With the body now sealed, and partially disguised, Nixon decided to move on, and after an hour without incident on the motorway, he decided it was safe enough to make a pit stop. In the service station car park he ate his snack, and in an effort to distract, leafed through the music magazine he'd bought earlier. Forcing himself to read, his mind kept flashing back to Lucia. He pressed on. The great and the good featured in various articles. Albums, national tours, video compilations, gear reviews. He imagined his own image smiling out of the page, happy in the knowledge that he'd finally found the invaluable piece of gear, with which to find 'that sound'.
From the blurb, it was hard to see how anybody had managed to create any of the classic works, spanning forty odd years of British musical dominance, without the latest gadget aiding them on their way. Nixon felt he knew all he needed to know already. No gizmo could change that.
Way back when, back in the mists of......twenty years ago to be precise, he had come close to joining, if not the elite, then certainly a small branch of the great rock n roll family tree himself, and losing a bob and finding a tenner, or rather the reverse, into the bargain.
In the late seventies, Britain was undergoing major upheaval. The long held dominance in manufacturing was in steady decline. Strikes and power cuts were commonplace, and jobs were becoming harder to find. Nixon had a choice of whether to stay on at school, with an eye towards university, or make a break for it now. His father had seen the writing on this particular wall, and felt that a further six years of education might leave him chasing crumbs from the table. He'd also foreseen the emergence of micro electronics, and although computers and mobile phones had yet to appear, the signs were there to be read.
Seeing no realistic chance of earning a living from Rock n Roll, or anything remotely glamorous, Nixon, reluctantly accepted the fact that his fathers prognosis may be right, and by August '77, he'd found himself on a four year apprenticeship, with a large engineering company.
Any hopes by his parents that he may “see sense” and “settle down” to a “sensible” career, were almost immediately quashed however, when during an induction meeting, during his first week of gainful employment, a sergeant major type figure, stood at the head of the room, and addressed Nixon and his fellow ninety odd recruits.
“Most of you boys here today, will be with us for the next forty years…..........”
From that moment on, he realised that this couldn't be a life for him. With no alternatives, he kept his counsel and learnt his trade, quietly waiting for a white stallion to gallop across his vista. There weren't many in life (even his parents knew that) and he promised himself he'd be jumping on the next one to come along. It took three years, and a chance meeting for it to arrive.
Ever since that pivotal night with Gil Riot and The Belleville Riders, he'd decided to improve his guitar skills. Towards the end of '79, and now eighteen, Nixon was becoming a regular on the London music scene, going to gigs, checking his peers, listening and looking, taking in whatever he thought may be of some use. Then, one Thursday night around Christmas, he ran across The Blue Boys, opening a show at The Marquee Club, on Wardour Street.
Marc Bolan, Nixon recalled, once said in an interview, that “timing is everything” and this particular night, Nixon had practically hit the jackpot. This 'right place, right time' moment came as he got to talking to Jake Connell, the guitarist and brains behind The Blue Boys, a little known band, but just eighteen months away from major success. Connell, two years Nixon's senior, was from the same school, and knew him slightly. They fell into conversation after the show, and it turned out that the evening's gig hadn't gone that well. A pre gig row had seen the band's bass player resign soon after, and in four days time, they were due to play a new years eve gig, over in Camden.
“To be honest man, I'm not that sorry about it, but still, we do 'ave a gig to do, and no fucking bassist........Wanker”
Years later, when Nixon would finally come to know Belleville Riders drummer personally, he would have known that, if he were describing this moment, then it may have gone something like....
“It was an open goal, goalkeeper on his arse, defence nowhere. The ball.... The bleeding ball ? One yard out, an' stopped in the mud, even my gran could put that in”
“I can play bass, give us a go.....” and he did.
Nixon had never played the bass before. He could play guitar though, and by this time pretty well, so, applying that knowledge, and with some borrowed gear, and a smattering of bullshit over exactly how experienced he was, he was in. The white stallion had arrived, he'd jumped, caught the reigns and held on for all he was worth. The speed took his breath, then jump....unsteady...hold on. From that new year's eve gig, further shows soon followed, luckily usually at weekends, in and around London. Nixon kept his job, and hung in there, and by the time anybody asked if the new dep was in for real, it felt easier to keep it that way.
By the time their first tour arrived, in the spring of 1980, Nixon had resigned his job. A job for life. A job that by now, nobody was being trained for. Britain didn't do that now. A year away from qualifying as a bone fide, time served, electronics technician, his parents went mad.................... well, his father went mad, and his mother cried.
“You've given it all up for that bloody band ? I can't believe it.....
…...What were you thinking ? Just don't come crawling back to us when it's all gone wrong........Which it will. You mark my words..............
…...to think of it, after all we've done for you........” …......and blah di blah di blah.
Nixon left home, and a little over a year, and three tours later, The Blue Boys had been signed to MGM Records, and the world it turned again. Some bands trawled around for years before their big break. For most, there was never any break. For the Blue Boys, barely eighteen months into their existence, it had all seemed too easy. Evidently, somebody had seen something.
To the cynical, it could have been a desperate A&R guy, needing to deliver, taking a punt in the dark. Perhaps it was the genuine skill of seasoned Artiste and Repertoire nous, that had spotted that certain something before anybody else. For whatever reason The Blue Boys couldn't believe their luck, none more so than Nixon. Life zipped into fast forward, and by March '81, the band had been assigned a manager and producer, and were ensconced in six weeks of pre production for their debut album, due to be recorded at the famed Cherokee Studios, Los Angeles.
The band was advanced thirty thousand dollars, and paid a weekly wage of five hundred. Nixon, the youngest member, was still nineteen, and to him, The United States of America, and particularly California, may as well have been Mars.
The sun shone permanently, bodies bronzed, teeth gleamed. Roads, cars, even fridges, appeared as if they'd been designed for giants. Everything seemed possible, England felt years out of date. Their five day working week in the studio, was interspersed by nights of mostly, partying. Even though they'd not actually made a record yet, all doors were suddenly open. The hype machine had swung into action even before they'd arrived, and so once there, invites to parties, clubs, and the gigs of their peers became the norm.
For five young, working class Londoners, the candy box had most definitely been opened. Jake, and singer Butts took to it instantly. Seamlessly combining their hard work in the studio, with photo shoots, interviews, and then by night being seen in all the right places of L.A clubland. It was now clear to see, that they had been working towards this, and were well prepared. Maybe whoever had decided to sign them, had seen it all along.
Nixon, despite Butt's obvious charismatic talent as a front man, didn't rate the band that highly. He'd seen loads of bands on the London scene, and felt it somewhat fortunate that The Blue Boys had received the call. Sure, they were proficient, but perhaps it wasn't a question of the music alone, as Nixon began to see the other side of an industry, where content alone wasn't enough. It needed attitude, and it needed to be sold, and they were in the world's hype capital. The band had two camps. Jake, Butts and the rest. Nixon, along with his fellow band mates were, effectively, a backing band. Jake and Butts wrote the songs and called the shots. For the others, it was just a case of keeping quiet, and doing their job.
“Enjoy yerselves, boys, but don't make a mess......” was something Jake had often said.
Nixon couldn't complain. He still felt fortunate to be here, and was happy to be along for the ride, the ride of a lifetime. He thought of his parents, his friends back home. It would be impossible to describe, and even if he could, it probably wouldn't come over as remotely imaginable, let alone true. Nixon, like the others, and courtesy of the record label, took a hotel suite, but soon realised he seldom used it. Virtually every night offered somewhere, something or someone to experience. Cocaine too, a scarce, covert kick in the UK, had become an essential thrust to the wheels of this world. Bags of it, everywhere, or everywhere that Nixon and his band mates went.
Despite the nights of partying, the band were worked hard by day. Producer Geoff Kernaghan, already with a decent reputation in exploiting the English sound, schooled them quickly into exactly what he wanted. Songs were short listed , tried out, re arranged, and sometimes almost completely rewritten. Whatever Geoff wanted, Geoff got, and he was always right.
Nixon particularly, learned a lot from this. Geoff could take an ordinary song, then somehow remove all the flab, all the superfluous meandering and make it lean and mean. Tweaking melodies, changing lyrics, or subtly altering chords, suddenly produced a “Wish I'd written that” song, that you just knew was going to be a hit.
By end of pre production, several versions of each song had been demoed, then Geoff had made his choice. No mean musician himself, he'd made it perfectly clear that if he didn't get what he wanted in the studio, he certainly wasn't above having any sub standard part overdubbed by himself, or any one of a number of world class musicians he could call on. If they wanted to actually play on this album, then they'd better get their shit together. The message got through, the boys worked hard, and learned their lines.
The recording would take two weeks, and there'd be a day off before they began. Geoff didn't mind partying during rehearsals, but once recording began, then it was work, and nothing but. The day off before, then, turned into an ideal opportunity for one last blow out, before the serious stuff began.
This is where Nixon, who, eighteen months earlier, had completely stumbled into a position that millions would crave, now managed to spectacularly, gloriously and royally, fuck it right up.
A party, at the house of a video director, out towards the coast, in the Windsor Hills, was peopled by various elements of the showbiz fraternity. Some were genuine stars, but most fell into a vague hanger on category.
“Amwha's” Jake called them. Actress, model, whatever. It was true, that wherever they'd been in this town nearly everybody they encountered affected to be either an actor, singer, or even scriptwriter, just around the corner from their big break. Nobody had a normal job, or if they did, it was usually temping behind a bar, “between jobs”.
Like all their soirees on this adventure, the drugs and booze were plentiful. The beautiful people mingled, and talked the talk. Folks spilled out from the house and around an elegant pool, looking out towards a golden sun, setting over the majestic Pacific Ocean. If one looked in the opposite direction inland, it was still possible to make out the Hollywood sign in the hills beyond. It didn't get much better than this.
Later that evening, Nixon had got talking to a girl, a model apparently, who'd taken a shine to him. Rather than talking too much about herself, she appeared genuinely interested in him, and keen to know about the band. Things were going well. Nixon turned to fill a glass, and then suddenly, someone else had moved in.
Nixon noticed that it was Carsen Mitchell, the son of the director host, who he'd noticed earlier in the evening. He'd found him to be a bore, and it was becoming clear that the girl felt the same. She then found some excuse to get Nixon back into the conversation, but quickly the subject was directed away again. Sensing the tension Nixon backed off a little, but to no avail, as immediately the model made to re-engage him, further irritating her stubborn companion. Carsen, clearly, was not going to be out manoeuvred, so Nixon decided to take his leave, and go for a smoke outside. He turned to the girl....
“You got a fag ?”
“Excuse me...?”
“I'm shipping outside for a quick fag, 'ave you got any on ya ?”
Slightly out of earshot, Carsen had only caught a couple of words
“You calling me a fag ? You fucking limey ponce...”
“No man, you got it wrong, I was ju..............”
Noticing now, that Carsen was quite drunk, Nixon suddenly felt himself reeling backwards from a punch that, although failing to connect properly, still had enough force to send him crashing through a half closed sliding glass door, which lead onto the poolside terrace. On his back, and surrounded by broken glass, Nixon lost it. Quickly to his feet, he grabbed hold of Carsen, and head butted him, forcefully into the nose. A surprising amount of blood appeared, and Carsen cupped his head in his hands. Nixon had him now, and swung him around, without really knowing what to do next, but before he could make up his mind, some guests had leapt in, and pulled him away.
Nixon wasn't marked, but Carsen looked a mess. Everything went quiet, Nixon shook, and life in the fast lane stopped. Within forty eight hours, Nixon was on a plane back to London. An assault charge, and compounded by the discovery of a small bag of coke in his pocket, meant he'd had his visa rescinded, and been deported without appeal from the land of opportunity.
A few calls to Jake and the management followed. Non committal, and hardly sympathetic, they didn't need to point out that Nixon had 'made a mess'. The recording sessions had already begun without him. He didn't know who was on bass, but it wasn't him. Perhaps Geoff was standing in, and he'd be back in, but it didn't pan out that way.
Jake and Butts weren't slow to realise that Nixon's little mess, as well as inconveniencing them, had compromised any American touring, and having found, almost immediately, a local bass playing replacement for the album recording, his position looked precarious. Unfortunately for Nixon, the new broom slotted in too perfectly, and it soon figured that Nixon didn't really figure at all. Back in the UK, dazed and depressed, Nixon kicked his heels. He'd been in America for not even two months, and already its semblance of reality, was fast receding.
The mansions of Hollywood Hills had been exchanged for a semi detached in Norwood Heights. Sympathy from parents, or even friends, was in short supply. Rock stars weren't in line for much of that. Then, five months later, towards the back end of September, when things couldn't get any worse, they did. Messy Business, the new album by the Blue Boys was released. They'd be touring the UK, Europe and the US over the next year. Nixon, of course, knew it would be a hit, and would have to get away.
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