[ May 12, 1990 ]
NME: Scallifornia Dreamin'
NME
Scallifornia Dreamin'
12 May 1990
by Stuart Maconie
Courtesy of G. Dipper
Think California and you'll think Beach Boys, suntanned nymphets in cut-offs, surf, soda and the therapy industry. Oh and possibly raisins. You won't be thinking of Eddy St.
On Eddy St, an old girl with a face like sandpaper is picking morosely through a trash can and wiping phlegm from her chin. A gang of Hell's Angels have clustered like flies around a six pack on the welfare hotel steps. And on the sidewalk to my right, a young black guy in shades, seemingly more from boredom than belligerence, alternates between giving me the once-over and repeatedly whacking a fire hydrant with a bicycle chain. I say "seemingly", but I wasn't proposing to be around long enough to find out.
We'd been in beautiful downtown San Francisco all of 15 minutes and though I had no desire to be a wimp I had equally no desire to become lunch. It was the kind of neighbourhood that could get Floella Benjamin down and, with another ten blocks to the hotel, it seemed that a cab was a good idea. Dragging Ridgers into the lobby of the first hotel we come to, we push past a rum-looking chap in a Fedora who has an inordinate number of girlfriends with him and make our way to the proprietor, a bald man with no teeth and Lake Superior under each armpit. He calls us a cab, but pronounces the words "tourists" with such poisonous relish as he intercoms his pal the cabbie, that we decide to take our chances back on the street with the zombies, freaks and beggars.
In the trade, we refer to this as "a bad start". We had ventured so way out west to discover The Beautiful South, a real live pop group of Internationalist sympathies but very British demeanour. Formed from the ashes of the uniquely invigorating Housemartins, The Beautiful South are the kind of pop group it's becoming increasingly good to have around; a gang, or at least a collection of interlocking personalities. Though I'll grudgingly shake a leg to the records, I find the idea of some kid putting Adamski or Guru Josh on their bedroom wall genuinely depressing. The idea of pop groups, be it Loop, The Swinging Blue Jeans or New Kids On The Block, is a cherishable one and will outlast fashion. Besides which, The Beautiful South are dead good.
Their music, idiosyncratic and full of personality, bleakly wry but sweetly punchy, has been a happy addition to the English pop charts these last 12 months. In Britain now, The Beautiful South are an accepted part of the pop fabric with two major hit singles and a best-selling album to their name.
In the United States they mean little as yet, one of many new British acts with some currency amongst trendies and college kids but still waiting for a sizeable break. Obviously the mini-tour is meant to assist this process. The Beautiful South aren't the kind of people to spend sleepless nights scheming on the theme of "breaking America", but clearly it would be nice. And I had come to spend the last three days of The Beautiful South's first Stateside venture with them; not to chat over new albums and the like (there isn't one) but to hang out and experience three days on the road. A fly on the dressing room wall.
Back on Eddy St, a fly, or at least something grubby and in the shit, seemed a pretty apposite description of the way I was feeling. The neighbourhood got worse before it got better and eventually we found ourselves in a weird room in a weird hotel awaiting the band's return from the soundcheck, Jet-lagged, edgy and rattled, it was cheering to hear from the courtyard outside the unmistakable clatter of a football and, in broad Northern tones, snatches of the ironic running commentary ("and the keeper's off his line!") that accompanies most English kickabouts. Friendly and in good spirits, The Beautiful South adjourn to their ablutions with a promise to meet us in the bar in an hour's time. Ensconsed there I start the essential process of learning the nicknames, acquiring the catchphrases and in-jokes and generally testing the water that's vital for anyone hoping to slip smoothly into the routine of a band on tour. I'd suspected that The Beautiful South might be serious, even dour, young men of the Left so it was pleasing to find, over the first few cold ones, that they are right on in the best sense of the words; laddish but bright, smart but not stuffy.
There are the three Daves (Rotheray, Hemingway and Stead), shaven-headed bass player Sean and Paul. Early conversation is light and general, Rugby League, plot illogicalities in Back To The Future II and the recent gigs in Boston and Toronto. Consensus is that this is a weird hotel, obviously aimed at Bohemian types with its piped parakeet noises in the trees and its Duchamps and Warhol autographed pool bearing the legend "This Is Not A Swimming Pool. This Is Art". It's an oasis of Yuppiedom in the middle of the shabbiest district in town. The colour drains from the Elektra representative's face when we inform him of our intention to go for a stroll. ("Really? This is kind of an interesting area, you know?") A bar is recommended and we cruise a few streets awash with human detritus until we see it: "Spartacus. Mexican Food Available Here"
Into the quiet bar and I just have time to check the price of Burritos when a very odd thing happens. From a bar stool rises a bullet-headed beer monster the size of a whole row of brick outhouses who promptly lands a doozie of a punch to photographer Ridgers upper body. Next he sends diminutive Sean flying across the bar into me, prompting me to think "Far out!" Or words to that effect. Slowly he moves towards us. Cues and pool balls are hurriedly snatched up. Another regular, a grizzled old black guy in a baseball cap, calls to this friend "Hey, Chief. Take it easy" so half-heartedly he may as well have said "Bust their ass, Chief". The same thought is going through everyone's mind. Eight of us, one of Chief. Ultimately, we're bound to come out on top. But given Chief is clearly a dickhead, and we British are no strangers to dickheads. But the difference with this dickhead is that Chief or one of his loser friends may just have a cute little snub-nosed number under his arm.
Brandishing the cues and balls and whistling, we walk slowly and with as much dignity as the situation would allow back onto the street. Back at the hotel bar, the humour of the situation becomes apparent and there is a jokey post-mortem ("Is Chief on the guest list?") along with much ritual shouting of the tour catchphrases "Oi Nutter!, That's not my trolley", "Crazee people!" etc. We drink "Pterodactyls" - bitter Tequila cocktails - and eat rum-laced green jelly from the carton while we await the arrival of bus driver Marrianne, a near-parodic American rock chick in boulder-rubbed denim and Skid Row T-shirt. I fall into a drunken conversation with Steady and Paul, during which the latter claims a current infatuation with '70s funk and confesses that his obsession with Gospel was disastrous for The Housemartins.
Tonight's gig is at The I Beam, a legendary club in Haight Ashbury. Foggy from the Pterodactyls and giddy at the prospect of visiting one of pop's few seminal neighbourhoods, the home of the Hippy movement, we make the short drive through the night streets. "Haight Is Love" they used to say, though now you're likely to find the odd ruined crack casualty amidst the tie dyes and sandals. Still, the place has a definite buzz. Leaving the coach, we bump into a guy with a cardboard sign around his neck that reads "Money Needed For Beer". Rotheray, himself apparently not averse to the sauce, hands him several bucks saying "I can respect your attitude".
Backstage, there is just enough time for a Rolling Rock and quick introductions to accompanying vocalist Brianna and the lads of the brass section before they're walking out on stage and I, along with manager Paul and merchandiser and all-round tour "character" Sparky are looking for a good spec. And, shamelessly, I have to tell you that they were great.
I knew The Beautiful South of their records as a tough, likeable pop group bravely doing their own thing, but live they surpass themselves. Mob-handed, passionate and larky, they generate the kind of big band pop soul that Dexy's once went for but without the embarrassing conceptual conceits. The songs, mainly from the first album but with a clutch of classy new numbers, have muscle but finesse. And the nine of them up there bantering, breaking into impromptu dance steps whilst Brianna flirts with the locals is a sight only the clinically dull wouldn't be geed up by. For me, it's a revelation. They encore with a souped up "Woman In The Wall" and an exemplary "What You See Is What You Get". Someone in the crowd shouts, apropos of nowt: "Aston Villa!" and "Barnsley!" and The Beautiful South are gone. The tiny backstage area is crammed with the band, a documentary video crew sent by Go! Discs, myself and a gaggle of hangers-on (notice how I distanced myself there, kids!) including, much to Sparky's chagrin, a couple of expat Leeds United fans.
When they proceed to spill beer all over the camera equipment Sparky's all for showing them the door but discretion prevails. Apparently, the onstage sound was shite so I'm rather more enthusiastic than the band but spirits are high. Paul enjoys a pipe of "Parson's Pleasure" (I kid you not) and we all watch, in fear of losing our lunch, as the record company rep lechers nauseatingly over local womanhood.
On the ride back, the mood is jokey enough to give the local bikers a few somewhat foolhardy "Oi! Nutters!". I'm genuinely looking forward to the next two shows. Hey, and by the way, Chief, have a nice day! Or rather, have a grisly automobile smash! And, no, you're not having your balls back.
"AND SHEFFIELD United have taken the lead!"
I'm woken, complete with head the size of Alcatraz, by yet more football highlights from the courtyard. Everyone's poolside, catching a few rays before the drive to San Jose and tonight's gig. But before that there's more shooting to be done for the tour documentary. We decide to get out of the low life of Eddy St (as we leave a man in rags is shouting "Git outa here" at a lamp post) and do the tourist circuit.
Leaving Paul and Rotheray by the pool, we drive down familiar sloping streets and past cable cars till we meet the Golden Gate bridge. Out in the bay, "The Rock" looks as grim and foreboding as hell and there's much brisk camera activity for the folks back home. Then on to a shopping expedition down by Fisherman's Wharf where Sean and Sparky bemoan the lack of top quality hot dogs and baseball gear. Sparky buys a "Uruguay" sew-on patch for Paul, a confirmed devotee of the cynical Latin American bastards, and we make our way to the van.
On the way, the crew suggest a photo opportunity and Sean collars a group of preternaturally healthy Californian teenagers.
"We're an English group called The Beautiful South. What kind of music do you think we play?"
As expected they are not as bright as they are beautiful.
"We'll, let's see. Classical?"
"Country?"
"Modern Rock?"
"Oh, I dunno. Maybe aggressive, industrial dance?"
Pardon!? To add to the fun, an economy-sized oddball in open-to-the-navel sweater, tweed jacket and brothel creepers who's been watching from the sidewalk decides to share a few thoughts to camera.
"My name is Michael Pritchard. My stage name is Opus. (Pause for we philistine Brits to exchange significant glances). Since I was very young I have always been creative. I have been a member of a struggling African circus and then a struggling African symphony"
"Okay Mike, it's a wrap. Thanks for sharing that with us."
"I really don't mind being in your film, you know. I need the exposure"
Eyeing Mike's slobber I can't help but think that any more exposure and he'll be enjoying prison food. Poor bugger doesn't know he's having the piss taken and no-one's about to tell him. And before you get so high and mighty, would you?
And so, on the freeway crawl to San Jose another catchphrase is added to the repertoire. "My name is Michael Pritchard. My stage name is Hopeless"
En route to San Jose along the Pacific Coast Highway, we spy a sign saying "Rockaway Beach" and though we've since learned that it's not the one immortalised by The Ramones, it still seems a great place to stop. Under the peculiar sunny gloom of Californian skies, a game of three-and-in ("they're lining up at the far post..") becomes a proto-Baseball game, watched by surly bikers chucking frisbees and drinking Bud. Then back to the van and more Live 105, a station for committed Anglophiles with its policy of non-stop English modern rock, a general catch-all term for the kind of music the NME covers.
A new game develops whereby we all try to outdo one another in who can be most gratuitously offensive about The Mission. On the outskirts of town we get lost but Marrianne's intuition pulls us through, thus depriving us of a heaven sent opportunity to ask some passer-by "Excuse me, do you know the way to San Jose?" The city is part barrios shanty, part typical downtown Americana, with equal measures Californian chill-out and third world desperation. At The Comfort Inn, there's no room for Marrianne and she gets into a slanging match with the maitre'd whilst the rest of us try limboing under the lobby's electric eye. This is all obviously something of a culture shock for poor Mazzer after years of hanging out with guys with poodle haircuts and leopard skin trousers, and later she is heard complaining loudly about "f..in British assholes."
At the soundcheck, Sparky and I try to raise her spirits by throwing tennis balls at her but she takes this as an uncalled for cue to tell us of her one-woman battle against liquor and drugs. On the way out, two Chinese guys who saw last night's show stop the band to ask "Why no Housemartins?" Apparently, the sound's even worse on stage than last night and Steady, Rotheray and few hardy outriders go in search of beer. Marrianne takes the huff and sods off with the bus leaving me and the good ole boys of the brass section drinking coffee in the hotel lobby. A phone call from Steady tells us that there's a great Mexican bar around the corner and within minutes, we're all assembled there having one of the best times of the trip, sipping cold beer and sucking limes whilst Rotheray plays dice with the barmaid to see who puts more Tamla Motown on the crackling jukebox. Signs on the wall read "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Serve" and tell of immunisation drives at Our Lady of Guadaloupe church, reminding you that there is a flip side to this state of suntans and in-room jacuzzis.
The gig's great, though to be critical maybe less so than last night. There are technical foul-ups resulting in the death of the guitar amp and in the ensuing hiatus, Heaton and Hemingway josh with the crowd. "Hello, San Jose. Say something American". "PEANUT BUTTER!!" cries one exhibitionist loon and pretty soon the cry is taken up by most of the crowd. We try a few "Oi Nutter"s!" but they aren't willing to go with this so readily. On second hearing, the new stuff sounds even better: "Runner's Up" is classically rumbustious and the timeless horn harmonies of "Mother's Pride" could stop a Cult fan in their tracks at 20 paces. The crowd, all kitted out in the American youth uniform of appalling tastelessness, take them eagerly to their bosom.
Backstage, a man in lederhosen and a deerstalker is showing around some sketches he's made of the show that look disturbingly reminiscent of the artists court impressions on News At Ten. As a goodwill gesture, the DJ plays The Stone Roses and the whole posse of us take to the floor to throw sundry impressive shapes, accompanied by gasps of admiration and fear from our American cousins. Drunk beyond reason, Brianna and I freak out to something completely inappropriate like "Leavin' On A Jet Plane" and fall into conversation about Catholicism.
I ask the DJ for some Happy Mondays and am forcibly ejected by heavies for reasons that are never made clear. Stumbling onto the sidewalk, we find two young women who, denied admission, have spent the last five hours outside, listening to the gig, applauding in all the right places and waiting patiently for the band to leave. Everyone appears slightly chastened by this, and the band offer to take the kids to an all-night diner where we may be able to get a drink. Needless to say we can't, but this doesn't dampen one of the kids' ardour one bit as she babbles out the whole, breathless story of what The Beautiful South mean to her (which is clearly everything) and demands to be given a semantic analysis of every lyric. I leave them to it.
Tomorrow, we fly to LA. Back on my in-room TV, a man in a bad polyester suit is telling me that the appetites of the flesh will bring damnation. I think it's a bit late for that, mate. "This is Hemingway to base. Can I get a big ten-four?" "Look, who is speaking, please?"
It's unlikely that I can convey the sheer, splendid absurdity of this moment on the printed page but here goes. We've arrived via Shuttle in LA, freak capital of the USA, a city where more people get killed every year than in the whole of Europe. Sean, Steady, Sparky, Hemingway, myself and sax player Kev are riding a shuttle bus from LA International Airport down the freeway when suddenly our Ethiopian driver Johnny, for reasons yet to become apparent, has bolted from the bus and raced off down the road. Since then, the radio has been crackling into life every couple of seconds. The temptation becomes too much:
"Oi! Nutter! That's not my trolley! Where's our driver then?"
"Look, will you please identify yourself?"
"These are the passengers on bus 302. Looks like we're in control."
"Right, get the cops!"
At this first mention of the notorious LAPD, it takes me about two seconds to come to a decision. I leap from the bus and start running. The first thing I see is Johnny running along the road towards me. I turn and jump back inside the bus in time to see Johnny shoot straight past into the distance and the latest broadcast from the Loco Bus Co.
"Get those passengers out of there immediately and have Johnny arrested."
Eventually our relief driver, a typically slurred LA casualty, takes the wheel, informing us that Johnny, never a candidate for the gold watch, has finally blown it this time. Feeling personally responsible, we go into a quick chorus of "Reinstate Johnny!" to which the driver assures us that he really was no good. Sean inquires, mock innocently, "Err, he wasn't black, was he?" but the irony is lost.
We're headed for the Hyatt on Sunset Boulevard and the drive winds through Beverley Hills and Bel-Air, reputedly the most beautiful suburbs on earth. Our driver tries to point out famous people's houses but can't remember any, which is pretty good going since practically the whole of the movie and entertainment industry lives here. The Hyatt itself is that hoary old beast, the "legendary rock and roll hotel" (the band groan audibly at this which I find quite heartening). Immortalised as "The Riot" in Led Zep's Hammer Of The Gods and in Ian Hunter's entertainingly crap Diary Of A Rock and Roll Star, its rooftop pool is also the venue for the ill-fated party in the final scene of Spinal Tap.
With this in mind we head up there, get the kit off and order the beers from room service. There's a rather unfortunate and unintentional "Brits On The Piss" flavour to this which we don't notice until we realise that everyone else in the pool has gone. The beers take an eternity, prompting speculation that this might be Johnny's new job. But when they do come, they are quaffed gratefully as we recline in the shade and gaze out over Beverley Hills. Ridgers remarks "It doesn't really seem like a Thursday, does it?" Tonight's show, the last of the tour, is at The Roxy, a few blocks down.
Unnervingly like Ronnie Scott's, there's a horrifying moment at the soundcheck when Dave Hemmingway and I realise that (pause) there is no bar. Bizarrely, drinks are ferried in from the bar next door. With time on our hands, Dave, Sparky, Rotheray and I decide to investigate this bar. Overhearing us, the American promoter interrupts:
"The Rainbow? Hey, that place is famous. It's pretty wild you know." Inside, it's not so much wild as dark. You can't see a hand in front of your face which may be a blessing since there are about four punters and if the barstaff are as ugly as they are rude, it might have been too awful for words. A dozen beers and one fairly acrimonious row over the quality of our tips later, we decide to head back to the Roxy.
Backstage, there's the usual technical autopsy but there's no mistaking the mood of quiet elation. Spirits are good, in fact, that we decide to give the Rainbow Bar another chance and, hey, it was pretty wild, if by wild you mean full of tosspots with long hair and humorous trousers. It's a rawk and roll joint and we're about as in keeping as The Nolan Sisters. This, however, doesn't prevent us drinking like monsters and having to be swept out with the ashtrays at 3 am. If The Hyatt Hotel is wondering where all the bottles of sake went from the elaborate oriental lobby display, I'm ashamed to say that it was us. It's a fair cop but society is to blame. Delighted to find that it was the real thing and not water, we proceeded to".
But you don't want to hear about that. Let's just say that a good time was had by all and you don't have to be a troglodyte racist or sexist to find the rock and roll life a little tempting at times. And now it's back home and that "difficult" second album, made even more difficult by the added distraction of the World Cup. And Johnny, if you're out there, there's always a job at the NME. Oi! Nutter! That's not my trolley! Crazee People!
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