Well, no, when I was researching the article I found out that while it seems he wanted to be a writer from quite an early age, it was only when unexpectedly he came top at his school for English Language in mock O Level exams, which was when he was 15, that he thought well maybe I can write too and can be like all of my heroes. He was actually smiling when he told me this. Yet it was almost as though he'd forgotten I was there as much to my surprise he opened up, uncurled and unfurled, and told this story.
Apparently what he found so funny was that he got such an exceptional mark in English for this story which wasn't really a story as such, but rather the truth dressed up a bit to make it rather less personal and painful. And the story was about a kid who'd run away from home causing a lot of hurt and pain, even if he thought it was for the most romantic and best of reasons which was to reduce the burden he thought he placed on those left at home. Ergo remove your self from the scene and the millstone he was would disappear, though it was only later he learned he turned the millstone into rocks in the heart. But you don't know until you've set sail.
His hero in the story was a 15-year-old dreamer, with a head full of romantic notions about the world and specifically the music world. This was apparently the end of 1979. The Clash had just released London Calling. Returning like Lazarus from the dead. Turning a losing hand into a winning one. Singing like resurrected rebels. "I know that my life make you nervous but I tell you that I can't live in service. Like the Doctor who was born for a purpose Rudie can't fail ?". All those themes to absorb. The Spanish Civil War. Montgomery Clift. Guy Stevens. Leading to the library. Andre Malraux. Days of Hope. Patricia Bosworth.
The Nips' Gabrielle was his favourite song. He wanted to be like Shane working in the market selling old soul records. He was just hearing things like Van Morrison and Them for the first time. The Story of Them. Mighty Like A Rose. And bluebeat and ska. The Specials. Trojan. Tighten Up. Intensified Ska. Prince Buster's Fabulous Greatest Hits. For Christmas. Laurel Aitkin's Judgement Day picked up in a secondhand shop for next to nothing. The Generation X paperback. All those stories about mods and teenagers.
And above all there was Dexys Midnight Runners. Dance Stance. The debut 7". On Bernard Rhodes' Oddball label. Bernard Rhodes knows don't hargue. Rhodes and The Clash. Rhodes and Subway Sect. The Subway Sect's Bob Ward now in Dexys. An astonishing record. One that had hit as hard as The Specials' Gangsters at the start of the summer. The summer of mod. Purple Hearts and The Chords. Small Hours on the Mods Mayday live LP. That brass on Dance Stance. The b-side's intensity. I'm Just Looking. Soul. The future. One he wanted to be part of. That meant running away to find it. That meant stealing away in the night. Well, late afternoon. Kit bag packed. Christmas money stowed away. Secondhand leather coat. Original sta-prest trousers. Genuine Levis. Desert boots. Red socks. And a trilby. Like Dexys. Beloved Dexys. Life changing Dexys. You were either for them or against them.
Train up to London. Always up to London. Walking around. Piccadilly Circus. Regent Street. Carnaby Street. Oxford Circus. Strange town. Up to the BBC. Broadcasting House. Lurk around in the doorways. Watching. Eyes peeled for Peel. The one who'd changed the world. Night after night. Granting access to new possibilities. Walking to school talking about the previous night's show. Walking home wondering about that night's. Under the bed clothes. Staying awake for as long as possible. Same as so many people. Yes there he is. Getting out of his car. Looking warily at the kid in the doorway. Kid looking at him like he's a ghost. Ah ghost dance child ghost dance.
Where to next? Up Great Portland Street. On to Euston station. The last train to Manchester. Dexys playing there tomorrow. A one way ticket. Guy in the queue laughing. "Giving up and going home son?" If only he knew. On the train. Huddled up. Scared to sleep. Scared to talk. Closed in carriages. Almost alone. Manchester at last. Football and music. Factory Records. Joy Division. Dance dance dance. The Distractions. Time Goes By So Slow. A record almost as good as The Nips. Could do with an old overcoat now. A Penguin Modern Classic in the pocket. Streets are freezing. Too late to go and find A Certain Ratio. Find a telephone box. For as long as possible. The all night party goes on. Head back to the station. And a bench.
Decisions decision decisions. Manchester's grey. London's not so grey. Go and see Dexys another day. First train back to the capital. Get a job. Turn a hand to anything. Make a go of it. Where to start? Sign at the station. Providing direction. Advice. Support. Deep breath. Try to spin a tale. National Insurance number? Erm ? 'Phone call home? Erm ? Better off at home? Erm ? Bright lad like you. So much to offer. Don't throw it all away. What are you doing dressed like that? What do you call yourself these days? What's a rude boy? What do you listen to? Blimey that takes me back. Bluebeat and ska. Dancing to the rhythms of the Guns of Navarone. Go on have a word with your mum. There's nothing wrong with tears. Go on. Go and wash your face. There's nothing wrong with admitting you were wrong.
Back to school. Straight into exams. English is the only one that appeals. Why not write about what happened during the holidays? An easy way out. And top marks for using the imagination. Funnily enough. And at this point, well, it's like he came out of a trance, and in the fading light he looked across at me and I shuddered. It was difficult to tell what the smile on his face meant. That was unnerving enough. But it was his eyes. They were glistening. I didn't dare ask if a little bitty tear had let him down or were they just sparkling with mischief, knowing full well I'd just got sucked into a story without an ounce of substance, if nevertheless one told by an angel.
© 2007 John Carney