
Stunned, from his sudden return to the UK from California, in the spring of 1981, the only thing Nixon could think of was to get away. He was well aware that by the autumn of that year, the band that he'd come so close to being a part of, was about to be proclaimed unto the world with the release of their debut album. There was no guarantee that they'd be successful of course, but Nixon gauged that given the financial muscle of a major record label behind them, then the chances were, that for the next six months at least, he'd be hearing and seeing too much of something he'd rather pretend didn't exist at all.
Then, a fortuitous meeting with an old schoolmate provided a solution for escape. He'd just returned to the UK, having spent most of the previous year hitch hiking down through southern Europe, picking grapes in France, and finally, spending the winter and following spring in Greece. Tales of an idyllic, island hopping lifestyle to the remote corners of the Aegean, felt to Nixon, to be an ideal way of avoiding the UK, or anywhere else that would be likely to be in earshot of......
'The fabulous new album by......'Â and 'now for the first time on TV, please welcome.......'
The idea of having an adventure like this appealed to Nixon. As well as diverting his attention from what had now become his bete noir, it provided a serious challenge. Ever since that night at the 100 Club with Gil, and his own subsequent experiences, Nixon had begun to form the impression that the world fell into two camps. How ever one stacked it up, it came down to players or punters.
The term player wasn't only a reference to musicians, but could be applied to anyone with access behind the scenes. For Nixon, that meant the provider of a service, be it entertainment, art, or even commerce. For all of these, there was a unified need to attract the attention of the public towards their particular offering. A shopkeeper, like an artist, needed to display wares to their best possible advantage. There had to be a strategy behind maximising the potential to sell, and that inevitably meant a certain amount of window dressing. That was the common point. Nixon felt that the populace were only vaguely aware, that no matter what was placed before them, they had nevertheless been influenced, and not by intrinsic worth alone.
Everybody was prey to this, and for the most part it was of little consequence, but in this instance, Nixon needed to be a player, feel the earth under his feet, and know its true value. Still with much of the money that he'd earned in the USA, he could easily afford to take the trip and use the conventional means of the holiday making punter. There'd be choices of transport, hotels and restaurants. Maybe excursions to some ruins, or museum tours, but Nixon wanted to remove the packaging, and go back stage. He needed to be absorbed.
From his experience, it was the difference between performing on a stage, or being a spectator. As a member of the audience, he sensed he would be on the wrong side of the fence. His friend had taken this approach on his trip, and pointed out that by working his passage, travelling light, and crucially alone, it had forced him to engage on a deeper level than a conventional tourist. It wasn't always easy, and at times could be precarious, but the pay off was an authentic experience that eclipsed anything any guided tour could offer.
And so, on Sunday, 6th September 1981, a few days before the release of The Blueboy's debut album, Nixon shoved a passport, fifty English pounds into his pocket, and with his small backpack, set out towards Dover, and boarded the ferry to Calais.
Around two weeks prior, Gil Riot had called Nixon, asking if he wanted to join him, and watch his former band on their forthcoming tour. Nixon, of course, politely declined. He would be........... unfortunately otherwise occupied.
The tour was to due to commence around mid September, and Gil had planned to use it as a reason to come to England, check out the band, and then stop on for a few months to see what may transpire in the land of Rock n Roll. It was to be one of a slew of dropped battens between Nixon and Gil, and by the time of the latter's arrival in the UK, Nixon had successfully negotiated his way down through France, and installed himself in the foothills of the Alps, picking apples on a modest fruit farm. It proved to be exactly what he needed.
The farm was situated not far from Gap, on the French frontier with Switzerland. He worked a ten hour day, six days a week, and lived with three North African farmhands in a quaint, but primitive cottage provided by the farm. The life was simple, and apart from the work, which was due to last around six weeks, Nixon had little contact with the outside world.
Most evenings were spent preparing meals and playing cards for pennies, to a backdrop of blue Gitanes smoke, and an eclectic mix of Rai and Berber folk tunes, churned out from a grubby old cassette deck. It was a world away from his roller coaster experiences of California. Like a gentle punt on the river, it was the first time in a long time, that Nixon had learned to appreciate the beautiful solitude of the countryside, and because of the language barrier, didn't feel obliged to talk too much. In America, there was always an uneasiness about leaving space in dialogue. Here, one had time to breathe, listen and think.
His African colleagues were seasoned farm workers, and struck Nixon with their air of quiet, calm dignity. By day there was no shirking, and everybody worked hard, but once back in their lodgings, an almost religious reverence took over in the preparation of the evening meal. Nixon didn't grasp this immediately. He wasn't used to spending hours preparing food, cooking Tajines when starving hungry, but gradually, he started to meld into the pervading pace of his environs.
Prunes, almonds, olives, together with couscous and saffron and ginger, fused with gently simmered lamb. The combinations were a revelation to Nixon. The food tasted sublime, and it gradually dawned on him that his theory of player and punters now applied to cuisine as well. They could have easily visited the nearest town, and probably ordered something vaguely similar, but the subject was never raised. This way, they were dining back stage as it were, and for now at least, Nixon needed nothing else. By the job's end, he would have enough funds to travel through Italy then onto Greece, where by early November, it would be the start of the orange picking season.
Meanwhile, Gil, despite Nixon's absence, had decided to go ahead with his visit to the UK. In the five years that had passed since his last visit, his efforts in making a career in music had somewhat foundered. John Lennon's famous put down on the French rock scene, by comparing it with English wine, had certainly struck a chord with Gil. And as a Breton, he couldn't even claim the local wine to be better. France, to him, had little to offer, and by this point he'd decided that it was a case of.... 'If you can't beat 'em.........'
Gil, on leaving school, had worked at his father's car dealership on the coast. It was a mundane job, but allowed him to save money, and dream. As with Nixon, he had learned to play the guitar, although he preferred to sing. In trying to form a band, he soon discovered that connections with the right people, were proving just as important as actual musical talent. Perhaps it was because of his experience with Nixon at the 100 Club, but every time he tried to form a group, it always confirmed his suspicion that something was missing.
Gil was no songwriter, and the three incarnations of bands that he formed, relied heavily on English cover versions or crude pastiches. His fellow French musicians, lacked any originality. He knew that The Riders were half French, so it couldn't just be a question of nationality. There was always an absence of edge, that slight undercurrent of swagger or irony, that British bands had in spades. When he thought about it, practically all the music he liked had originated in densely packed cities.
London had to hold the answer, and by '81, Gil had managed to save enough money for a six month stay of discovery in the capital. He took a basic bedsit in Tulse Hill, not far from Nixon's family home. As well as being relatively cheap, Gil felt that his familiarity with the surroundings of five years before, might help his morale. His early weeks in London mirrored the excitement that he felt on his previous visit, and most nights he ventured out, to soak up whatever the city's music scene had to offer. He went to see the The Blueboys at the Dominion Theatre, for the final show of their triumphant UK tour. Gil, and a sell out crowd, witnessed an accomplished show.
Los Angeles and Geoff Kernaghan in particular, had obviously worked their magic. Gil was impressed. He thought of Nixon, now understanding his absence, and tried to imagine what he might be up to. Unfortunately, just as Nixon was slipping into a new cathartic lifestyle, Gil was about to experience the opposite. Life for a twenty one year old Frenchman, with no contacts, on a small budget, soon became difficult. London was expensive, and money ebbed away on rent, fast food and warm beer.
It was now clear that he'd be back home ahead of schedule, before the end of the year if he didn't find a justifiable reason to stay. As the weeks rolled by, however, it became obvious to Gil, that even in the city of a thousand bands, finding one of any quality that would accept him, was far from easy.
The problem was, that Lennon was largely right, and a French singer, in an English band, made little sense to most. The rapid fire rant of a French accent in a punk context worked well enough, but it was limited, and by '81, the raw punk style of just a few years before seemed dated. Set against the slick produced sound that was currently in vogue, Gil's gallic croon fared less well.
He auditioned without success, for a dozen bands, and soon got the feeling that the next dozen would be no different. Each audition followed a similar path. He'd be asked about his previous experience, and of course, nothing he'd done in France counted, so he was going in cold every time, trying to make sense of unknown songs and grappling with pronunciation. He needed to have either, an exceptional talent, or at least, have someone on his side, but unfortunately he had neither. It was difficult to make friends, not because he was unsociable, but for a stranger, in a strange town, it just wasn't that easy. In the city, people tended to socialise in packs, and it was hard to break in. The solitude sapped his energy. London was like that. One of the biggest cities on earth, but also, possibly, one of the loneliest.
He wondered if things may have been different if Nixon were around. Nixon, and now Gil, had both learned that timing was everything. Perhaps if he'd created a band from scratch, and written the songs like Marrat, it may have been different, but he had no credibility to hang his hat on, and so, by the turn of the year and barely able to feed the meter to heat his lonely flat, a cold winter blow sent him scuttling back across the channel, and back to his father's garage.
The experience for Gil was a huge disappointment. Later on, he chided himself for not trying harder, and being too naïve. From a distance, it was easy to see his mistakes, but from the inside, and in the moment, the perspective was different. He wasn't Marrat after all, but for whatever reason, he concluded that this particular window of opportunity had now finally closed. From now on, his plan to become a performer would have to be conceived and built from home. A different tack was needed. As a keen amateur sailor, he understood that if the weather was against you, then you either had to change course, or wait until conditions were more favourable. In the event, he decided to change course.
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