THE DIARY I DIDN'T KEEP 15

The Diary I Didn't Keep 15

Good morning, Everyone!

The more I research the sixties to help me fulfil my responsibilities as Tommy’s amanuensis, the more I am aware of the energy and hope of those times. In particular, when I look at photos or documentary films of everyday life back then (thank you, Graham), I am struck again and again by the genuine openness in people's faces, the confidence. Walking along Edinburgh streets today, the expression I now see on many faces I can describe only as 'guarded'.

Thank you to everyone who has opted to become a paid subscriber. I really appreciate your going the extra mile to support my writing. It means a lot, as do your comments. You help keep me focused and on track.

Quick recap: Having gained entrance to Bell's Music in search of a record deal, Tommy and his demo tape follow the music boss into his office. But is our young hero ready to give up his life as an unpublished poet for what will surely be a lively and non-stop fiesta of gigs, grass and girls?

Warm greetings to all my readers, Ron

Glossary

Four minutes – the four-minute warning was based on the estimated time between the detection of a Soviet nuclear missile attack and its impact on Britain.

Michael Caine – famous UK actor. Likewise his glasses.

Flower power – peace and love in the sixties, particularly in lifestyle and dress.

Loon pants – trousers that were flared from the knee down.

Headie (Scots) – headmaster.

THE DIARY I DIDN'T KEEP 15

Much bigger room this, neat, ordered and strictly business. Fewer posters, no beer bottles and crisps. A snowfall of white carpet that needs wading through.

Half the room’s the boss’s office: busy desk and filing cabinets. The rest is taken up by a couple of easy chairs and a sofa directly in the firing line of speakers the size of bathtubs hanging from the far wall. Below them, a battery of turntable decks, a console of dials and buttons with a reel to reel tape recorder on top.

'My name's David, David Bell. I run Bell's Music. ' A friendly smile and no handshake. Just as well. My hand’s shaking so much it might have missed his.

'I'm Tommy.'

‘Have a seat, Tommy. You’ve written a song?’

I sit down in one of easy chairs. Reg said to say the song is hot and that other music publishers are clamouring for it. And if David asks me what publishers?

Fuck it. Reg isn’t here.

'I wrote the words and my friend Reg writes the music. He's in a band and… I'm not. Not in a band, I mean. Just do the words.'

‘What's the band called?'

The band? The name? Shit! Total fucking blank, till out of nowhere: bananas. ‘The Banana Skins.’ Cringe of a name now I say it out loud.

'Easy to remember,' says David.

Not for me. I plough on. 'Reg sings and plays the piano. On the tape, that is. In the band he plays guitar.' I’m holding out the tape. Almost shaking it off its spool.

'Thank you. ' David crosses to the reel to reel and starts threading it in, ready to play.

'What's your song called?'

‘“I'll Bring You Flowers”.’

'Catchy title.'

‘It's a ballad. Peace and love, lots of peace and love. I've brought the words for you if –'

‘Maybe later.'

Can hardly believe I’m here. London record producer, listening to song lyrics I’ve written. Fucksake, my heart’s beating louder than any song. Loud, thumping and fast.

David presses PLAY, then returns to his seat.

Long silence that’s Reg straightening up in his chair, placing his hands above the keyboard, taking a moment to gather himself. The sad opening notes, hinting at love and –

CLANG! Loud discord.

What the fuck!

... bring you flowers...

CLANG!

... to weave into your...

CLANG!

David’s shot out of his seat, pressed STOP. He turns to look at me.

Fuck.

I stand up and start burbling. 'That's not it. Well, it was… the piano bit was... Then Reg singing.' Should I ask him for the tape and just go? 'Really sorry, Mr. Bell. Sounded fine at Reg's. We wrote a protest song as well. Sounds like it’s playing both of them at once.'

'It's okay, Tommy.' David rewinds the tape.

Heart's going like a pneumatic-drill. I’m no longer breathing, more like gulping for air.

'What kind of recorder does your friend use?'

'Don't know. Sorry.'

David’s pulling out the tape. ‘Only got this last week and not found my way around it yet. Cost a fortune. There is something we could try.’ He smiles. ‘Might work.’

He picks up a sheet of paper, rips off a strip about 3 inches long. 'Your friend must have a four-track. This is a Ferrograph, recording-studio quality. It’s a two-track, which is why it’s playing both songs at the same time. Let’s see…' He rethreads the tape into the machine. ‘I’ll try covering one of the playback heads. You with me?'

'Think so.' Which I don’t. Not even close.

A couple of face-masks and gowns, and we’d look like a surgeon and his apprentice bent over a patient. ‘If you place the paper like this, the head should no longer pick up the protest song. Now, here, you take over.’

I do, and he steps back.

‘Don’t let it move, Tommy. Not an inch, not even a fraction of an inch.’

My hands have started shaking more than ever. ‘I’ll do my best.’

'Take a deep breath. Think calm. Do you meditate?’

Meditate? I’m from Dumfries!

‘Remember, calm, calm, calm – and concentrate.’

Everything now set up, David presses PLAY and returns quickly to his seat. ‘My listening chair.’

My breathing stops, my heart too.

Then the opening notes.

Then Reg starting to sing, 'I'll bring you flowers…' Loud and clear.

Thank fuck.

Keep hold of the paper. Concentrate. Bet Mick Jagger never did this.

'… flowers to weave into your hair.' Right on! 'I will bring you…'

Then before I know it, I've glanced across at David to see if –

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! And everything goes to fuck. Worst fuck ever!

Paper’s sliding, tugging at my fingers… Tugging at the tape… Locking it tight. Tape’s wrapping itself round and round the playback head. Total snarl-up. Loop after loop of tape unspooling, getting tangled worse than ever.

Suddenly David’s beside me, pressing STOP.

Machine’s jammed, starting to whine. Tape’s starting to stretch… It snaps.

FUCK! FUCK!

FUCK!

He switches off the power. Tries untangling the tape. Gives up. Reaches for scissors and starts cutting. Vidal Sassoon-style snip-snip-snipping until the head is visible again. Magnetic tape all over the floor like hair clippings.

I bend down to–.

'Leave it, Tommy. The cleaner will tidy up. I have a meeting now.’ Shows me to the door.

Amber keeps on typing as I pass.

No record deal. No tape. No nothing. And it’s still fucking freezing out here.

Hold onto a piece of paper for two minutes? Hardly managed two seconds. Two fucking seconds. I managed the headie back in Dumfries, managed to leave home and hitch to London, managed three months of bow-ties and tails and a whole afternoon of rotten fruit and veg.

Fuck this two-track, four-track and bits-of-paper shit.

Thanks to the atom bomb I've only four minutes to live – and I want to live them all, each one right up to the hilt. To write poems and song lyrics, and not be flash-fried still a virgin.

Reg’s flower power jacket couldn’t keep a gnat warm. I pull it tight around me. No fucking buttons, of course, and an Arctic blast whistling up my loons. Sunny side of the street to start with, and moving fast to stop icing up. Guitar shop, guitar shop, recording studio, record shop, NME, coffee bar, music agents, another guitar shop, music publishers, Melody Maker, drum shop, more publishers. And then... YES!

But what'll I say to them? Fuck knows, open the door and in. Warm up the legs and goolies, at least.

It’s Aladdin's cave, if his wicked uncle had been a recording freak. Crammed with turntables, amplifiers, speakers, tape recorders from shoebox size to David's top of the range Ferrograph. Hendrix belting it out and an assistant tweaking knobs for a couple of long-hairs and their cloud of dope.

Another assistant – Michael Caine glasses, tie-dyed T-shirt and purple loon pants – comes over. 'Can I help you?'

A face-painted girl, all beads, bells and patchouli oil, glides past on her way to the door. I watch her go out of my life.

‘Help you?’ The assistant’s now standing beside me.

'Do you have two-track tape recorders?'

'Does the Pope have holy water in bucketfuls?' He sweeps his arm like a blessing to take in the shelves and display stands buckling under recording machines. 'Choice is yours.'

'How much are they?'

'Any particular model?'

'Ferrograph, if you stock it.'

A practised jerk of his head, and he peers at me over the top of his Michael Caines.

'Big spender, eh, and only the best will do? You've come to the right shop. Last week we kitted out The Who, and Donovan the week before. And you are?'

The Banana Skins? Cairns and Banks?

'We’re still getting it together.'

'Fair enough.' Another jerk of the head to look me straight in the eye. 'Ferrograph starts at £500. Extras cost extra.'

'Thank you. We’ll be in touch.' I'm out the door so fast I collide with –

'Dead man walking, is it?'

I'm lifted off my feet, and pedalling air. Straight into the nearest alley.