds Duggie is snoring again.

Duggie's mate was drawn to the CD first of all by listening to a jazz show on Radio 3. Then he googled Bobby Hutcherson and saw a cool photo of the front cover of 'Head On'. It shows Bobby wearing an orange woolly hat and clutching his head like he's a school kid who's forgotten his packed lunch or something. Highly cool to Duggie's mate.

Music: swirling and twirling through the hard bop landscape, the early 1970s, inner-cities still scarred by degrading slums. Docks are a series of vacant spaces in varying degrees of dilapidation and squatted occupation. There's a fog over New York and no one has noticed (or is Duggie's mate now getting confused by memories of early episodes of Kojak? “Who Loves Ya Baby?”). Perhaps it's the beer affecting his brain cells. Making the wrong connections.

And the music continues to move, grooving a course of crashing cymbals and roaming bass lines and the globble bobble of the vibes. Even Duggie's renewed snoring somehow complements the seedy burps of Harold Land's sax.

The streetlamp casts a white light over Duggie's bed, illuminating one of his toes as it peeks though a hole in his sock.

From the bonnet of an Austin Maxi...

[Me and Duggie are still back in 1982...]

“Walking down here in 1982, the thing I notice is how busy the shops are,” says Duggie's mate.

“Yeah,” says Duggie, “and the fact that people actually bought brand-new Morris Itals in '82, thinking they were brand-new cars not just Marinas with replacement headlights.”

[STOP! That's meaningless to anyone who cares not a fig about early 80s cars! (says the Narrator) So ignore that last comment if you couldn't give a toss.]

Duggie's mate says: “It's still the 1970s really, isn't it? I mean, spot the difference!”

“Yeah [again],” says Duggie, “Those shows like 'Life On Mars' and that 1980s one ['Ashes to Ashes'] were too perfect. I mean everyone was in 1973 – all riding flamin' Choppers and the like.”

[pause]

Duggie continues: “It's like a typical 1930s working class family being depicted living in the height of Art Deco style in some villa, rather than 6 families crammed into a back street two-up-two-down terrace house.”

“Or,” says his mate, “a heritage centre that doesn't smell of cat piss!”

“What are you on about?” says Duggie.

[interjection by a critic of the 1990s Heritage Interpretation movement, the guys can't hear this: What your mate means, Duggie, is that when you visit a heritage centre, one that includes immersive environments, you often have a certain aroma that suggests a particular period.

Now, if you are presented with: a Victorian street-scene, or the service alley behind a Roman palace, or a Viking fishing village or the workshop of an 18th Century shipbuilder, your nostrils will be met by a fragrance that sums up the smell of the period. I can bet you any money you like (within reason, of course) that the smell that you will smell will be cat piss. Pure, unadulterated cat piss. Honest!

It's like the smell of heritage. Cat piss!]

“Watch out!” says Duggie, pushing his mate away from a large black box that's just been flung through the window of a room two floors above.

The box – a 150 watt Marshall Guitar Ampifier – crashes to the ground amidst a shower of glass
(which punctures the radial/cross-ply mixed tyres of several nearby cars, including a beige Austin Maxi).

Duggie and friend land on top of a beige Austin Maxi. The bonnet crumples like paper [Narrator: they used to in those days, something to do with the oil crisis I suppose, don't know why.]

Me and Duggie could hear voices in that room two floors above:
“You bastards! Why d'you leave me?” says a man's voice.
“Hey, hey, Matt, man,” says a woman, “we were just hiding.”
A man agrees with her: “Yeh, yeh, yeh, cool it...”
Sound of heavy breathing, someone trying to calm themselves down.
Whoever is trying to chill peers through the broken window, to get some fresh air.

Duggie looks up: “Look, It's Matt Score, from 'Hair Tom', they must be recording or something in the Torpid One [that's the nickname of the Torpid Emancipator – see earlier posts for information].”

Duggie's mate is watching a slight, middle-aged man walking intently towards them. He's wearing a tan-coloured rain mac, a beige cap and carrying a large golfing umbrella. He looks rather angry.

“Duggie, how would you describe 'the look' of a typical Maxi owner?”

“Dunno,” says Duggie, “I suppose, a tan rain mac, beige cap, some kind of golfing accessory.”

“Like him you mean?” says Duggie's mate.

“Yeah!” says Duggie.

[Narrator: at this point, Duggie stands up. He's a big lad. But the thing is, in 1982, he's still a lad, 14 or 15 years old. But he does look older. Duggie's used to solving man-to-man issues with his physical presence alone. so doesn't feel intimidated by the livid Maxi owner.]

“Yes, mate,” says Duggie, “Can I 'elp you?”

“You layabout,” says the Maxi owner, “you've buggered my bonnet!”

[Narrator: oh dear...]

“Calm down now, Mr.” says Duggie.

“You bloody kids,” says the Maxi owner, “you think the world owes you a liver!”

“A liver! surely you mean...” and that's all Duggie has time to say.

[from the perspective of 'Me': He just laid one on Duggie. He's out cold. Thwump! Nose in shreds of red, like a sliced capsicum. Dunno about the ethical side of punching a kid. But, you know, as a time traveller, his real age is 40-ish.]

All Duggie can think of is Scooby-Doo and the 'you pesky kids' unmasking of the baddie. Then music. He's on stage with Hair Tom. Finally, he's floating in a red sea. Then his nose drifts by on the tide.

[Mr Stickleback says: “Hard Cheese, Duggie. I mean, you are a bit of a bully sometimes – I should know, we've had our run-ins via the hook and line (and I haven't yet become a sinker!). Maybe you getting knocked out by Maxi man is a bit of rough justice. Afterall, you can be a bit of a bully!]

Rehearsals - 'Hair Tom' - 1982 [a kind of interlude]

[Contextual remark - 'Hair Tom' is one of the toppermost early '80s proggers in the Sound of Torpidity movement, centred around the Torpid Emancipator, a record shop, recording studio and general place to hang-out. If this doesn't make sense then you must be a new reader. If so, check out some of the earlier posts.]

[And a contextual remark from Mr Stickleback: "You see, I'm a follower of all things local, you know. But as I am a fish, listening to music can be a problem. I mean, I haven't got any ears for a start. The deep vibes resonate, but, you know, I seriously lose the treble. Anyway. I'll leave you to it."]

[Studio two - up in the roof of the Torpid Emancipator]

"1-2-3-4..."

[silence]

"and a 1-2-3-4...?"

[silence] Matt pauses. Mutes the 6-tingling strings of his Gibson by placing his hand across the fretboard. There's something wrong.

Try again Matt [says the Narrator]

"1-2-3-4..."

Matt pulls his skiiing shades down. "The bastards have gone home!"

[The danger of wearing shades indoors.]

Chinese chips - 1982 stylee (by Narrator #1)

Because of all that's happened on TV and in Cinema over the past few years, and, I suppose, in books, what I - the narrator of this piece – am about to say will sound pretty well-worn. I might even go so far as to say it's cliched...

“Oi,” says Duggie, “Shut up, you're boring the pants off mine and my mate's readership!”

“Yes,” says Duggie's best friend, “what you mean to say, Mr Narrator, is that Duggie and his friend are about to trip-out and return to their collective past. To travel in time.”

Precisely. Shall I continue?

“Yes,” says Duggie, “Cos this whole scene is weirding me out already!”

You see, Duggie and his friend are now walking down the High Street. It's 1982. They're both in their early teens and scoffing a portion of chips - yes one between them – from the Chinese chippy next to the bookies. The chips are a chunky cut and served, at asbestos destroying heat, in a crinkly brown-paper bag.

“Ock! Hits earnt my ocking cung,” says Duggie, juggling a piece of molten fried-potato with his tongue.

“Ot?” says his mate, juggling a piece of molten potato with his tongue, too and spitting a chunk out, singeing the ear of a passing dog.

The conversation is obviously going nowhere, and now, as they've both stuffed another handful of chips into their respective gobs, let's leave them eating for a moment, and return back to 1982 a little later.

See ya!
Narrator # 1

'Mirrors' by Duggie Chop - a little bit of 'Sandinista' (The Clash, 1980) thrown in.

"Cold water on the face - brings you back to this awful place..." [Duggie's quoting The Clash]

There's something about the weather turning colder that makes you wanna stay in bed. [isn't that obvious?] I'm flinching before splashing my face from the cold tap. Makes me feel crap, it really does.

"Ring, Ring, 7am".

"Cold water in the face."

"Must get up and learn those rules..."

[it's The Clash again, those lyrics, rolling round and round his head]

All I can see outside the window is a blurred blackness. And I can hear the rain on the conservatory roof - frozen peas falling on to a tin.

It's ok when I'm out the door, on the way to the train. But it's just kick-starting the body that's the issue, here.

Stuff it, I am going back to bed. [Duggie hasn't taken many sick days this year. One of his mates used to put his sick days in his diary - in advance. Therefore, Duggie's got to be owed one or two himself, hasn't he?]

Yeah. I deserve it. A lie-in. It's Tuesday, so they won't think I'm recovering from the weekend. Anyway, I had a good day yesterday, got a lot done.

Yeah. I'll call 'em.

No.

I'll email them. That way I don't have to put on a funny voice. Maybe I'll say that I've lost my voice, that's why I'm not phoning-in.

"It's no good for man to work in cages" - that bloody song again! It's called The Magnificent Seven, if you didn't already know, from 'Sandinista', The Clash's sprawling 3LP set. Can't get it out of my head on days like these.

By the way, I know some of you out there [Duggie taps an imaginary screen in front of his eyes] think I'm a nerd. Like we - that's me and me mate - are something out of a laddish novel, or a film. Typical, saddo, 40- something, past-it, whatever-else-you-want-to-add, nerdy, geeky types.

Well, you just come 'ere and say that! We're real! It's Me (that's me mate) and Duggie Chop!

We talk about music. So what! Just wait until this story really begins.

I mean, life is a story isn't it?

The only difference between your lives and ours, is that ours are kind of planned in advance.

Maybe yours are, too? I dunno, I'm no philospher. [Duggie gets under his duvet, with his lap top, ready to email work]. What I do know it this: you've gotta trust Steve Hill and you've got to believe in his set up, what's it called? 'The Mint-Tree of Words'. I mean, it's given Duggie and friend a chance (that's us, by the way). A hope for the future.

And that's more than a lot of 40-someting blokes have got, I can tell you.

[Duggie's turned away now, and he's tapping into his computer. I think we'd better leave him now].