The Ballade of Nixon Tyme Chapter Four

I

Back in 1976, sixteen year old Nixon Tyme had never been to the 100 Club before. He'd never been anywhere much yet, except for a couple of backstreet boozers around his West Norwood manor. On a busy night, it was just possible to pass for eighteen, but the risk of rejection meant that the West End was until now, off limits.

Tonight was different. It was nearing the end of Gil Riot's stay in the UK, and Nixon wanted to impress. A week before, Gil was unknown to Nixon. Happily, his new French exchange student hadn't turned out to be a bore. Far from it. In fact, it was remarkable how much they had in common. Almost exactly the same age, Gil shared Nixon's passion for English guitar rock.

His knowledge of all things Bowie and Bolan, had impressed Nixon, and by the time his visit was nearing its end, he wanted to leave Gil with a lasting impression of the London music scene, and proof of his own credentials in return. Nixon was particularly intrigued by an article he had recently read in the music press featuring unknown London band, The Belleville Riders.

About to become the vanguard of the British music scene, the interview was unusual, as no band members spoke. Their manager explained that all they needed to say would be espoused by their songs, the like of which, no one will have ever heard before.

The photo spread clinched it, these boys were different. A touch glam, but harder. Front man, Marrat, riding crop in hand, had a black eyed stare that told Nixon he wasn't messing around. According to the blurb, there was to be a special one off album release show..... tonight. Nixon was sure Gil would have no idea about this. The clincher of course, was that Steevo, a friend of his elder brother, had a new job. Door security at the 100 Club

II

Peter opened the vodka, and stared at the phone. He dialled her number....still nothing, just a recorded message. He dialled again, this time, just to hear her voice. The singular accent, tongue on teeth and lips. He could visualise her mouth and nose breathing out the simple, one line message. He had never noticed such detail until now.

The police had earlier, gently raised the idea of foul play, but Peter didn't believe that for a minute. He couldn't imagine a thirty five year old woman, least of all Lucia, being forcibly dragged off the street, especially in this town. He was born in this town. It just didn't happen here. Even he wouldn't do that. Accidents had been ruled out. The police had checked with the local hospital. Nothing. He had no idea where she'd gone, but was certain she'd decided.

During the next few hours, he raked over the facts, the few to hand, and tried to piece together what may have happened. He called her friends. There weren't many, and besides, she'd taken no belongings with her, signalling somehow, that this was a decisive break. He found her work bag, and rummaged through the paperwork. Documents to be worked on at home, were still there. Tomorrow, Monday, would confirm it, but he didn't imagine she'd be showing up for work. 

This meant either a lover or an accomplice. Someone prepared to provide a new start. His anger began to rise as he considered this. He would kill him, whoever this twat was, he'd definitely kill him. He drank some more, and regarded the Browning in its case on the wall. He thought briefly of going out for a prowl, but then remembered the police. They already knew him in this town, and with his actions earlier, they'd have an eye out for him now. No, that wouldn't do, that wouldn't do at all.  He considered the lover scenario again. She hardly went out, and Peter always knew where, or at least he thought he did. Then, there was their sex life. When was the last time? God..... he couldn't actually remember. It made sense now, as his mind honed in on the idea of a lover. 

III

100 Club, Oxford Street, London

Friday, April 30th, 1976

The last Friday in April of 1976 was a pleasant, warm day. Nothing remarkable occurred in the news and nobody famous was born, but at the old Feldman Swing Club, at one hundred Oxford Street, the birth of what was to become Punk Rock, was about to happen.

These days, the now legendary jazz club, after being renamed The 100 Club, had started to diversify its offerings. Back in the day, numerous jazz greats had played there, including several of Philomena's favourites. It was for this reason that Tanner, inspired by his mother's nostalgic tales of her bohemian youth, thought it a good idea to launch his new band at The Hundred.

The club had a capacity of about two fifty. A central location, it was also underground. This meant low ceilings, no windows, and a dense, incendiary atmosphere. It ticked all the boxes for Tanner. From bananas to bands was a big step, but to him it wasn't so different. He'd learnt from his days on the market stalls that no matter what you sold, one had to shout above everybody else, and crucially, offer goods of a unique quality, or at least, what was perceived to be.

Gil and Nixon took the number two, at six sixteen from Norwood library, arriving at Portman Street just after seven. The show was billed to commence at nine, and by the time they'd met up with Steevo, opening the main door, it was seven fifteen.

The interior of club was oblong in shape. Around twenty metres from front to rear, and a dozen or so in width, including the stage. The walls were painted in a blood orange red, and at the rear of the stage were broad, block characters, each six feet high, and pint glass deep. In an Impact font, they spelt out the name of the club. It made almost any photo of the stage instantly recognisable. To the far end beyond, a few cheap, orange plastic chairs, lined the walls. The other main distinctive feature was the large, square pillars, running down the central length of the room. It was true, they restricted vision in certain positions, but at the same time, gave a spatial and atmospheric separation between the three main areas of, what could be thought of as, the bar, stage and lounge.

Steevo, having managed to usher in Nixon and Gil before the entry kiosk had opened, instructed them to go and sit at the far end, specifically, in the only blind spot from the bar.

“Don't budge from 'ere till we're full 'o punters awlright ? Stay at this end, yeah, and hang around by the pillars if you wanna get nearer the stage when the band's on, okay ?”

“Cheers Steve”

“...and don't go anywhere near the bar, not even for a piss, or you'll 'ave me fired...Got it ?”

With that he went away, and returned a few moments later, with two bottles of brown ale.

“That's your lot, right ? Keep yer snouts clean, clear off early, and we'll all be mint, yeah ?”

Steevo walked away, not to be seen for the rest of the night. The next hour and a half passed quickly. Bodies started to fill the room. Music sprang to life over the sound system. T.Rex and 20th Century Boy, Bowie, sexing up I Can't Explain, and the thunderous drums of John Bonham and Levee Breaks...on and on.

Gil felt a rush of excitement, he had no idea what to expect. France wasn't like this. Neither was West Norwood, and so for Nixon the effect was also electric. His first proper gig, he'd heard word of this world from the tales of his peers, but in the flesh, it was even more vibrant than he'd expected. For him, it was the details rather than the big picture. Even the smell of the room rendered something different. Leather, sweat, beer, smoke, reminiscent of the woods perhaps ?primal.... The floor, slightly sticky, the air, dense and throbbing with sound.

The crowd, not so much older than himself, yet years off. It reminded him of his first day at secondary school. They looked like adults to him, in a world cleverer, altogether sharper, and much farther off. The look of the crowd absorbed him. Everything heavier, stronger, shinier. PVC, leather and chrome. It was probably three to one, boys to girls, but even the girls had a harder edge. Not unpleasant, but slightly intimidating all the same. Fishnets, stilettos, heavy make up.....sex. Then there were Doc Martens, spiky hair, green hair, peroxide hair, shorn heads, not much long hair. In fact, Nixon glanced at Gil in his denim jacket and jeans, and shoulder length locks. He looked almost the same himself, but it was they who were different now.

Approaching nine pm, the place was packed. The temperature had risen considerably, and Nixon noticed small beads of condensation forming on the ceiling. Gil, keen to get a clearer view, suggested that it might be an idea if they moved to the the pillar, nearest the left side of the stage, and furthest from the bar. It was then that Nixon spotted, a few feet away, against the rear wall, a wide trestle table, holding several cardboard boxes. A hand written sign, hanging off the front, pronounced...

“THE REAL DEAL BELLEVILLE RIDERS LP £3.50”

Scrawled underneath, in market trader scrawl, was the enticing legend “Get it while you can”