The last Friday in April of 1976, was a pleasant, warm day. Nothing remarkable had 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 having been firstly renamed The London Jazz Club, before finally settling on The 100 Club, had started to diversify its offerings. Back in the day, many jazz greats had played there, including two of Philomena's favourites, Art Pepper and Benny Goodman. It was for this reason that Tanner, inspired by his mother's tales of the bohemian London night life of her youth, thought that it might be a good idea to launch his new band on the world, at The Hundred.
The club had a capacity of around three hundred, so was relatively small, and easy to fill. A central location, it was also underground. This meant low ceilings, and no windows, so a dense, incendiary atmosphere would be easier to achieve. It ticked all the boxes for Tanner. From bananas to bands, was a big step, but in his mind, it wasn't so different. He'd learnt well from his days on the market stalls, that, no matter what you were selling, one had to shout above everybody else, and crucially, offer something of unique quality, or at least, what was felt 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, who was just 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 kind of blood orange red, and at the rear of the stage, were large, block characters, each two metres 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 area instantly recognisable as to where it was taken. To the far end, beyond the stage, the room widened out and provided a more intimate, in the shadows, kind of area. A few cheap, orange moulded plastic, school type chairs, lined the walls. The other main distinctive features were the two large, square, mirrored pillars, running down the central length of the room. It was true, they restricted vision in certain positions, but at the same time, gave some kind of spatial and atmospheric separation between the three main areas of, what could be thought of as, the bar, stage and lounge.
Gil felt a rush of excitement, it was all he'd hoped for, even though, in all honesty, he probably didn't really know what to expect . France wasn't like this. Neither, really, was West Norwood, so for Nixon, the effect was also electric. His first proper gig, he knew something of this world from the tales of his peers, but at first hand, it was even more vibrant than he'd expected. For him, it was more the details than the big picture. Even the smell of the room seemed new. Leather, sweat, beer....smoke, something of the woods? primal, even. 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, and seeing the fifth year boys, that were his age now. They seemed like adults to him, in a world, cleverer, altogether sharper, and much further off. The look of the crowd absorbed him. Everything heavier, stronger and 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 nearly shoulder length hair. 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. Nobody had even seen them, and Gil, keen to get a good view, suggested that it might be a good idea if they moved to side of the pillar, near the left side of the stage, and furthest from the bar.
Gil and Nixon were about to undergo a life changing moment. For good or for bad, the pair, during the next couple of hours, would become indelibly marked by this evening's events, and, just over twenty five years later, one could say that the effects were still present, in the way that they had both chosen to live their lives.
At around ten past nine, Iggy and the Stooges' Gimme Danger faded away, and the distinctive, pulsing, intro to Faith Healer cut in. Nixon was sure the volume had gone up. The menacing, hypnotic rhythm had stirred something in the crowd, as faces craned towards the stage. A sudden movement of bodies, over on the far side, caught their attention. For Nixon, it reminded him of a boxer's entrance towards the ring. What seemed like two or three, heavily built roadies, were carving a space through the crowd, followed by what he assumed to be, the band.
Three bodies mounted the stage, and moved towards their stations. Being on the left side, Gil and Nixon caught site of guitarist, Damon England first. Dressed in a baggy white vest, and black, leather waistcoat, he moved towards his amplifier, and reached behind for his guitar. Almost immediately he'd slung the instrument over his shoulder, played one chord, barely audible, and let it ring for a couple of seconds. Without moving his left hand holding the chord, his right hand reached down towards the single volume knob on his battered, mustard yellow, Les Paul Junior. Suddenly the sound was enormous.
Perfectly in time with the record still playing, Damon cut in with the jagged chords, that made this Alex Harvey track such a great intro....dank a danka daaaah........ brilliant. Another eight bars followed, then the bass and drums simultaneously came to life. Clifford Cooke and Michel Black, face to face, Michel, back to audience, neither looking at their instruments, just at each other. Damon hadn't moved, oblivious of the other two. He stared, with a slight smile towards the crowd, pretty much in the direction of Gil and Nixon. Without looking directly at anyone, it had a Mona Lisa type effect on everybody in that particular area, feeling that they were the personal recipient of his attentions. It was a neat trick, and created a kind of intimacy that made a connection with the band even stronger. They were not just spectators, they were in on it.
Gil suddenly felt a bump against his shoulder, which pushed him against the pillar to his right side. A small figure darted past him, and up onto the stage, just three feet in front. It was Marrat. A white collarless shirt, some kind of frill down the front, half open and cuffs trailing. Shiny black monkey boots, tight leather jeans and a wide leather belt, sporting an enormous chrome buckle. He made straight for centre stage, and ripped the microphone from its single pole stand. In his right hand, he carried a small, foot long riding crop. His left hand, carrying the mike, was bent over severely at the wrist. A shiny black, tight fitting glove gave it the look of a dummy hand, but also drew attention towards his snarling face.“Let me put my hands on yoooou.....Let me put my hands on yoooou....!”
Then they were away...the mid tempo menace of Faith Healer had been used to maximum effect as a fantastic call to arms for the converted. It had lasted, probably not much more than a minute, gradually usurping the groove of the original record, to the point where, once Marrat had uttered his opening refrain, the record had completely disappeared, replaced by a even louder wall of sound from the band alone. With a split second pause, and a one word “Alors!” the tempo ramped up into the first proper Riders song, Aux Armes, a French title, but sung in English, except for the elongated chorus line of the title.
If one were to draw a caricature of a Frenchman, then Marrat was it. Small, probably no more than five four, slim, and a slightly dark complexion. A seven o'clock shadow adorned his chiselled jawline and thin, almost cruel lips. A long, hooked nose, topped by two narrow set black eyes, and capped with unkempt, shiny black hair. It was hard to discern his age. He could, in certain lights, have passed easily for thirty five, despite being fifteen years younger, but on closer examination, the smooth skin surrounding his eyes and brow, bore out that this was a younger man. If anyone was in any further doubt, his relentless energy proved the point.
For the entire show, he never seemed to stop moving. His gaze never left the audience, prowling continually from side to side. With no gaps between songs, and everything at break neck speed, Nixon never saw him once look towards his band mates. The choreography (for it surely was) of their opening gambit, had worked fabulously. There had been no shuffling around, switching on amps, tuning, or count ins. Marrat's delayed entrance, from the opposite side of the stage, had taken everyone by surprise.For Nixon and Gil, who of course, hadn't even heard the band before, and didn't really know what to expect, the effect was hypnotising. The rest of the crowd were well versed indeed. For a band that had hardly been on the scene for five minutes, and until this moment, still didn't have a record out, it was surprising to see, that everybody seemed to know the songs. Chorus lines were sung along with, and the crowd heaved as one to Marrat's many gesticulations. The riding crop, never still, pointed, prodded, and sometimes whipped for real, whenever someone got too near.
From pretty much the first song in, the whole room was sweating. Nixon noticed that even Damon and Michel, who hardly moved at all, were drenched. Damon had a small bandanna around his forehead, presumably to keep the sweat out of his eyes. Michel, on the far side, together with winkle picker boots and black jeans, had on, an over large heavy leather jacket, and the sweat poured out of him. Even from the opposite end of the stage it was clear to see the drips of perspiration on the end of his nose and chin. None of the band took a drink, either. At one point, during a slight instrumental break (The Riders didn't really do solos) Marrat reached back to the side of an amp, and lifted a large bottle of beer. Crop under arm, about to lift the bottle to his lips, he suddenly shook it, and sprayed the front rows instead. The crowd went wild, and he then skimmed the half empty bottle just above the heads, to shatter into the back wall.Histrionics... A wax bottle? Nobody knew, but it had the desired effect.
As the crowd bayed for more, Marrat grabbed the mike stand and headed towards the right side, directly in front of Gil and Nixon. As he plucked the mike from its clip, he momentarily lost control, and probably due to his beer soaked glove, it fell from his grasp, and tumbled off the edge of the stage, and onto the floor. Gil, who had by now, imperceptibly found himself directly in front, saw the mike, and quickly handed it back to the gloved hand. He turned to say something to Nixon, who despite being just behind him, couldn't hear a thing that he'd said. It was the only slight glitch in a mesmerising performance. They must have played around twenty songs, in a little over an hour.
As the last one, Beauty in the Streets, ground to an end in a chaos of feedback guitar and thunderous bass, Marrat had already left the stage by the same way he'd entered, but this time, heading straight out of the rear entrance, guarded by non other than Tanner Francis himself. The others, having left their instruments, still wailing on the stage floor, were spirited away through the crowd by some helpers, towards the dressing room opposite. Eventually, somebody came up on stage and killed the amps, as Lou Reed and the Velvets sprang out of the sound system with the metronomic White Light, White Heat.
Back up on the street outside, the cool, evening air felt good. Their clothes, damp with sweat, soon turned cold. It was just after ten thirty. Nixon and Gil meandered their way up Oxford Street. As the muffled thump of the sounds emanating from the club below grew faint, the ringing in their ears took over. Nixon paused at the roadside, still slightly stunned from the experience of the gig. He was trying to figure out where they could get a bus back home.
Suddenly an enormous screech of brakes woke Nixon to the fact that Gil had stepped out, directly in front of a black London cab. In a split second, Nixon had grabbed Gil's collar, and managed to swing him away from danger. In doing so, his own inertia swung him backwards, and into the rear end of the swerving cab. He felt a sharp pain in his right arm as he collided, during his fall, directly with the curved edge of the chrome - steel, rear bumper.Gil was on his hands and knees, on the pavement. Shaken, but unhurt, he turned to see Nixon lying in the gutter.The cab had swerved to a stop in the centre of the road, and the driver came running over.......
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