27. the velvet underground
It was the guy who kissed her at the party, of course.
They even went on a trip together. She said nothing happened, and I believed her, but I should've known it was a matter of time.
The band were due to play at University College. She turned up at the house in Oxford and broke the news. We went to bed for the afternoon, but it was even worse than usual and naturally that was us finished. I wished we'd broken up a year earlier and in a different way.
Eighteen months of arguments and bad sex, then this. I could never work out why I stayed longer than the first few weeks. Maybe I thought I needed a feisty girlfriend, or a girlfriend at all after a college year with nothing long-lasting. But a girl can be soft on the outside and strong internally, instead of the opposite. And to think I let Melissa go.
She paraded what she'd done, like it was some kind of triumph, definitely some cruelty involved. We hobbled along for another couple of weeks, which was a fortnight too long. I knew her new man wouldn't last, but I was still baffled when I moved to London in October and got a call saying she wanted us to get back together. Sex really wasn't her thing!
You know how couples have a song? 'Aah, they're playing our song'. Ours was Lyin' Eyes! What's worse, it was by the Eagles.
I never saw her again - and I was free at last. Time to accept better offers for once. Maybe leave Oxford on a high.
*
University College is another one whose name you won't know. Stands to reason when it sounds tautological.
Patrick had a school friend who went there. He arranged for us to use their music room, which most colleges didn't have. Soundproofed, with a thick padded door, a big advance on the basement at Banbury Road.
It was right next to the statue of the poet Shelley. He's pale and naked and lying on his side after drowning. Interesting pose - and a slab of University College hypocrisy. They expel him for atheist beliefs (he'd already been severely bullied at Eton) - then when he's famous, they put up a statue. Thanks from beyond the grave, you shameless cunts.
The same guy who got us into the music room hired us for a party tonight. Him and his girlfriend (last I heard, they were still married) and a third chum, 'to celebrate their 64th birthday.'
The invitation was a fancy bit of kit, copperplate writing on a pale blue background. They gave Patrick one with 'Leonard + Band' across the top. As I say, for some reason they called him Len at school.
The party was in the beer cellar. Like the JCR at St Peter's, this was bigger than the one at our college - and an ideal place. Underground, so you can be loud, a proper crypt, with arches, so it had atmosphere - and the right size for a party of seventy people or however many it was.
Especially as they all danced. On Saturday 12 March 1977, we were back in our security blanket, much the same as our first gig. Friends of Patrick, plus other people we knew, who wanted to dance to rock standards. Difference being we got paid. Fifteen pounds seemed to be our going rate, which was fine.
The invite had P.B.A.B. as well as R.S.V.P. Bring a bottle. Pat's mates were probably science students like him, because their spelling wasn't perfect: Attrocious Les Milkins, like our advert in the Oxford Journal.
There was a support band again. Ben Gaskell and the Fabulous Flappers. I think he may have been in Patrick's jazz band at the original gig, the tall guy with a long face. I don't know if Pat played in both again tonight - because I don't remember the Flappers at all. Same with the other lot at Imperial College. My memory must've had a valve that filtered out jazz bands! Quality control.
Naturally I wasn't in the best of moods beforehand - especially as the girlfriend came along after telling me what she'd done. But I forgot about that as soon as our band started setting up. I was in my element for a while. Enjoyed very minute.
A couple of guys took photos, including one of the birthday boys. The invitation said 'Dress Outrageously'. My take on it was to dress right down, outrageous at a party like that. The grey sweatshirt that was once navy blue; the usual cords, bit too tight. The black neck thong.
Patrick and Harry went the other way, always up for dressing up. Pat had the same tails he wore at his 21st, this time over a white shirt and black bow tie, plus the bowler hat from Ironbridge and a full-length daffodil in his lapel.
Bill went for something along the same lines, a black waistcoat over a pale shirt and black tie - while Harry had a black suit and tie too, like someone from the Jam. And he copied my trick from the first gig by painting a bruise on his left cheek, with a sticking plaster below that - then went one up on me by blacking out two of his front teeth! A truly terrifying sight, like a furious snake. These were the first photos of us in colour: well worth the wait.
Behind him in the fanged photo, Bernie's got the obligatory fag in the side of his mouth. His hair's very long and there's something Ronnie Wood about him, only more manly. His idea of dressing outrageously was classic pub rock. Thin denim shirt over a t-shirt with the image of a vulture and the lines 'Patience my ass! I'm gonna kill something!' Like half our songs, you mean. Something cool about that big red bass.
*
You hear rock bands say: sometimes, when a gig goes really well it's like the audience is part of them. Never thought I'd say this, but that's how it felt for us. And for Richard Burton:
'Oh yes, I think the audience and the actor must become one person, one animal, one thinking creature.'
We didn't want anyone doing much thinking. Animals yes, preferably on a liquid diet.
Here and Banbury Road, with everyone close up and liking what we played, the audience were a dance troupe and backing vocalists, making it a better show. If you think that's bollocks, you'll love this: the whole party, just mixing with everyone, was part of the gig somehow. It happened only in basements with people who knew us - but they were velvet nights.
Being among friends relaxes you, so we tried things out.
In an attempt to liven up Not Fade Away, I arranged for the middle section to be played increasingly quieter and slower, to the point where I'm practically whispering the chorus. Then I got us back in gear by shouting the next line. We'd practised that, of course, but I was so loud Pat and Harry literally jumped! If the guitarists won't attack their guitars, attack the guitarists.
We also used two different pairs of maracas. For Not Fade Away, the little green ones I'd been using from the start. Harry shook those on Sympathy for the Devil, while someone found me a much bigger pair, the dried shells of giant breadfruits or something. You could hear these a bit better but not much, so I eventually worked on an alternative.
The photo with the bigger pair makes me look like I'm trying to swallow the microphone. The bearded tuba player from Patrick's jazz band at the first gig, he sidled up to try backing vocals. Took me a while to get him to piss off, and it irritated me so much I cut him out of the picture!
There's a couple of photos of Martin Neubert, the german guy in our college language set. One of them has the band in the background. The other one should've been our poster, because he's got his hands over his ears!
It's much too loud, he goes.
Martin, you're standing in front of a speaker! Move.
No no, I'm alright here.
Thankfully no photos of the girl I was seeing, and I forgot about her for the evening. The next day was bad, and the break-up dragged on too long - but if a scab's small enough, picking it hurts briefly, heals quickly, and doesn't leave a scar. Writers like a metaphor they can run with.
*
We'd played four gigs in eleven days, culminating in one of the best. And if this was our level, playing for pals, fine by me. I was still amazed to be doing it at all. Univ College was our tenth gig. When we started out, I never dreamed of double figures.
But this was the end of term, and there was only one more to come, so I had to up the schoolwork. Oxford finals were looming.