Memory Songs by James Cook

Author:James Cook [Cook, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781783525232
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2018-01-17T16:00:00+00:00

One thing the Clash had projected was the notion of an all-or-nothing struggle. ‘Death or Glory’, as the London Calling song has it. Perfect for idealistic, zealous young men, eager for their own moments of glory. Having made the difficult move to London, the pressure was now on to make it. With the added stress that there was nothing, certainly no degree, to fall back on. Moreover, my parents had moved to different parts of the country, my mother back to Yorkshire, my father to Kent. There would be no ‘going home to Mum and Dad’, although I knew that their doors would always be open.

Since landing in the Smoke, a permanent base to rehearse and record had been urgently required. Studio time was expensive, as we’d discovered when we recorded a demo at Redshop Studios, near Highbury and Islington. We had booked time there solely because it was where Mike Scott had made the first Waterboys album: there was a framed record sleeve, even the piano on which he’d played ‘A Girl Called Johnny’. Eventually, my brother found a place under the railway arches at Camden Road station, Bonny Street Studios: a no-frills joint with maimed blue carpets and ancient amps, woodwormed with cigarette burns. A shabby rehearsal room was situated upstairs, but downstairs was a clean, compact eight-track recording space. It was this we had our eyes on.

Bonny Street was run by a gentle older guy named Pete. He seemed ancient to us, but was probably only around forty. Soft-spoken Pete was the archetypal ageing ex-hippy guitarist, hair already whitening, flannel shirt, jeans, and sandals in the summer. A north Londoner, he’d seen the Beatles at the Rainbow, and Zeppelin at the Fishmongers Hall in Wood Green, December 1968. In 1975 he’d had a chance to audition for the Clash, but at the last moment had opted to see Bob Marley at the Lyceum instead. It was a great war story: the thought of Pete in the Clash when he was such a lovely, calm bloke was unimaginable. Indeed, for a veteran rocker, Pete who neither drank nor smoked, seemed to have only two vices: supermarket ready meals, and the odd biscuit or two, which he kept in tins or Tupperware secreted around the studio’s office.

From now on we would run up rehearsal and recording bills, then pay them off by ‘looking after’ – taking bookings and payments from the bands. Soon, my brother was working as a part-time employee, a trusted key holder, opening up in the morning, locking up at night. Two other fellows were already doing this, Scratchy, a rarely seen silver fox in a battered leather jacket (a modest chap, too, it transpired. It was years until I discovered he was Barry ‘Scratchy’ Myers, the Clash’s on-tour DJ. So that was why there was a huge Clash flight case at the studio.) The other was Chris Sheehan, a young New Zealander. Unutterably cool, guitar-cable-thin, sleepy red eyes, an almost catatonic presence, Chris was the first heroin user I’d met.

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