The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 5
The Fashion Show

Things change. Where once we’d sit in our rooms dreaming of being Subway Sect or the Purple Hearts, as time went by that became a bit passé. Suddenly we wanted to express ourselves through the records we played rather than the music we made. A journey into sound, with us full of dread at the controls. We were pretty good though. We had plenty of dusty old vinyl at our disposal. We knew what was what. It was just the technology that occasionally daunted this tag team. Not too many clubs had old Dansettes at their disposal, but we did our best.
Inevitably it was soul sister number one that got us our bookings. She had the connections, after all. Invariably though we baulked at the launches and works soirees she seemed to think we could cope with. We might be penniless but we had principles. But then everyone has their price, and there was one offer we couldn’t refuse. It would have been rude to turn this one down. Well, that’s what we convinced ourselves of. We were doing the gallant thing.

What happened was that the banking organisation our leading lady was working with was sponsoring some fashion show at Harrods. I can’t remember the designer but there were lots of initials involved. It doesn’t matter anyway. What mattered was that the name DJ due to do the honours on the day had pulled out at the last minute. Some money spinning remix opportunity having arisen, by all accounts. So things were looking grim, until soul sister number one happened to mention her dear brother and his partners were a dab hand on the decks and would certainly step in to save the day.

Well, what could we do? Our capitulation couldn’t have had anything to do with the considerable charms of the catwalk could it? Perish the thought. We were merely and rather reluctantly doing our bit to help the family. It was so ridiculous it rather appealed though. We just had a few hours to prepare. Apparently a selection of old soul 7s and funky 45s would do the trick, and that was right up our street. All equipment supplied and all expenses covered and then some. Soul sister number one oversaw our preparations with a witheringly amused air. The Redhead was devastated as he was working that day. Life can be cruel sometimes.

Bright eyed and bushy tailed we pitched up at Harrods all set for whatever fate threw our way. It was all a bit strange. Harrods was hardly our habitual haunt. Anyway we chose to remain moody and taciturn. The less you say, the less you give away. Always a useful approach. We left the talking to The Fair One’s sister. She had a way with words.

Turns out the store was in the throes of a fashion extravaganza. Well heeled ladies in pearls and pleats tottered from designer concession to designer concession, quaffing quantities of complimentary vino with brio. Spectacularly turned out trollops with puffed up plumages peered through shades that cost more than we made in many a moon. Many an alien species was on parade, and we were gazing around dumbfounded despite the earnest exhortations of The Fair One’s sister, who was quite adamant we needed to be getting things ready round the back of a oddly parked marquee in the middle of the sixth floor, where it seemed we’d be spinning our discs.

When all the introductions were done and dusted, once we were effusively thanked for stepping into the breach and saving the day, we were given our brief. By all accounts the ‘60s look whatever that was would be swinging back into vogue in the coming season so if we could whip up a bit of a soulful stew and boogaloo cum shing a ling thing then there were people there who would be eternally grateful. Hardly a problem for us with our rarified tastes, so we said hey ho let’s go. We were meant to familiarising ourselves with the hi-tech decks, but somehow we were woefully distracted by events happening the other side of the marquee.

I guess I should explain that the marquee was set up so that a makeshift catwalk came cascading out of the centre of the things, and so sensibly the models were busy getting ready in a rather less than inhibited way, casting clothes to the wind with relish. It was all delightfully distracting, and not at all the sort of thing to put you in the right frame of mind for cueing up a cut of classic Chicago soul, but we struggled on manfully and tried our damnedest not to enjoy things quite as much as we could have. Well, not with soul sister number one standing there, leaning against a pillar, a glass of bubbly in her hand and a know-it-all look in her eye, doubtless wondering about the weakness of the spirit.

Seeing that sardonic smirk shining on her perfectly pearled lips brought us to our collective senses sharpish. What were we doing there? Selling our souls for fulgent flesh? Defiling spiritual sounds by playing them as part of some freak show for doughty dowagers deep into the delusions of glitz and glamour, all silk and no soul. No, that wasn’t our way. We rapidly realised we’d fallen into a trap. Soul sister number one wondered whether we could rise above the horror show. She was testing us. She knew our rhetoric. We had to show we were made of sterner stuff.
There was only thing for it. We had to remove the models’ clothing. We knew intuitively what to do. And we knew we had to do it without too much ado. So pretty much on autopilot we went through the process of packing our gear away. With the dishonourable exception of The Quiet One amongst us, who uncharacteristically had sauntered over to the models on the pretext of responding to a query about a track we’d played was talking earnestly to a couple of the models while they were busy deglamourising their beautiful selves, which was something of a spectacle in itself. We left him to it. The next thing we knew an Amazonian lovely was scribbling something on a scrap of paper for him, bidding a fond farewell with kisses blown a plenty, and sashaying off. Before we knew it we were pretty much on our ownsome, and The Quiet One had deigned to join us again, looking pretty pleased with himself. And he had good reason to be.

For stowed away in a couple of carrier were the very glad rags the models had been parading down the catwalk to a rapturous response from the fashion carrions. He just had that smile on his face which we knew only too well spelled just don’t ask! Which was probably just as well as one of the fashion flunkeys was mincing around looking very distressed, and muttering about the lapsed morals of models, and how heaven only knows they get paid enough for preening without recourse to ‘alf inching the wares and wherefores. Aww it was truly terrible the way he forgot himself and lost his aitches. The asperity was something to behold. Though thankfully we barely registered on his radar, so little did he suspect the frocks he sought were under his truly out-of-joint nose. We just knew it was time to disappear.

It was only later we got the story out of The Quiet One. Apparently his new best friends were in a desperate hurry to get off to a party being thrown by one of the new style rags where anybody who was anybody would be, so very civilly our man of the moment agreed to collect up the couture clobber and return it all intact to the owners for another show in the series. As The Quiet One rightly pointed out who amongst the models would remember us when the day was through. Anonymity being one of our priceless gifts. The ability to disappear in a crowd. A gift. And the scribbles on that scrap of paper? Oh, well, one of the young ladies’ agents number. She’s after a compilation tape of some old soul sounds.

So it was a moment worth waiting for when we eventually caught up with soul sister number one, who had an inkling about what we’d been up to, and for once she was respectfully impressed. We handed over our swag, and beat a hasty retreat. It was some weeks later she presented us with a set of photos which brought tears to our eyes. The gear she’d handed over to a cleaner at work, who had a couple of teenage daughters. Two princesses, judging by these photos nigh on Nigeria’s greatest exports, who could carry off these designer dresses with considerable panache. Two princesses who had made us sentimental old fools fantastically happy. Two princesses that did the right thing by sending a signed photo, which said simply: “To The Outside of Everything. Thank you xx”. I suspect if you were to see those photos now you might give a start of surprise and recognition.