Black by Design Page 17
I think that Charley secretly wanted Mr Ross to oversee all future Selecter projects, because Errol began dispensing advice to us about how to behave, how to be professional, how to make it big in the music industry. Anybody would have thought that he was Berry Gordy. All this would have been helpful if he had led by example, but somebody who bills the record company (and indirectly the band!) for the use of his shoe leather because he had to walk a few hundred yards from Bond Street tube station to Chrysalis Records in Stratford Place for a few A&R meetings, is, in my humble opinion, a first-class wanker.
I recently googled Errol Ross. I was surprised to discover that there are two producers named Errol Ross. The first produced one of my favourite albums, Blackheart Man by Bunny Wailer, the second (our Errol Ross) tells people that his ‘superpower’ is being: ‘A people’s person with good communication and teaching skills’! He currently runs a karaoke bar in Spain.
If only we had engaged the services of the former.
Nonetheless, even Errol Ross couldn’t completely ruin the Too Much Pressure album. The excellence of the original songs could not be marred by badly recorded sounds or a lack of creative ideas. Fortunately for us, Neol and Desmond had plenty of creative ideas. I even penned a song while in the studio, ‘Black & Blue’, which summed up my state of mind at the time.
Feeling so angry, minutes tick by
Stuck in one room, living a lie…
So Black & Blue, Life knocks you about,
Black & Blue.
I was honoured when Rico Rodriguez, one of the original Skatalites, provided a beautiful bluesy trombone solo in my song that captured the melancholic quality of this personal lament.
Charley adapted the Millie Small hit ‘My Boy Lollipop’ into a paean for ganja weed. It was renamed ‘My Sweet Collie (Not a Dog)’. I was surprised that Charley hadn’t written any original songs. Desmond had written ‘Danger’, which dealt with the violence on the streets in the late ’70s.
To be fair to Errol, Elvis Costello didn’t do a particularly good job on the Specials’ first album either. It was as if neither producer, the white or the black one, knew how to handle this curious hybrid, the 2-Tone sound. Perhaps each band would have been better off employing a mixed-race producer!
There was still another hurdle – an even higher one – for the band to get over: how to split the publishing monies between us, before signing a publishing contract? Nothing divides people more than money, or a perceived lack of it if it looks as though somebody else is getting more. None of us had any real money; nobody had savings or the like. But suddenly we had to think about signing a contract which would be binding for the next three years. Such an undertaking was bound to cause friction between us. Resentments built up about how the money would be apportioned, which did not help the creative process. Things began to fall apart.
Neol’s songs had been years in production and were fully formed beasts when they were brought to the rehearsal room. Obviously we all added our stuff and the songs were significantly improved, especially ‘On My Radio’ and ‘Missing Words’, but when it became apparent that Charley thought the publishing money for all the original songs should be split seven ways, our interpersonal relationships began to unravel. Neol thought he deserved the lion’s share for his songs, particularly as so far he had written all the hits; others thought differently.
Being a songwriter myself on the first album, with two of my tracks reaching the final cut, I wanted to be in agreement with Neol. Also, I thought it provided an incentive to develop us all as songwriters if the songs were individually rewarded. Naively I thought that a bit of competition in songwriting could only produce better material. But I put these considerations on a back burner. I felt obliged to back the black fraternity. Neol magnanimously acquiesced to our demands. Charley got his way. Did we make the correct decision? I don’t know. I was told that bands who split monies equally between themselves generally stay together longer.
That should have been the end of the discord, but unfortunately the pot of resentments had been heated to boiling point. Even though it had cooled somewhat, it still simmered. Collectively, we may well have been a ‘melting pot’, but the black/white divide had asserted itself. It was as if Neol was perceived as ‘the greedy white man’, while the rest of us played ‘needy black folks’. And some were more needy than others.
Our first professional photo-shoot nailed our style. The pictures captured us at our best. They made us look threatening and surly, but with that all-important cool factor. We looked like no other band on the scene. We were the business. On photographic paper we were the embodiment of the 2-Tone ideal: blacks, whites, men and women, working class with a social conscience. None of us had a dad hidden away somewhere in a country parish, or harboured colonialist, upper-middle-class origins. Too many musos masqueraded as men of the people, when nothing could be further from the truth. Unlike some of our contemporaries, we were the real deal.
Despite that, unfortunately, the shallow foundation we had built our unity upon was beginning to crack. The career we had built so quickly, initially held together by the mortar of expedient camaraderie, was being eaten away with the constant acid rain of mistrust, mismanagement, misbehaviour, misogyny, malevolence and the occasional misadventure.
Desmond’s personality became increasingly unpredictable. When we supported Rockpile, Ian Dury and the Blockheads and Elvis Costello at the NEC Arena in Birmingham, Desmond was so incensed with Charley’s bass playing halfway through our set that he deliberately pushed over his Hammond organ at the sound of the rhythm section. The music was brought to an abrupt halt while our trusted roadies righted the keyboard and the rest of us tried to calm Desmond down in full view of the audience.
None of us knew how to handle Desmond any more. Lynval Golding tried talking some sense into him if he happened to be in town, which was rare in those days, because the Specials were now the next big thing and had little free time. Besides they were struggling with their own internal divisions. I don’t think that these tête-à-têtes had any significant effect on Desmond. Once I was told about a ganja-smoking duel that Desmond had with Silverton Hutchinson, the former Specials drummer. It lasted for three days and nights. Eventually Desmond was in such a state that he had to be helped home. It was suggested that Desmond’s mind, fragile at the best of times, was never the same after that.
But I had a bigger problem on my mind than Desmond’s mental state. The Swedish photographer who had taken a shine to me in Stockholm had made it his business to fetch up at a few other shows during the European tour and then came to London for further photographic opportunities. An attraction to each other had begun a sporadic sexual relationship which, on my part, was used mainly to alleviate the boredom of hotel rooms. There had also been a regrettable one-night stand with one of the musicians on the 2-Tone tour. The upshot of these sexual misadventures was the unfortunate discovery that I was pregnant.
I was not married at this juncture, but I’d been with Terry for seven years. Needless to say he took quite a dim view of my condition after I confessed that, including him, there were three potential fathers. My only explanation was that loneliness often led to poor decisions, but it fell on deaf ears because he had also been lonely while I was away, but hadn’t chosen to sleep with others. I could see his point, but I probably didn’t realize how deeply my actions had hurt him. Contraceptive pill taking and touring don’t mix – at least not in those days. I don’t actually remember forgetting to take the pill, but I must have done.
An abortion was the only sensible option. He/she would be thirty years old now, a sobering thought. But I do not regret my decision. I have never been mother material. In fact, I do not have a maternal bone in my body. Besides, with the album recorded, the artwork finalized, the next single chosen, TV appearances, a short European tour and a forthcoming headline UK tour, a baby was out of the question. Any feelings I had about the subject were buried. Terry and I never spoke about it again.
In many ways it made sense to give women the opportunity to showcase their music. The punk movement had pushed many very good female musicians to the fore – the Slits, Poly Styrene of X-Ray Spex, Siouxsie Sioux and Chrissie Hynde, to name but a few. I felt part of this continuing post-feminist movement and Juliet and I agreed that it made sense to highlight this in our choice of tour support.
The Bodysnatchers had first come to my attention when they had supported us at a gig. I loved the sheer chutzpah of their lead singer, the gorgeous, tall and tanned Rhoda Dakar, who sang with a charmingly idiosyncratic, richly nuanced voice, perfectly suited to their somewhat shambolic rocksteady sound. Her style was Mod-inspired but nonetheless highly individual. Her hair was a glorious Mr Whippy, gravity-defying beehive. She was completely at odds with, but a perfect foil for, my rude-boy image. The Selecter suggested that they were signed to the 2-Tone label, which didn’t meet with universal approval within the 2-Tone camp. Some voiced concern about the band’s relative inexperience. They had only done their first gig in November 1979. By their own admission, they were not competent musicians and they were about to jump under the media spotlight, which by this time was waiting patiently for the label’s first failure. Ironically, Roger Lomas was drafted in to produce their first single, the Dandy Livingstone song, ‘Let’s Do Rocksteady’, backed with an original composition, ‘Ruder Than You’.
Holly Beth Vincent, the main squeeze of Mark Knopfler in those days, and I had first met when The Selecter and her band, the Italians, were invited on to the bill to play with Blondie at the Hammersmith Odeon on 22 January 1980. It was a big opportunity for both of us. ‘Three Minute Hero’ was about to be released the following week and Holly was picking up a lot of radio airplay with ‘Tell That Girl To Shut Up’. Ms Harry even invited Holly and me to her dressing room for a photo shoot to mark the occasion. She was a very gracious lady while the necessary photos were taken and on stage a superlative performer. This was one of the best nights I can remember on stage with The Selecter.
Debbie Harry, me and Holly Beth Vincent, 1980
Holly and the Italians proved to be a great opening band on that night too. After seeing their performance, The Selecter decided to invite them on the Too Much Pressure tour because we hoped that they would provide a different sound palette, a welcome respite from the relentless ska off-beat, for the audience. Holly was a pertly pretty Chicago-born singer-songwriter who wielded a deft guitar lick and played music with a punk/pop edge. She looked as though she could more than hold her own on any stage.
On paper the three bands looked like a perfect combination: all fronted by strong women, all with individual styles. It was a done deal. The Selecter busied itself with a first appearance on BBC’s Old Grey Whistle Test, a showcase gig at Le Palace in Paris and Top of the Pops in the interim, then joining up with our two chosen supports for an all-day rehearsal at the Roxy in Harlesden. Before we knew it we were playing in front of 1,500 people every night on a 30-date UK tour.
Immediately we realized that we had made a mistake in electing to have Holly and the Italians as second on the bill after the Bodysnatchers. The fact that their music had absolutely nothing to do with ska or reggae – something we saw as a plus – was not enough to stop the diehard, unreconstructed male 2-Tone fan from spitting, bottling and heckling them off the stage every night. Understandably Holly got upset and although they struggled on for a while, their reception got so bad that they were forced to leave the tour.
Too Much Pressure was released on the 2-Tone label on 15 February 1979. We were playing much the same venues as on the 2-Tone tour and packing them out just as successfully with us as headliners. The buzz surrounding the tour sent the album to No. 4 in the charts the following week. Even though it was well reviewed, many of us in the band knew that production-wise it could have been so much better. Unfortunately, our second single release, ‘Three Minute Hero’, despite the success of the album, didn’t do as well as expected, rising only to No. 16 in the charts. We did Top of the Pops again, but our energetic performance wasn’t enough to push the single any further up the charts. In my opinion, it was not as good a song as ‘On My Radio’ and was badly recorded. The title was catchy enough, but the melody and production could have been better and the saxophone solo sounds like a kazoo! Only Errol Ross knows how he managed to do that! By then, many of us were sick to death of Mr Ross. He was persona non grata at the 2-Tone label’s parent company, Chrysalis.
Even the Bodysnatchers’ first single, produced by Roger Lomas, had made the Top 20 and they had only been playing for three months. Some of the male members of the band consoled themselves with playing ‘musical beds’ with a few of the Bodysnatchers while on tour, but even that delightful pastime couldn’t reduce the malaise that had set in among us. The record company A&R wanted answers and decided to bring Roger back into the fray. Needless to say, Charley took this badly, although Neol and I were very pleased. He was given the task of re-mixing ‘Missing Words’ for the third single while we continued touring.
Out on the road, Juliet proved relatively useless at controlling our increasingly bizarre behaviour. She was out of her depth when our arguments really kicked off in the dressing rooms after gigs. To make matters worse, she committed the cardinal sin of forming a romantic relationship with our tour manager. That was a definite ‘no-no’ and undermined her authority.
After Holly and the Italians left the tour, we drafted in another 2-Tone-inspired act, Coventry band the Swinging Cats, to take up the slack. They had formed at the end of 1979, so they had something in common with the Bodysnatchers. It was also an opportunity to give Coventry musicians a leg-up onto a bigger stage. On the strength of this tour, they later signed to 2-Tone and released a single, ‘Mantovani/Away’ (CHS TT14), which sank without trace despite the first 20,000 copies being sold at the giveaway price of 50 pence. To be fair, it was an imaginative piece of music, but by then the backlash had begun. Perhaps we should have been more business-minded with our choice of support and not quite so charitable but, in our defence, it seemed the right thing to do. The Specials had helped us so it was only right that we did the same thing.
Prior to the tour, Juliet had pointed out that the Bodysnatchers didn’t have any flight cases for their backline. So The Selecter decided to pay, no expense spared. What major band would do that for their support act these days? None, but we did. So when some people accuse The Selecter of leaving the 2-Tone label to sign with Chrysalis, implying that money was all that motivated us, then I see red, because nothing could be further from the truth. We spent our hard-earned money on giving both these bands the opportunities that we enjoyed. Misguided maybe, but we thought we were living up to the ideals of 2-Tone.
The quirkiness of the Swinging Cats proved a hit with audiences, so the relentless hail of bottles and gob that had greeted Holly and the Italians most nights ceased. The Bodysnatchers were content to be shoved up the bill to second place, and everybody was happy for a while.
Then one morning in March, the strain of touring became too much for Desmond. We were late as usual – par for the course, I know, but bloody infuriating. Why is it when people join bands, they consider that they can act like children who don’t want to go to school? It’s a job. Get used to it. Gigs and records don’t get done unless you put a bit of bloody effort into it!
I was sitting on the front seat of the bus. The two support bands were already on board. We had been waiting for stragglers for the past three-quarters of an hour. At last, Desmond, Charley and Aitch lurched out of the hotel, oblivious to how long they had kept us waiting. Apparently, Desmond took exception to the ‘look�
�� on my face as he came up the stairwell of the bus. All I remember is that he stared at me aggressively for some moments before shouting: ‘Wha’ppen? You t’ink you’re the Queen?’
Then he flung himself at me, pushed me down on the seat, put his hands around my neck and began throttling me. Six people had to drag him off. The Bodysnatchers and the Swinging Cats were so traumatised by this and the frosty fall-out that later on they refused to ride on the bus with us. I wish I had left the band then and there. I didn’t dare tell Terry what had happened. When I look back on the incident, it was obvious even then that there was something decidedly wrong with Desmond but, because of the unpredictability of his moods and violence and his propensity to drink a bottle of whisky a day before the show, nobody ever wanted to displease him.
There was a double standard in the band. Certain members paid lip service to the 2-Tone ethos that espoused non-sexism, but couldn’t live up to that ideal in the real world. For example, The Selecter played a homecoming show at Coventry Tiffany’s. Naturally, the wives and girlfriends of the band members wanted to come along. We had been on tour for months and this, at last, was their chance to see their conquering heroes on stage in front of their friends and neighbours. However, some members had got used to the nightly attentions of female fans. They didn’t want their partners to cramp their style, so these unfortunate ladies had been told not to attend.
However, what the guys hadn’t reckoned on was the ingenuity of cuckolded wives and girlfriends. Collectively these ladies came round to my house on the evening of the gig and asked me to put them on the guest list. What was I supposed to do, say no? Terry, realizing my dilemma, kindly offered to escort them to the show. Suffice to say, they had a wonderful time, even though I was a pariah in my own band for quite a while after that particular stunt. But secretly I harboured a feeling of triumph against such rampant misogyny. What’s good for the goose is also good for the gander. Oh, bondage, up yours!