Book Reviews

If there’s one thing rarer than a men’s style magazine, it’s a men’s style book, which is why I found myself giving my credit card a little exercise at the Piccadilly branch of Waterstone’s a few weeks ago.

The writer, himself a fashion magazine editor of many years’ standing, is an apt choice, his experience in that golden decade being essential to do the subject justice. Ross takes us on a trip back to the immediate post-war period, when ‘British Style’ was theoretical, even oxymoronic. The average, and not so average Brit male wore the same styles, if not the same actual clothes, as his father but that would all change with the coming of the post-war boom. With wages better than his parents and grandparents could ever have dreamed of, post-war British men indulged themselves, for the first time in their lives. The better off were also finding that they had more in their coffers than before, and so a ready market was born.

The book does not dwell  on the ‘Peacock Revolution’; the general drift toward smarter, more stylish and more colourful clothing that affected men of every social class in the early 60’s, but instead concentrates on a coterie of actors, musicians and well-heeled,  aristocratic dandies and the new breed of tailors who catered for, and pandered to them.

The world-famous and enduring Savile Row got short shrift from this new type of stylist and his tailor. Some of them may have trained and worked, there in their youth, some even had premises there, or close by, but all agreed that the tailors based on the sunny side of Savile Row were staid, hidebound even, and their traditions were fit only to be trampled on. The new British tailor was not interested in working in tweeds for the country set, fine worsteds for the company director or full morning suits for those being presented to HM The Queen. They were interested in the tastes and foibles of the young actors, sportsmen and pop stars as well as some of the younger and more louche members of the aristocracy. These new customers wanted luxury fabrics, bold new cuts and colours, and above all, styles that would accentuate their inevitably slim figures. These men were the children of the austerity-ridden, rationed 1940’s, long before the junk food tsunami would wash up on our shores.

A number of these tailors lacked a formal education, and some like Rupert Lycett Green, had no formal training in tailoring or cutting, but all learned to hone their skills at knowing what the customer wanted, and how to get it made.  No expense was spared when it came to sourcing fabric, and one enterprising soul, on learning a French supplier of velvet was closing down, bought up all the remaining rolls, to ensure exclusivity. They bought their cloth, engaged finishers and set up shop, exploiting their excellent social contacts for prospective customers. Others courted the sportsmen and pop stars and garnered personal recommendations from all their friends.

Ross’s book is enriched with photographs and publicity material, and it’s here the reader gets the true flavour of the times.  A stunning Mr Fish multi-striped corduroy suit form 1968, a Blades cream suit from the same year, fit for a sultan, and colour photos from Vince Man’s Shop all appear here. Other stand-outs are Brian Jones in his sublime black suit striped in red and white (regrettably in b/w here), and Patrick Lichfield in a shirt so frilly, topped with a flouncy tie, it must have occurred to him that he resembled one of his own ancestors, in this finery from 1971.

The subject of men’s style magazines is dealt with as thoroughly as it can be, given that little in the way of the material survives. Long forgotten titles like Man about Town (shortened to About Town, then Town) are described with some covers reproduced, their short lives characterised by the depressingly familiar tale of small interest, falling sales and early demise, the inevitable result.

The new tailors often fared no better, as many of them had such a fierce dedication to luxury fabrics, and would brook no compromise in workmanship. This ensured a brief career beset by small profit margins and even losses. It seems hard to credit that the internationally known Mr Fish never turned in a profit, in spite of turning over roughly £1.5m a year. There is no doubt in Ross’ mind whom the angels of death were in this play. The oil crisis which ushered in hyper- inflation spelt the death knell for high wages, competition form the USA and Europe and the appearance on the style scene of a certain Mr Armani all compounded to kill off the peacock, he argues. It’s not a view I particularly agree with, but then again, I’m probably one of those chippy upstarts he deals with briefly in the hated Carnaby Street revolution section.

The relatively small number of colour plates and the hefty price tag aside, this book is worth it; file it on its own shelf, in tissue paper.

Between 2006 and 2013, Vic and Will hosted ‘Flipside’ nights at the NFT, when they presented screenings of some of the curios in this book. The names of the co-authors will doubtlessly be familiar to those of you who spent more time than is considered healthy, watching this obscure, off-beat, and downright warped material. It’s a fun journey.
Named after the notorious Andy Milligan’s low-budget gore fest ‘The Body Beneath’, its pages are brim full of sci-fi, fantasy, horror, light entertainment and documentary film, both lesser and better known, infused with plenty of pithy humour and arch observations from our archaeologists of the big and small screens.

Starting with a selection of films that run the gamut of stiff, hesitant documentary to full-on mondo lunacy, they set the tone for a no-brakes speed ride through the unlit roads of TV and cinema’s darkest terrain.  If the juxtaposition of exotic dancers with the appalling cruelties of the chicken processing industry in ‘Primitive London’ is a little too much for an afternoon’s viewing, we quickly pass on to the British and their distinctly odd attitude to sex. Looking back to the affair that-never-was in the classic ‘Brief Encounter’ to the health and fitness end of nudist cinema, and reading perhaps a little too ‘The Bodies Beneath’ hits its stride early on. It’s a long way on from charmingly innocent stuff like ‘Naked as Nature Intended’ of 1961 to the dubious and unwittingly government-funded sex comedies of the 1970’s, this book would be incomplete without a mention of that peculiarly British style of slap and tickle porn, the ‘Confessions’ films. Perhaps porn is not the right word, as the films resembled ‘Carry On’ films with more nudity and about as much low humour as their more successful predecessors. Readers of a certain age will find the lengthy chapter about 60’s/70’s glamour boy and sex comedy alumnus Barry Evans highly entertaining, even if younger readers will probably be nonplussed.

The cheap-as-chips world of popular cinema is not side lined, with plenty to say about the now scarcely believable popularity of Norman Wisdom and Charlie Drake, TV shows like ‘On the Buses’,   and the virtually forgotten ‘Fun at St Fanny’s, a comedy starring the unlikely eternal  juvenile, Cardew ‘The Cad’ Robinson. The grey worsted world of 50’s cinema chiefs must have looked askance at the success of Norman Wisdom, ‘the little man with the big laughs’, all the while wondering why their far worthier films were losing hands down to him, and the imported American fare. Let it be remembered that Hammer’s most popular film was ‘On The Buses’, and the TV show of the same name enjoyed audiences that today’s comedy writers would sell their souls for.

‘Out of Towners’ diverts from this elbows-on-the-table jollity to take on bucolic eccentricity as diverse as the fascinating rivalry-ridden folk dancing shenanigans of ‘Oss Oss Wee Oss’.  The arcane genre of ‘folk horror’ was well represented on ‘Flipside’ nights at the NFT, and is present here, in abundance. The rich imagery of ‘Robin Redbreast’ takes on the theme of ancient ritual being replayed in the modern age, a plot idea which would find its apotheosis in ‘The Owl Service’. 

Documentaries like ‘Secret Rites’ explore the world of urban witchcraft, and is here expanded on considerably with a piece about the ‘star’ of the documentary, the self-styled ‘King of the Witches’ Alex Sanders. Few people at the time could have predicted that paganism would show itself to be a viable religion and prove such a rich source of material for filmmakers; it’s a standout chapter and obviously one close to the Flipsider’s hearts. Daniel Farson, a figure without whom, etc., is rightly and well written about in these pages, and his unique body of work may well be the very definition of great television journalism. His ‘Out of Step’ series took previously taboo subjects like nudism and witchcraft into the nation’s living rooms and treated them with a modicum of respect which they have never had from the salacious Sunday papers.

In these sensitive times, it’s easy to forget just how full-on, crazed and downright dangerous children’s TV and film could be in the glory days of the 50’s and 60’s. Enter those seemingly harmless glove puppets, Sooty and Sweep. What possible mischief could be afoot in a puppet show, you ask? Plenty, actually; A drug dispensing puppet bear nodding sagely at the five year olds, like some velour-covered Timothy Leary. ‘Escape Into Night’, a very creepy series set in a dream-like house, later remade as the excellent ‘Paperhouse’ (1988), somehow crept under the kids’ primetime radar in 1972. The hugely successful ‘Dr. Who’ which scarcely needs a rehash here, but credit to Vic and Will for taking on the surprising characterisation of the good Doctor by Colin Baker and the sometimes controversial storylines in that family favourite.  The miserable history of the show in the 80’s, starved of funds and the attempted and later, long cancellation by a BBC keen to save money by any means necessary, is well laid out and expounded on.  All this and the strange male-only fantasy world of live action ‘Tintin’, too.   

The spectre of the Video Recordings Act of 1984 (affectionately known as the ‘video nasties’ act) haunts the corners of this book, helping the reader recall some of the material which would never have had a life, had it not been for this creepily intrusive and crass piece of legislation. Leaving aside the ‘true’ nasties, the morally bankrupt likes of ‘Cannibal Holocaust’ and so on, there is ‘Skinflicker’, a curio from 1973, playing with fire in its grimy depiction of a terrorist group who plot to kidnap a cabinet minister. Utilising mocked-up news and horribly realistic violence, it straddles the worlds of horror and social realist drama in a way that perhaps predicts the ‘video nasties’ of the 1980’s. Apart from these grim fantasies, the horrific realism of ‘The War Game’ (1956) could hardly be left out. Its depiction of life in Britain after the H Bomb is dropped was strong enough to ensure an outright ban by the BBC, not lifted until twenty years later. By then, the threat of nuclear annihilation was still extant,  but the BBC had treated the populace to the rather cosier apocalypse of ‘Survivors’, with its tale of a world-wide pandemic resulting in the decimation of the population. Steel yourself for the horror section ‘proper’, later on in the book. It’s a rough ride of low budget chills and deviant vampires that will haunt your dreams for weeks.

A digression into British pop music turns up some carbuncles, but among them, the diamond in the rough is ‘Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness? A strange, obtuse musical, written,  directed, produced and starring the prodigiously talented Anthony Newley, with a cast of willing collaborators to share the blame. Newley’s incredible, if patchy career is dealt with well here, and I can add very little more to their recommendation to seek out anything and everything about this remarkable and unique performer.  

I’m coming to the end of my overview, but I couldn’t part without mentioning one of the most bizarre televisual artefacts mentioned here. ‘Cooking Price-Wise’, a culinary show presented by horror supremo and renowned gourmet Vincent Price, as a sort of combination of Fanny and Johnny Cradock, seen through what I imagine was a very dark mirror. Arguably, ‘Charnelhouse Kitchen’ might have made for a better title, but I would otherwise not change a thing about this show, which must surely be waiting for re-discovery in a mis-labelled can, lurking in a forgotten corner of some film archive.   

‘The Bodies Beneath’ is packed with far more material than this, and is a fascinating read and strong stimulus for even the most jaded film and TV fan. Grab one today.

I can hardly credit that I took so long to get around to reading this book, what with the hoopla surrounding the ’24 Hour Party People’ film and the endless TV and press discussions about this period of time. I therefore found myself approaching the Hooky-book with a measure of nervousness, fear even.

I think it’s fair to say that the majority of people who buy, borrow or steal this hazard-stripe backed volume are likely to know at least the common gossip version of the story of the Hacienda club. The beginnings in the early 80’s as an ultra-sophisticated New York style nightclub, its (under)use as a live venue and springboard for various scenes and hangout for hairdresser-rock types and its espousal of the US and Euro dance music scenes many moons before anyone else, to its final days, overpopulated by drug dealers and besieged by armed gangs, all the while not earning a penny for the backers who were shovelling money into it like imps in hell. That’s all here of course, courtesy of bass god and notorious beer monster Peter Hook, who provides even more detail on this ’believe it or not’ story. There’s another tale here though, and one which I guess more than a few people reading this article will recognise and feel sympathetic towards.

Peter rightly begins his story when the idea of the club first germinated; late 70’s Manchester, a city in northern England that was suffering the effects of a recession such as had not been seen since the 1930’s. With the ‘cultish’ record label Factory slowly establishing itself as a national name through its only successful band, Joy Division, a moribund live music circuit and money in short supply everywhere; the stage seemed set for anything but branching out into the night club business. Trouble inevitably follows as the main players, the members of New Order, Rob Gretton, their manager, and others, scout around for premises, finally settling on a disused carpet warehouse on which they lavish their own and other people’s money.

Peter’s accounts of their reckless overspending, bad choice of live acts and DJ’s, lack of interest from the public and staggering business ineptitude makes this book a grimly hilarious read, at least early on. An amazing 15 years pass quickly by, as New Order’s respectable success as a live act and t-shirt selling machine prop up the ailing club’s finances, and the story descends into the Greek tragedy we now know so well. That Peter can write about this riotous period of boom and bust, for the country as well as the Hacienda, is a wonder, in view of the fact that he ended up broke, divorced twice, in rehab and facing career meltdown.

I can only imagine that Rob, Tony, Peter & Co had never heard of ‘Murphy’s Law’, the famous warning to those who dare to invent: ‘Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong’. The list of bad investments, unwise choices, errors, gaffes and hopeless rescue attempts is simply mind boggling. A catalogue of crippling debt, incurred at a time of double-digit inflation, when a 16% interest rate was considered ‘normal’, running gigs and benefits for friends none of whom seem to pay for admission or drinks, incompetent and dishonest ancillary staff, extravagant design and decoration on a club that proves acoustically problematic, the list goes on, but Peter shrugs his resignation and remembers the happy times he spent at the by-then world famous Hacienda.

Whether you  prove as intrigued as I am, at this relentless, lunatic ride through the wastelands of 80’s and 90’s Britain, or simply read it safe in the knowledge that it’s not your life, remains to be seen. One thing: I bet you’ll never use the expression ‘level-headed northerner’ again.

Fame’s lottery has no caller, no bran tub and obeys no known physical laws. The fickle finger flexes, flicks its nail at a nondescript bunch of talented youngsters, and leaves the other thousand hopefuls awaiting their turn, sometimes forever. Today, even the small talents who are prepared to work themselves to death for fame and fortune have a chance at the big prize. It’s not the present day which interests us, however. It’s the untrammelled electric storm of 1960’s Britain, and just one of its young bands, The Action.

The indicators all seemed to be there. A tough, tight-knit unit which learned its chops by ear, from original imported USA recordings. They honed their R n B/Soul covers, poured their hearts into their performances, attracting a dedicated following in the clubs that were the stamping ground of the young and the stylish. They weren’t alone in their love for this taut, irresistible music, and they played alongside many of the bands who would find the success that The Action was to be denied.

Perhaps it was the paucity of original songs that held them back, or that their apparent fan base was a little too localised to admit a wider audience. Whatever the reason, it seems a cruel irony that The Action’s destiny was to be thwarted, and it’s taken nearly fifty years from the first single release to see a worthy tribute to them.

‘In the Lap of the Mods’ is a surprisingly dense, wordy volume, illustrated with as many publicity photos, candid shots, promo labels, gig posters and record covers as could be mustered. The early life, professional career, changes within the band both in membership and material, and disappointing aftermath, are detailed with impressive thoroughness. Their reformation in the 90’s under the auspices of the New Untouchables organisation proved welcome to old fans and young alike. The many reminisces of the old fans do sometimes begin to read like the entire history of Portsmouth’s Birdcage Club, but happily disprove the old adage that ‘If you remember the 60’s, you weren’t really there.’ How people can give a blow-by-blow account of individual gigs at over forty years’ remove, when most of us have difficulty remembering a gig we attended six months ago, is a mystery to this writer.  

Publicity photos are always a joy to look through, set firmly in place and time, their desperate attempts to sell their subjects as one thing, with their true nature lurking below the surface gloss. The awkward, besuited and bow-tied poses of ‘Barry and the Boys’, from their days backing the mercurial Sandra Barry, have a school boyish quality to them that may have been intentional. Their later transformation into a waist coated, cow licked beat combo, with a bonfire of guitars, is about as convincing as the Rolling Stones’ attempt in the same period. No harm done though, as their Mod threads were on the way, and it’s in this crazed, urgent time that image and music were as one. There’s still a reluctance to love the camera, but with a confidence born of playing to a discerning audience to buoy them up. The rare splashes of colour in the photos are welcome to those of us who feel that monochrome is cool, but colour far more revealing, in an age when British life was literally stepping out of the black and white and into glorious multichrome.

The Action may never have another book written about them, but this bright, affectionately written tome would make future projects a little superfluous. Tributes from such luminaries as Sir George Martin C B E, Phil Collins and Pete Townsend are good reading, even if they leave you even more puzzled as to why The Action ended up a footnote when others became household names. If you’re already a fan, you’ll shrug at the hefty price tag at the thought of what you’re getting in exchange.

I’ll leave you with just one thought; if you know a great band, don’t keep them to yourself.

For those of you fed up with reading yet another 60’s memoir from the once-famous, Howard Baker’s complementary volumes, ‘Sawdust Caesar’ and ‘Enlightenment and the Death of Michael Mouse’, are now available in an omnibus edition from HB Publishing. The author asserts that the first volume is basically a true history, although the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

The casual book-browser may not notice that the stereotypical shot of the scooter-riding mod lad on the cover is superimposed on a landscape of opium poppies and their pickers, the land and sky an angry red. It’s an early hint of what is to come, and a better summation of the two books’ contents is hard to imagine.

I admit I wasn’t immediately taken with the writing style of ‘Sawdust Caesar’, feeling that the wide awake, adolescent, motor mouth ravings were overdone, and his misadventures all a little desperate to shock, but ;’m glad to report that persistence pays. So long as you’re willing to tolerate the protagonist’s speed-crazed narrative, near-psychotic self-absorption and sheer contempt for everyone he meets, you may be on the way to appreciating the second volume, if not the first.

This two-book set evocatively traces the frankly sordid life of a dyed-in-the-wool mod, through pilled-up days and nights, serial girl misuse, money hustling and petty crime, and then pulls off something of a coup,  in putting our protagonist on the road to spirituality, in an epic journey to Afghanistan. Swapping amphetamines for dope and opium, and his wardrobe of cool street threads for the barest minimum to ensure warmth and decency, our narrator journeys across the poverty-stricken, unfriendly Afghan terrain, encountering druggies and drug barons, drifters and prophets, seekers after spiritual peace and charlatans only too pleased to sell you a simulacrum of it.  

It’s a fast-paced, foul-mouthed, self-obsessed narrative that never lets up, but as our narrator turns his attention from his id to ego and to super-ego, the balance of his life undergoes a seismic shift, before being brought back to reality by the mundane world he thought he’d escaped.

'The Look' promo
Borders Bookshop, Brighton Saturday 26/8/06

Those of you in Brighton for the NUTS weekend had the opportunity to attend a promo at Borders Bookshop for ‘The Look’, a recently published book all about post-war fashion with a great section on that beloved 60’s decade. Guests included the author, Paul Gorman, with Lloyd Johnson and Jeff Dexter, both of whom feature in the book.

The talk started off with some reminisces from both Jeff (a pal of Marc Feld, later Bolan and the DJ at the legendary Tiles) and Lloyd (a South Coast modernist and the owner of Johnson’s store, the King’s Road’s coolest outfitters from the 70’s to the 90’s)

Jeff recalled his job teaching the cast of Quadrophenia how to dance in an authentic 60’s style – they were all dancing like John Travolta, ‘shooting the moon’ before he took charge – and amazed us all with his fond memories of the young Marc Bolan, done up to the nines and ruling the fashion roost at the tender age of twelve (can you credit it?). It seems hard to believe that a place like Tiles ever existed – a subterranean fashion store in Oxford Street, where music played and kids danced in their lunch hours, every working day, to the latest sounds. If only such a place existed today.
 
Lloyd’s memories were equally spellbinding, with his many celebrity customers and the ever-changing stock at Johnson’s, which seemed to go from Mod to Rocker and back. Those of us who were his customers can recall the cool, electric blue suits and the long, pointed collar shirts that no one else was doing quite as well, and the King’s Road when it really was the best place in London for fashion, leaving Carnaby Street to the tourists. His memories of providing the clothing designs for Quadrophenia entertained us all, what with a wardrobe master seemingly unable to appreciate why tiny details mattered so much, and the rather bourgeois character of some production members.

The talk concluded with a Q & A and a prize draw, and this writer took the opportunity to pump Jeff for info on Tiles (definitely my first stop when I get my Tardis) and Lloyd for his memories of that classic period on the King’s Road, now much-changed, and not for the better. He was very amused to note that his old shop is still called Johnson’s, but the dry cleaners, not a fashion store!

If you couldn’t make the talk, shame, but grab a copy of the book, as many of the pictures are unavailable elsewhere, and it covers much more that just the classic 60’s and 70’s. Look out for the pic of Sean Connery modelling beachwear – surely Vince’s Man Shop’s most macho model?

Scenester
26/8/06

The gap since original publication in 1967 and this year’s re-release by Finders Keepers may not be the publishing world’s longest, but it must be one of the least understandable. Many reading this article will already know that ‘Ritual’, was the inspiration behind perhaps the greatest horror film ever made in the UK, ‘The Wicker Man’, and certainly the most debated, sought after and loved. It is even thought that the modest sum Pinner received for the rights to his novel made him the only person connected with the film who ever got paid, but that’s another story.

The novel is set not in Scotland, but in the equally remote Cornish countryside, where the very air seems to reek of sex, death and secrecy. The figure of the police detective, Inspector David Hanlin, detailed to investigate the death of a child, has a lot in common with his film counterpart, the puritanical Sgt. Howie. His arrival in the small rural community piques immediate adverse reaction, as he sets about finding suitable temporary accommodation with access to those who knew the child. The close proximity of the highly-sexed daughter of a local family is another character reflected in the famous film. Our detective finds himself in the unenviable position of the stranger with authority over the locals, generally mistrusted, attractive to the young unattached women, despised by the local men and watched wherever he goes.  

Although ‘Ritual’s pacing has a pedestrian feel, its language is unconventional, flowery, and times, irritatingly twee, with its awkward adverbs, sudden halts and a tendency to mix pastoral whimsy with pulp-style erotica. Taking into account the other-worldly setting and subject matter, this is however not out of keeping.

The womb-like atmosphere of the village is further enhanced by the constant references to children’s’ games, songs and pastimes. The local culture’s descent from the pagan past is no coincidence and it is obvious that Pinner researched (or already knew?) his subject well, before embarking on the story. The recurring images of the power and danger of games is one of the story’s strengths, recalling the disturbing ‘weird children’ cycle of films like ‘The Bad Seed’ and ‘The Innocents’.
One of the cast of red herrings is an outrageously-realised feral child, who at times seems more a spirit than a living boy, created from the collective imagination of the inward-looking community here. No-one reading this richly fortified potboiler would be fooled into thinking that the boy could have been the murderer; he is simply there to provoke sympathy or revulsion, depending on the readers’ prejudices.

Like the fatally marked Sgt. Howie, Inspector Hanlin is literally led a merry dance by the villagers, as one false trail after another is laid in his path. His ordeal in the elaborate May Day procession is every bit as fantastical as that of the film, with the children making up most of the animal-masked revellers. The traditional May Day characters make their appearances, the ambisexual ‘Tease’ being brought out with particular gusto and in a surprisingly frank way, for the period.
The image of a barrel of beer as an offering to the sea also appears in this book, yet still manages to surprise and amuse, and act as a counterpoint to the more terrible sacrifice to come?

When I first read ‘Ritual’, borrowed from a well-stocked Public Library a few years ago, it left me in two minds, and my re-reading here of the welcome re-launch has not altered my feelings.  ‘Ritual’s contrasting elements of folklore and mundane detection, against the clock, make for a somewhat disjointed read, as the former is as outlandish as the latter is stereotypical, but perhaps that’s the point. Cheekily referred to as ‘Finders Keepers Forgery Number One’, it deserves a read, and the name of the village pub is worth the cover price alone.

Scenester
30/5/11

The Velvet Underground at Swiss Cottage Library 21/7/09

Velvet Underground Event-‘White Light/White Heat’ by Richie Unterberger
(Jawbone Press)

This evening, principally a publicity event for Richie Unterberger’s ‘day by day’ book of the notorious V.U., exceeded all my expectations and left me with a feeling of being a complete lightweight in the fan stakes. Expecting a short talk and a sneak preview of the forthcoming book, we were instead treated to a treasure house of stories, unseen photos, posters, film clips and outtakes that warmed the heart of this long term and rather jaded fan of the New York art house rock and roll band; but first, a word to those unfamiliar with the ensemble.

The music of the 1960s represents such a broad church that trying to catalogue the scope and variety would fill up many volumes, and only then after years of patient but very pleasurable research. I would like to bet that, should anyone ever attempt this Herculean task, much of it would cover the glorious popular sounds that bored their way into the minds of that period’s young, and many later, generations. The preponderance of sweet harmonies and addictive melodies would probably garner most of the attention, but it would be a mistake to assume that the 60s were all sweetness and light. In some of the lesser-known recesses of this capacious house, a darker glamour lurked.

Our guide, Richie Unterberger briefly explained how he came across the band, and I’m sure I am not the only one who could tell a similar tale of the first time I heard them, around my mid-teens. I also recall being completely overwhelmed by what I heard, and like the author, if anyone had told my 17 year-old self, that I would, one day, be sitting in a library in North London, at a lecture about this band and their seminal first LP (‘The Velvet Underground and Nico’) I would also have told them they were crazy. Richie mentioned that he had interviewed over 100 associates and friends of the band, and others who had worked with them from the earliest of days, in order to compile what he feels is an authoritative guide to V.U. Sadly, Lou Reed (principal songwriter, singer and lynchpin of the band) and John Cale (Viola and keyboard player extraordinaire and song writing collaborator with Lou Reed) declined to be interviewed, and Maureen Tucker (drummer) did not always answer the questions posed to her! Nico died some years ago, ironically on the Island of Ibiza, at a time when she had given up drugs and was getting fit by bicycle riding. The fall from her bike on one of these sessions saw her off. Even with the unfortunate omission of these principals, Richie has gathered together an impressive body of work that few others could have managed.

Our talk was considerably enlivened by Richie’s audio outtakes, slides and brief film clips, all transferred onto DVD format, few of which, we were told, have seen the light of day for many years, and some of which have never before been published. Illustrating Richie’s thoughts on how the band may have arrived at their distinctive sound, we were played a demo of Lou Reed and his band of the time playing a very rough and ready rock and roll track, a smooth, sophisticated version of Serge Gainsbourg’s ‘L’eau a la bouche’, sung in French by the unmistakable voice of Nico, and lastly a string drone soundscape by the young John Cale, all recorded before these three disparate characters had met. A spin of an alternate take of ‘Venus in Furs’ ably demonstrated how the three very different styles could be fused into a unique multi-layered sound, perfectly complementing one of Lou’s most intense and darkly beautiful songs.

An early film clip of the band playing-we were told-‘Sunday Morning’ rolled, but as it was originally shot in silent mode, a dub f the LP cut of the selfsame song was tastefully added. The band’s extraordinary youth and strangeness shines through this clip, Lou mysterious in rimless shades, John, hair bobbed and cradling his viola. Richie recalled conversations with many close associates of the band, who told him that although Andy Warhol (Artist who provided the band with space to breathe and art events to play at) may not have entirely lived up to his production credit on the V.U. & Nico LP cover, but he did get the band recorded and tried to get them signed to a major record label. The attempts to interest the major players in the record world would prove fruitless, and most told the band they had no future, as many of their songs covered subjects which were taboo on the radio, most notoriously those covering kinky sex and drug addiction. Most interesting was Richie’s recalling a comment by Lou Reed on this subject years later, which puts this into its proper perspective.  Lou revealed that he took his inspiration from literature and art, where these outré subjects were either never considered a taboo or were then beginning to be discussed in a more mature way than in previous generations. Lou said that he had no desire to be outrageous for its own sake, simply to tackle these thorny subjects in a new medium, that of popular music.

We were taken back to the very beginning of Lou’s career, when he was making LP’s, quick-fire, in whatever style of rock and roll/pop was currently popular, bashing them out with minimal production on the cheap ‘Pickwick’ label of the period, a discipline that honed his considerable ‘song writing under pressure’ skills.

John’s background in Avant-Garde music, at one point taking part in a 24-hour concert of the music of (co-incidentally-named) John Cage, was also touched upon, leaving us with the impression that John must be one of the most highly trained musicians ever to play rock and roll music.

Maureen’s past life lay in (early) computers, which she gave up to drum for the band; she drummed standing up, trivia fans.

Nico’s past as a model also provided us with some interesting material, at one point appearing as welcome decoration on the cover of a blues artist’s LP. I wonder if she ever did an Herb Alpert LP, or was that accolade reserved for his girlfriends?

We were told that ‘The V.U. & Nico’ was eventually taken up by Verve Records, a somewhat hipper label than most, initially because of their interest in Nico, the German beauty who sang some of their songs. Nico’s early taste of fame as a successful model in her native Germany, seemed to be a precursor for the pop career that was surely on the cards for her.

The dearth of filmed and recorded material was bemoaned by all of us, and it is a telling fact that the only live LP of the V.U. recorded during their very short career, was the ‘Live at Max’s Kansas City’ LP, recorded on a portable cassette player, bootleg-style, and later cleaned up as best could in a professional studio. This is not to suggest that the band rarely played live, however, or were simply an arthouse band (as I have already erroneously stated). Richie’s slides of many Rock Festival posters were flashed up to screen, bearing witness to their many live outings, sometimes low down in the running, but on one occasion, higher on the bill than Van Morrison!

Our guide also took a little time to talk about Doug Yule’s tenure in the band, at one period co-terminus with Lou Reed. Richie felt that, later, after Lou’s departure, Doug took on the mantle of principal songwriter but has been cruelly slated or ignored by other V.U. enthusiasts.

Richie’s impressive collection of pictures took in a broad sweep of images, too many to list (or indeed remember) here. Just a few were;

The band meeting the authorities of a US University they played, for the Yearbook. Richie explained that the student committee, who booked them for a gig there, were all hardcore V.U. fans, and we can only imagine what the University magazine must have looked like.

A very early pre-Sterling Morrison shot of Lou, John and two others who formed the core of the early band, hiding in the boot of a car, looking impossibly young

Many moodily beautiful shots of Nico, even one with red hair for her ‘Marble Index’ LP

A classic shot of the band presenting us with the ‘White Light/White Heat’ LP, Sterling Morrison (guitarist) his hands splayed like a magician, conjuring the LP out of the air, Lou looking laconic, John in an Eton collar looking away and Maureen staring into camera.

A shot of John with bobbed hair, moustache and triangular beard and round shades covering his eyeballs, like some sort of depraved, modern-day Guy Fawkes.

…and a particularly charming shot of the band in ‘two up-two down’ formation, with Maureen tickling Lou’s cheeks.

For me, the high spot of the evening was the 1972 clip from French television, of a reformed Lou, John and Nico performing ‘Femme Fatale’ and ‘Waiting For The Man’ (Lou vocal on that one) Unplugged for the 1970’s, John at his piano, Lou with his acoustic guitar, and Nico, dark haired with her otherworldly voice, in a clip I never thought I would see.




All of this added up to one of the most enjoyable and informative evenings I have ever spent, the most enduring image being the appearance of the V.U. in a University Yearbook. By the time I get to write these notes up, Richie will long since have departed for the USA, but his book is available, and I for one will be adding it to my collection.

With special thanks to all at Swiss Cottage Library, who made the event possible.

Scenester
6/8/09