A New Years Tale (1)
A New Years Tale By Iain Young ©Snorsh Ink 2008 New Years Eve 1985 I have occasionally recalled some of the events of this particular New Years Eve to a few of my friends and, sometimes if the mood was with me, complete strangers. A great buddy of mine said I should write it down and tell the whole sordid story in one go. I don’t mind trying to do that but, as for reasons that will become excruciatingly clear further on in this narrative, it was an evening that took my very old and dear friend Tim, a couple of weeks to piece together. And we were there. Tim and I met when we were fifteen years old; we basically grew up side by side and knew each other inside out. So I am gong to use some artistic license with the dialogue because I know it would be a complete fabrication to say I can remember the individual conversations, but we spent so much time with each other I’m pretty damn close. Therefore I have resolved to tell the tale as best as I can remember. It was the last days of nineteen hundred and ninety eighty-five and Tim and I had come to be living in West Berlin by a series of excellent adventures and a liberal sprinkling of fate. We had learnt to play guitar together and that in turn built a very strong musical bond between the pair of us and we, even if I say so myself, had become pretty fucking good. It had always been a dream of ours that we would one day be rock stars and live the life that was surely intended for us. I should point out that when we met it nineteen hundred and seventy-five. In Great Britain these were dark days, a vicious undercurrent of social change was there behind the curtains, so close you could almost make out its shape. Tim and I were caught between the decline of our heroes, Dylan, Young, the Beatles and Stones and the rise of the antisepsis of this. We liked both but our heads were full of peace and love. Joy to the world, if you wish. We plain and simple wanted to be famous. Don’t think that just because we followed a pseudo ‘hippy’ ideal that we did not want a fast car, private jet, mansion and unlimited access to any form chemical that would stimulate our ever-expanding minds. We played in clubs in North London and despite the changing musical climate were well received. To our young minds we were on our way until I decided to go on a two week holiday to Frejus, in the south of France, with a couple of mutual friends. Tim couldn’t come with us, as he was finishing school. This two-week holiday ended up being close on two years as I got caught up in the romance of being a free spirited traveling musician. I busked my way all around Europe to finally finish up in West Berlin for the first time. Where, I got married, separated and realized that even though I may have imagined myself a ‘man’ of the world I was still a naïve boy of twenty who didn’t see that marrying an illegal alien ten years older than myself would result in a British passport for her and a world of hormonal devastation for me. I fled back to France where after much soul searching saw a vision of Tim and I once again trying to musically conquer the world. I hitchhiked back from Avignon non-stop and arrived at Tim’s front door, full of plans and enthusiasm. He open the door and instead of the look of glee and the phrase ‘I’ll go and get my guitar’ it was a visage of confusion and regret. “Iain, I’m going to Australia for a year, ……tomorrow!” With my dreams crushed and my future now empty of mansions and stardom, the best response I could come up with was, “Oh.” Ten Months passed and I turned twenty-one, I came into a small inheritance from my grandmother for getting to that age. I had made several small forays back to Europe in the intervening time, still unable to lose the traveling bug. Tim and I remained close friends writing letters, completely unintelligible to anyone else, (as my sister could attest), a least once a month. We had a way of communicating that was a mixture of Monty Python, Hunter Thompson and Charles Dickens. I figured from Tim’s letters he would be in the new world colonies for at least another three months, so using my sudden wealth I bought a stand by ticket to San Francisco. On the day that I was scheduled to leave, well if you have done me the honour of reading this far, you already may have guessed, I get a phone call from Tim. “I’ll be back in the UK next week!” “I’m going to America …….today!” “Oh.” Well, five months passed and after having a whale of a time in the States I returned home. I met up with Tim, who by now had enrolled in a teacher-training course, but neither of us was too disappointed. We had grown a little older, perhaps wiser would be pushing it, but still we held onto our teenage dream of rock stardom. Coincidentally, and with no collusion, we had also discovered a concept previously inconceivable to two modern day nomads. We were going to ‘Make A Plan’. Tim had three months left in his course. I tried, in vain, to persuade him that book learning wasn’t a prerequisite for rock music, but I agreed if he wanted to finish his ‘education’, that would give us time to ‘plan’. I took the first real job I had had since leaving school, and we both got a night job collecting empty glasses at the Kentish Town Forum. Our plan was to leave the day after his final exam, May 8th, (a brief digression, this was a wildly funny date for Tim and myself to be leaving for Germany. If you wish to find out why, look it up.), and arrive in West Berlin on August 16th, Tim’s birthday. With our ‘earnings’ from ‘working’ we had the money to buy a second hand 1978 British Leyland Sherpa van, which with no discussion at all, we promptly named, Gough. We outfitted it ourselves, and although quite cramped, we knew that we could co-exist in its confines without too many trivial disagreements. The day came and we were off to become rock and roll gods. What a time we had crossing Europe. Just about every day brought a new adventure of some kind. We were writing songs, and on more than one occasion a club owner would hear us busking on the street and offer us an evening at his club. It was in this time frame we discovered that it was perfectly acceptable to enter a bar or café, politely ask the owner if we could play three or four songs and pass the hat around. Soon, we were making a reasonable living. The only rent we had to pay was petrol. Eventually, and on the appointed day, we arrived in West Berlin. It took us surprisingly little time to become fairly established and we were riding a wave of creativity and good fortune. We had lucked into an apartment, eight or nine regular house gigs, and thirty or forty bars/cafes that would allow us to play for tips. There was café Dada; for which we spent three hours looking for until we asked a bartender where it was and he replied, you are in it. Indignantly we said this place is called Café Orfhause, he said “That’s Dada”. Café Voltaire, a place run by the followers of Bhagavad-Gita, they kept relentlessly trying to convert us, until I believe it became somewhat of a joke for all of us. (By the way, in the eighties there were 32,000 bars and cafes in West Berlin. No, it wasn’t fun at all.) So by December, we had our lives on track. We had even put together a five piece electric band that was starting to gain a modest crowd base. However, our main source of income, was Tim and myself. We called ourselves, “10 Miles from Barstow”. (To find the inspiration for this, read the first page of Dr Thompson’s novel, ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’.) Like I said, it was December. Tim and I, never ones to live within our means, needed a rather large influx of cash around the New Year. We had wanted to take the night off, but circumstances dictated otherwise. One of the bars we played in regularly, and actually was sponsoring the recording of our first record was a lovely place called, ‘The Flying Dutchman’. It was run by a lunatic ex-pat called Roland, it seemed his whole mission in life was to, a) get drunker than the last time he was drunk, and b) piss off his wife so much that she would leave him every two or three weeks. Unfortunately for Roland, it appeared his wife had much the same agenda. However, when they were not fighting, they really were splendid people to hang out with. We had hit it off with them the first time he hired us to play and we were no strangers to their dinner table. We decided to ask if we could play New Years there. Roland was most enthusiastic and offered us the diabolical sum of 600 Marks for five, forty minute sets starting at 4pm. This made our day. 600 marks was a lot of money for one show. Feeling good, we went out that night a played a few more places until we got to the Bar Wansee. This place was not somewhere we played a lot, even though Karl, the owner was also an investor in our quest for world musical domination. It could be described as a bar with character. A place full of colourful patrons. It, however, was not a place to take someone on a first date. Karl was a friend of another owner, saw us play and invited us to grace the small stage at his establishment. Karl was not really a person you could easily refuse. He had an air of menace about him and we felt it would be better to accept his proposition. For some reason, Karl took us under his wing and we felt fairly safe, exposed but safe. We asked permission to busk there that night; we played and made some money. Karl called us over to the bar as we were putting away our guitars and demanded we drink with him for a while. It was the normal passage of events here and one of the main reasons we always tried to play his bar as the last stop. We chatted for a bit and I remember Karl being a bit strange. It wasn’t until he finally asked us if we would play on New Years Eve that we realised he was nervous that we would say no, or have another show booked. Tim and I glanced at one another and before we could ask what time he had blurted out ‘600 marks 10 til 2.’ It would be tight but we could make it, so we said yes. It might be time now to describe Tim. Tim had a gift for accents, he is the finest mimic I have ever met. During our evolution on our journey we had become a double act. I was definitely the more abrasive personality, setting Tim up for a non-sensical discussion that we could follow thorough to its completely pointless conclusion. Baffled would be the most common expression of anyone who caught us in a playful mood. Tim had developed this accent and cadence halfway between an Oxford don, a 1920’s old Etonian world traveler and Graham Chapman. He stood at 6’ 4”, black longish hair, his feet always shod in brown Testoni dress shoes, blue flared Levis, any shirt with vertical stripes, (the more colour the better), a formal dinner jacket complete with Fred Astaire type tails, all this topped of with a deer stalker hat. This may sound a bit ridiculous, but somehow Tim pulled it off and left others wondering whether they were under dressed. He was always puffing on an Old Holborn roll-up; it always seemed perpetually in need of a light. This fragile cigarette was held in the fingers of the most enormous hands I have ever seen. One of Tim’s favourite exercises when we were in the grips of a psychedelic experience was to suddenly unfold his hand in front of my face. The thing would block out the sun. Unless your heart is in need of a restart, I would recommend that you take careful note of where Tim’s hands are at all times. We arrived at the Flying Dutchman deftly refusing any form of alcohol from Roland. Tim and I had made a pact with each other after a couple of gigs that could have gone a lot better if we hadn’t been drunk when we started. Staying on the stage, remembering the songs, in fact remembering how to play our instruments…. that kind of stuff. Now, drinking in the second set, that was fine, as long as we got a little bit hammered while we were playing it was ok, and there were usually no devastating stoppages in the show. The place began to fill up with early starters for the New Years festivities, but as West Berlin was licensed twenty-four hours, sometimes it was difficult to tell if a person was beginning or ending their evening at four pm. The Dutchman crowd was mainly comprised of British squaddies who weren’t looking for a fight. There were other bars for that. You tell which they were by how many MP jeeps were parked nearby. There were a few ex-pats, a smattering of Germans and very occasionally some American soldiers. The arrival of these guys, although peaceable, always created tension. We were right into the show from the get go. We felt good, the guitars felt like they were being played by one hand, the sound was great and it was one of those blessed occasions when I could stand to listen to my own voice. The crowd got into it almost straight away, yelling out requests and being patient to listen when we played one of our own compositions. It was the end of the third set when we realised the pub was packed. Jammed, in fact. I should clarify, they hadn’t all come to see us. A few perhaps, but most were here to have fun and listen to live music. Anyone’s live music. I should also mention that the Dutchman was a vodka bar. Two 4’ by 6’ freezers full of every type of Russian and Polish vodka you could imagine. Our favourite was Moskovskaya, and the bar staff knew it. Although we had a big stein on the front of the stage for people to tip us if they wanted, it was tradition to buy the boys in the band a shot. They would tell the barman, and a waiter would deliver it on a small wooden tray called a ‘strasse’. All we had doing for 6 months was to play music and drink, unsurprisingly our tolerance to alcohol had become rather fearsome. Not an admirable trait, but a trait all the same. Roland had insisted we smoke a joint with him, so at the beginning of the fourth set we feeling pretty good. It was really about then, Tim and I agreed much later, that things were starting to go a tiny bit sideways. We made our way back to the stage and began to play the penultimate set. Tim turned to me in-between songs at one point and said, “We best get a bit of a move on otherwise we’ll have no chance of dinner.” I agreed, not exactly comprehending what he was telling because I was in the grip of one swirling moments alcohol and weed produce and, coupled with the fact that out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a beer bottle begin a downward arc, I feel I was understandably distracted. The sound of the bottle shattering on a table full of beer glasses dampened the emotional ambience Tim had built up singing ‘Willin’. We paused ever so slightly and carried on. This was not unusual, small fights, heckling, all in a nights work. That is until the shouting started. Now there was a combination of nationalities and jobs that you really did not want to see in a West Berlin bar; these are ex pat English, British soldiers, American soldiers, non-native Berliners and native Berliners. It’s a volatile mix, people who want to be there, people who were told to be there and don’t want to be, people who don’t have to be there and don’t want anyone else who isn’t German to be there and finally people who have no choice but to be there and wish everyone else would just shut the fuck up and drink. “You muz played sumzing auf Deutsch!” Ah, it had begun. This was quite acceptable heckling and we had several glib responses, it was my turn to deal with it. “You name a famous German song and we’ll play it.” There was laughter from various parts of the crowd. However the other, smaller part of the throng, was not laughing. In fact, one could almost sense the unrest from the stage. We had a secret weapon to calm situations like this. Tim, being the great mimic he was, had learned the German version of ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’. The Beatles had in fact recorded several of their songs in German as Christmas singles for the Teutonic members of their fan club. This was our last ditch effort to restore calm and goodwill. We played it and the crowd went wild. Everyone was singing along, in German and English. The rest of the show blazed past, money in the jar, vodka on the strasse and music in the air. We were having a real good time, no fumbling for songs, everything just fell into place. We played right through our break and it was only when Tim broke a string he happened to look at his watch. “Iain, dear boy, we appear to be running a trifle late for our next engagement.” He told me the time and we both stood up and said our thank yous. It was at this point, upright I mean, that I realised how much I had had to drink. The ship, as it were, hit a trough and staggered to keep myself on the stage. “Fucking hell Timbo, I’m a little bit tipsy.” “Nonsense. If you were drunk, so would be I.” Tim proceeded to try and put his coat on inside out. He saw me looking at him, “Common mistake, happens all the time. I’ll drive.” While this little conversation was happening, the crowd were still whooping and Roland had made his way, very unsteadily from behind the bar. “Good god you fuckers, You’ve broken the record for most vodka drunk by a band.” He was grinning manically and holding up two empty bottles of Moskovskaya. “Oh dear God”, I heard Tim mutter. Now this tally of alcoholic abuse was not confined to the sweet grain, it also included an unknown quantity of Czechoslovakian Budweiser. Our beer of the moment. This was no candy assed US product, this bottled ale was 6.5% by volume. I determined that we were in a great deal of trouble. We had to get across town, and then play another show. It was not looking good. Perhaps if the bar was next door, or even over the road, we could play reasonably well. But too much time was going to elapse, the potent infusion would soon start to run amuck in our bloodstream. A brief digression: 1) This episode happened a long while ago. Now what transpired next is not cool, fun or right by any stretch of the imagination. But it happened. 2) I have noticed through the years that no matter how drunk or incapable one feels, your pal, who has been on the same journey as yourself, always looks infinitely more sober than you feel. This is how I ended up in the back of Gough, to change the broken string, and Tim was up front in control of, well basically, a big blue three-ton missile. It took us longer than it should of to load our small amount of equipment into the back of the van. The sidewalk had become extremely unstable and required immense concentration to navigate its undulations. The back of Gough was decked out like a small bed-sit. It had one rather tatty armchair and carpet on the floor. Once inserted into the chair, it was very difficult to get out whilst moving. Like I said, Tim appeared less drunk than myself and had declared himself fit to pilot the motor vehicle. I had no reason to doubt him, having no available reason on which to base an objection. Tim was rolling a cigarette, which if I had been more cognisant I would have realised how much difficulty he was having with it. When it was finally ready for ignition it looked like it had been punched, all concertina like with strands of errant tobacco hanging out of the end. I watched him light it, adjust his deerstalker and grasp the wheel with both hands. He paused for a moment, then fumbled in his pocket, found the keys and started the engine. I then decided to change the string and leave my fate in Tim’s hands. To coin a phrase, I was seeing round out of one eye and square out of the other, trying to feed a piece of steel .32mm in diameter into a hole just bigger than that, in the dark, was extremely problematic to say the least. I turned on the back interior light. Time yelped in surprise and I apologised. With more luck than judgment I finally succeeded and leant back in the chair. It was only then I looked over at Time for the first time since we left the Dutchman. He looked tense; the end of his cigarette glowed bright. We didn’t seem to be moving very fast, in fact I would say, we were moving gingerly. “Everything alright?” No answer came, so I asked a little louder. “Tim, everything alright?” He flinched and let out a little yelp. “Having a tiny navigation problem.” Just as the words had left his lips there was a thunderous KERR-TUNK. It sounded like the whole suspension had come adrift, Gough shook like we had been hit by a torpedo. I was so shocked my scream never made it out before a second KERR-TUNK. Gough shuddered once more, “What the fuck is happening?” I shouted desperately trying to free myself from the clutches of the chair to be able to see over the front seats.
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