The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 37
The Support Group

The great J L Carr in his foreword to his gem of a novel How Steeple Sinderby Wanderers Won The FA Cup asks if the story is believable. He goes on to answer his own question by stating that it all depends on what you want to believe. True stories can be stranger than fiction anyway.

One of my latter day saints is a chap called something like Karl Power if I remember rightly. He was from Manchester, and he was famous for a while for the stunts he pulled. His most notorious prank was to trot out with the Man U football team at one of their away European fixtures. He was wearing the full away strip and everything. Breached security, and just jogged out with the players at the start of the match. Lined up for the team photo. Stood next to Andy Cole. The muppet didn’t even notice. Fantastic. Another time he was all padded up to go out and bat for the England cricket team against the Aussies at Headingley when he was spotted heading for the crease. There’s other stories too of infiltrating rugby warm-ups and Formula One presentations on the podium. All good stuff. There were debates at the time oddly enough about whether what Power was doing could be called art. Oh come on. Of course it was art.

Back in the day our Redhead began getting his head filled with ideas about art. He’d been involved with people who thought they knew a thing or two about art. And they’d totally disgusted him. So he started thinking quite a lot about what art could be. He’d got a bit keen on putting things together. He’d built a wishing well on a piece of abandoned wasteland, mooted to be built over with yuppie apartments. He’d done a few more, well I guess you could call them sculptures, and he’d got really interested in the idea of performance art. But he was adamant that any performances should be purely for fun.

One day I was sitting around outside our lock up, reading Salinger’s Raise High The Roofbeam, Carpenters, and listening to the Carpenters’ Greatest Hits on my old cassette player. Then up bowls our Redhead, and laughing his head off, says that’s perfect art. I just looked at him. He was getting increasingly strange. But we loved him dearly. He was alright with us. Just so long as he didn’t grow a beard. I’ve been thinking, says our Redhead, out of the blue. All these pop groups and all that, he went on. They’re always talking about art, or having fun, but they’re not art and they’re no fun, he added. We should show them what’s what, he concluded. Indeed, I said, possibly on account of going through a bit of a P G Wodehouse phase.

Turns out our Redhead was serious, and while he’d been busy pottering around, he’d cooked up this idea for a piece of performance art. Anyway, when we all got together that evening, he sketched his plan out for us. And we liked it. We’d been talking a lot lately about how awful it was to go out and see groups play now. They were either so smugly self-important it bored you to tears, or so deliberately trivial and full of forced fun it was depressing. Something needed to be done. Short of dropping a bomb on every live venue, it was difficult to see what we could do. Well, our Redhead had an idea. An idea about how to make a stand, or at least a gesture. We should get up and do it ourselves. Put on the show of our lives. Make some art. Have some fun. In other words, a performance. Well, we were all up for that. As an idea we were up for it. But the finer detail sort of escaped us. So we left that to our Redhead.

Naturally enough as boys about town we knew people in the music business. In particular there was one good guy who ran a venue two or three nights a week in the back of a pub up Camden way. A bit of a dive, but then most of these places were. So our Redhead went off to see him, put on a bit of a spiel, and asked if his new group could play one night. The patron expressed a little surprise that our Redhead actually had a group. I didn’t know you guys could actually play, said the patron. Oh, we know how to play alright, said our Redhead, with his tongue firmly in his cheek. Alright, you’re on, said the patron, and they shook hands on it. Two weeks Saturday the great performance was due to take place, and our Redhead rushed home to give us the good news.

That’s when all hell broke loose. We all had very different ideas about what we should be doing. The Redhead’s notion had been to honour the concept of anyone can get up and play. He simply wanted to borrow some instruments, and make an unholy row. The Fair One was rather more intent on living out his fantasies about being local lads made good the Rolling Stones in 1965. His Mick Jagger jiggling was in fairness second to none. I was rather more for taking a lead from my beloved punk heroes Subway Sect, and lolling around on stage, reading papers and the like, disregarding the audience entirely. The Quiet One had been harbouring ideas about sitting behind a drum kit imperiously or imperviously, pretending to be a compeer of Art Blakey or Max Roach while a tape played some fairly challenging jazz. Eventually we decided there must be way to keep us all happy.

So come the happy day we were all there kitted out in our best Gabicci and Roberto Carlo tops with plenty of suede trim. The patron gave us a hearty welcome, and hailed the new support group to a passing A&R bod. We were involved in some awkward negotiations with the headliners, who I really can’t remember anything about, about nominally borrowing some equipment. Then before we knew it our time was come. I guess we should have been nervous, but one look at the audience was enough to remind us of our purpose, and to stiffen our resolve. Oh my, they looked so docile and dreary. As if they knew what they were going to get. Okay then chaps, said Soul Sister Number One, who was there to act as stage manager. Take your places please, and we can let the show begin, went on our Fair One’s better half. The Quiet One ambled out with his drum sticks, and positioned himself poker straight and poker face behind the drum kit. The Redhead wandered on with a guitar strapped tight to his chest. The guitar matched his hair. I sauntered over stage left with a stool, on which I made myself comfortable. I had a copy of The Sporting Life tucked under my arm. The Fair One bounded on and threw some Jagger like shapes with his back to the audience.

Soul Sister Number One hit the play button on the tape deck, and the sounds of Horace Silver filled the room. The Quiet One twirled his drum sticks. The Redhead rested his chin on his guitar and picked out a few chords. I opened my paper and read the day’s racing form. The Fair One jumped about a bit and shook some maracas. The audience watched and waited. And kept on watching and waiting. It was a long old Horace Silver number. Great tune though, Song For My Father. When the great man’s outfit was done and dusted, I folded up my paper, got up from my stool and stretched. The Quiet One adjusted his drum stool. The Redhead looked down at some effects pedals. And The Fair One sat crossed leg on the stage. The music began again. This time it was Nina Simone singing about the sinnerman. We sat and stood in reverential silence. Then when Nina was finished with her sinnerman, we got up and left the stage. No one clapped. No one cheered. But then again no one threw things or jeered. We just walked right out of there. The patron was killing himself laughing. He shut up shop soon afterwards. We’d played our part. Believe it or not.