Well, how handy was that, eh? It was almost as if it had somehow been planned. That this equipment had been stored away just waiting for its moment to come.
And its moment had come.
And its moment was now.
And so we began our rehearsals. Rehearsing what? Rehearsing Andy’s songs, of course. There were a dozen of them. Sufficient for a gig. Sufficient for an album. And although I, as were the other Sumerian Kynges, was prepared to hate Andy’s songs, it turned out that they really weren’t bad at all. You will, of course, know them all by now, most probably by heart, because each has become a Rock Anthem, covered by many bands, sung at many a karaoke night, considered modern classics.
I think my favourite (and probably yours also) would have to be ‘The Land of the Western God’.
And so I print the lyrics below, so that you can enjoy them once more.
The king sends me his linen to wash.
Whatever is right, is right whatever.
Life on life downstricken goes
To the Land of the Western God.
A wolf in his belly and a fire in the hearth,
Attacking the windmills as we go,
A word to the wise should be sufficient
In the Land of the Western God.
You never must shout till you’re out of the woods
For the lion doesn’t roar until he’s eaten
A brain of feathers and a heart of gold
In the Land of the Western God.
His face is his fortune, that’s understood,
Two faces hidden beneath one hood
As good as gold and as golden as good
In the Land of the Western God.
All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye -
They’d skin a flea for his hide and tallow.
An ounce of discretion’s worth a pound of wit
In the Land of the Western God.
There’s the Devil to pay,
Every dog has his day
And an old dog learns no tricks, they say.
And the dead men tell their tales today
In the Land of the Western God.
Here’s an eye for the past and one for the present.
The future is dark as a new-dug grave.
Will our children sing any songs tomorrow
In praise of the Western God?
So uplifting! Pure joy!
You don’t get quality lyrics like that any more. And the new Sumerian Kynges are, in my opinion, little more than a pale shadow of their original counterparts. But still right there at the top of the pops, you notice. So some of our class rubbed off on them, and class, as we know, never dates.
And so, without any further words needed, let us get it on, as they say. And for the first time ever, as no biographies of the band have ever been published (for I now knew how to employ a Cease and Desist Order), let me take you on a cosmic journey into the world of the twentieth century’s ultimate band. The raunchy rock ’n’ roll World that was The Sumerian Kynges.
Let’s Rock.
31
The Sumerian Kynges did plenty of rehearsing in Toby’s big rehearsal room, and when we had half an hour’s worth of material ready, we knew that we were ready. Now, I know what you are thinking: half an hour’s worth of material? That’s not very much. But these were the nineteen-sixties, so you do have to allow for the adding in of the guitar solos. Those long and inspired twiddly-widdly guitar solos that were so loved back then, and so missed now by folk who so loved them back then.
So we had ten three-minute songs rehearsed. But if you added in the obligatory twenty-minute guitar solo at the rate of one per song, well - you had a decent performance.
And when we were done with our rehearsals, we took to the road with The Flange Collective.
The Flange Collective was the catch-all title, the banner, as it were, beneath which danced the colourful ladies and dandified gents. Where the jugglers, stilt-walkers, fire-eaters, tumblers, clowns, madmen and fools followed their crafts. Where freaks and freaksters mingled. Where strange music played. Where strange drugs were imbibed. Where the weird and the wonderful were the ways of the everyday. And in the midst of what might be mayhem one moment and revolutionary genius the next, stood a single figure. A grey eminence. A puppet master supreme. What Warhol was to the Factory, The Flange was to The Flange Collective.
There is much that could be said regarding The Flange, all of it fascinating in its own way and books and books could be written about him, but to give you an idea, I’ll tell you about a pet theory of The Flange’s that he spent the last few years of his life trying to prove. The Flange believed in the Universal Axiom that things are where they should be because they should be where they are. The Flange’s deepest desire was to facilitate the Second Coming of the Lord, and in his retirement, he worked long and hard to create something that he called The Lounge of the Lord - the perfect sitting room for God. He believed that when the room was completed, correct to the tiniest degree, completely and utterly correct down to the sub-atomic level, then following the Universal Truth that states that things are where they should be because they should be where they are, Jesus would come and have a good sit down in that sitting room, and that the Second Coming would come to pass.
Weird and wonderful were the ways of The Flange, and I am truly glad I met him. For had I not, things would have turned out very differently . . .
But I digress, and I will stop that now. Honest.
On the day that we were to begin our tour with The Flange Collective, Mr Ishmael sent a furniture van to pick up all our equipment, then had his own chauffeur (Rapscallion, his name was) come over and pick us up in the limo. Which was pretty fab and raised our spirits no end.
Not that our spirits were down, really. Back together and playing again, we had sort of picked up where we left off. And although we all thought that we’d given up music for good, deep down in those rock ’n’ roll hearts of ours I feel certain that we’d all been secretly hoping that we might get the chance to climb back up on a stage again. In front of a genuine and appreciative audience this time, and hopefully composed of teenage girls.
And this time we were really ready.
We’d grown into ourselves, as it were. We were no longer foolish boys who would probably, in truth, have gone all to pieces on the road. No, we were older and more sophisticated and mature and better able to cope.
So this was our time. And we meant to make the most of it. Take it to the limit and beyond.
So, Rapscallion drove us off to The Flange Collective, which was presently camped upon Ealing Common. And we had the windows of the limo wound down so we could shout out at the girls.
And I think it was Neil who first coined that immortal hailing-of-the-female call, ‘Yo, bitches.’ Or it might have been Rob, although I think he was mostly calling, ‘You cheeses.’
But I cannot be altogether sure, so please don’t quote me on it.
What I can be sure of is that I was most impressed when, having stepped from Mr Ishmael’s limo, I was greeted by The Flange, who presented to us a most unique appearance. He was wearing the robes of a wizard of myth, all stars and moons and sigils. And he carried a staff of the Gandalf persuasion and wore a mighty wig that reached down almost to his knees.
‘This fellow,’ I said to myself, ‘is a character.’
And The Flange shook me warmly by the hand. ‘You,’ said he, ‘are a character, sir. Dressed up as a billiard table.’
‘It’s Glam Rock,’ I informed The Flange. ‘We invented it. But it has yet to come into its own.’
‘Well, welcome, friend, to The Flange Collective, the place where dreams come true.’
‘I often dream of cheese,’ said Rob. ‘Do you have any cheese in The Flange Collective?’
‘More cheese than you can shake a stick at, should you so choose.’ And now The Flange admired Neil’s baldy head. Because Neil, having had his head shaved, had decided to stick with that look.
??
?Superb,’ said The Flange. ‘Might I stroke it a little?’
But Neil wasn’t keen and said, ‘No.’
‘Never mind, never mind - welcome all.’ And The Flange shook Andy’s hand and made admiring glances at his mullet, asked why he was dressed up as a postman but did not receive a coherent answer, and led us all into the tent.
A big top, it was, one of those jolly candy-striped affairs with seating all racked up around a central ring. And this ring was covered in sawdust, just as a ring should be. I admired that big top very much, for I was fond of the circus. There was a circus on Ealing Common for one week each year. It would appear as if magically from nowhere, set up and perform and then in a week be gone, leaving nothing but a circle of flattened grass.
I recall, years later, seeing photographs of crop circles and reading the ludicrous theories put forward to explain their existence. I shook my head rather sadly, I also recall, knowing that the mundane but obvious explanation - that of ‘travelling circuses’ - didn’t seem to be making any headlines.
I’ve seen crop circles myself and there is no doubt in my mind that they are the result of travelling circuses. Travelling fairy circuses, I might add.
‘Why is this not called The Flange Circus?’ I asked The Flange.
‘Because it is not a circus. It has elements of circus, but it is more a shared experience, an interactive human be-in.’
The Flange had a freak or two in that show. And I’d never encountered a real freak before this time. Certainly there were sufficient human oddities living in the Ealing area during the nineteen-sixties to have overstocked P. T. Barnum’s American Museum, had he chosen to return from the dead and set up shop once more, but you didn’t see them much in the streets. My mother told me that there were conjoined triplets living at number twenty-seven. But other than the family of dwarves who lived at number thirty-two and the Human Blancmange who lived at number forty-two, you just didn’t see them around. So I must confess to a certain amount of fascination, be this either, ‘morbid’ or simply ‘justifiable’, when I was first introduced to The Flange Collective’s Human Menagerie. But I must say, as many others have before me, that inside they were just like normal people. Adding that, during the long years of my life, I have yet to have it accurately defined for me what exactly normal is supposed to mean. I have met many many folk, but none I regarded as normal.
First I was introduced to Peg, The Flange Collective’s resident fat lady. Today, of course, fat ladies are two-a-penny (so to speak) but back in the sixties, they were a rarity. In England there was Peg and in America there was Mama Cass (who did not die choking on a pork sandwich!).
Whether there were any other fat women in the world, I couldn’t say. But if there were, I never saw them.
Mind you, it’s strange, that, isn’t it? Because, again as far as I know, there were only two fat men in the sixties. In England we had Robert Morley and in America there was Alfred Hitchcock. How times change, eh?
The Flange then introduced me to Mr Shrugger, the World-Famous Shrugging Man. And he was a real shrugging man, not just some skilful actor mocking-up the shrugging. Mr Shrugger gave a free demonstration of shrugging to me. And, even though I have since met men who walked upon the Moon, Hollywood actors and an entire pantheon of gods,15 I do have to say that I would number Mr Shrugger right up there in the list of the Five Most Remarkable Men that I have ever met.
The Slouch I didn’t think too much of. He was just a little too laid back for me. And as for Fumbling Fernando, the Bird-Brained Butter-Fingers, well, I could do that myself and I honestly think that the only reason he rose to prominence, and he was a big star at The Flange Collective, was because of his Spanish origins. Who back then could resist a Spaniard? Especially one who fumbled?
We might sneer at those times now, but remember, all the very best music came from then, and The Sumerian Kynges were the best of the best.
Let me tell you all about our first tour.
I have mentioned how all grown-up myself and the other guys in the band had become. How responsible and professional. And so, when it came to our first rock ’n’ roll tour, we realised our responsibilities. And we were determined to do the job properly and be remembered for so doing.
And so it became the original ‘Bad Behaviour’ tour. The tour that set the low standards of behaviour by which later rock tours, such as those of Led Zep, would be judged.
We did it first, I tell you, and the original is still the greatest. And when it came to sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll it was a case of been there, done that.
Especially when it came to the drugs.
Well, one drug in particular.
It changed my life for evermore.
Let me tell you all about it.
32
Apparently Mr Ishmael and The Flange had put their heads together and planned the tour of The Sumerian Kynges with The Flange Collective very carefully. It was designed to make an impact, the idea being that we would arrive in town, blow as many minds as we could possibly blow, then move on, leaving a legend behind.
At this time we didn’t have a record to market. No forty-five single, nor indeed album. We were spreading the word, as it were. Putting ourselves before the public and so on and so forth and suchlike.
It was an interesting tour.
Nine dates in all. Hardly taxing, one might have thought. Nothing to get too excited about.
Perhaps not on the face of it. But we did change the face of rock music for ever.
I will pass over our first three gigs. Much as I admired Mr Shrugger and what he did, I was somewhat egotistical, and I did think that The Sumerian Kynges were going to top the bill with The Flange Collective. I was, to say the very least, a bit disappointed to discover that we were only to be a support act. So we will pass over those gigs and take ourselves directly to Hyde Park, to the great free Festival in the Park of nineteen sixty-nine known to this day as The Stones in the Park gig. Memorable to my mind for four main things. For the two hundred and fifty thousand beautiful people who turned out to watch us. For the appearance of Gilbert and George, who, in grey suits and metallic face paint, strolled about the park creating their very own legend. For the drug that changed my life for ever. And, fourthly, for the fact that nowadays no one at all actually believes that The Sumerian Kynges even played there, let alone topped the bill.
So, let me set the record straight.
There had been a bit of unpleasantness two days before when Brian Jones was found dead in his swimming pool. Mr Ishmael had informed us of this tragedy before it had become known to the public.
‘A sad affair,’ he said to us. ‘But we must look on the bright side.’ I had no idea what this bright side might be, so I just shrugged. And Mr Shrugger, who was standing near at hand doing his shoulder exercises, smote me a blow to the skull.
‘It is clear,’ said Mr Ishmael, ‘that as Mr Jones is dead, The Rolling Stones will, out of respect, cancel their free festival in Hyde Park. And so The Sumerian Kynges can step into their shoes, as it were.’
I rubbed my skull and shrugged no more, but I did glance at the other guys. Neil was polishing his shaven head with an early precursor of the J-Cloth, Andy was impersonating a chicken, Rob was eating cheese and Toby was grinning to himself in a manner that I can only describe as ‘iffy’. And I did recall the threat he had made against Brian Jones so long before at Southcross Road School, on the school dance night.
No, he wouldn’t, I thought to myself. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He didn’t.
‘So we will be top of the bill?’ said Rob. And Mr Ishmael nodded.
‘But why?’ asked Rob. ‘Why us?’
‘Because now is your time and you have to make an impression. And you have to succeed and become rich and famous.’
‘Why?’ Rob asked, once again.
‘Does it really matter why, as long as it occurs?’
I shrugged once more, and dodged the swing of Mr Shrugger’s fist. ‘I’m good with it,??
? I said. ‘Some fame and fortune would be nice. Any kind of wage at all would be nice, in fact.’
Mr Ishmael cast me a withering glance. And I felt an irresistible need to rush at once to the toilet. Which I did. When I returned, Mr Ishmael had gone and the guys of the band were looking a bit puzzled.
‘Why these looks of puzzlement?’ I asked them.
‘He’s got some purpose to this,’ said Toby. ‘Mr Ishmael. Everything is part of some great Machiavellian Masterplan. We are part of it. What this masterplan is, Heaven only knows, but he does put the wind up me.’
‘Me, too,’ I agreed. ‘But we don’t have any problem with being rich and famous, do we?’
This question occasioned a great deal of shrugging all round. And Mr Shrugger swore loudly, threw up his hands and stamped away in a right old huff.
‘So we’re good to go, guys, yes?’ I asked.
And they supposed that they were.
And as history records, The Rolling Stones did not cancel their free festival in Hyde Park. They’d sacked Brian Jones from the band anyway and got in the replacement that few folk now remember. Brian Blessed, wasn’t it? And they had no intention at all of cancelling such a big gig.
But we were hoping that they would and so when we arrived at the park in our Collective Wagons, we were somewhat disheartened to see Mick and Keith loafing about smoking cigarettes and chatting-up girls. Chatting-up girls! I ask you! Mick was going out with Marianne Faithfull at the time! Good grief!
Mick (you notice that he no longer called himself Michael) hardly even acknowledged our arrival. I later learned that he was under the impression that we were part of a circus act warming up for the bands. Outrageous!
Toby marched straight up to Michael. ‘Wotchamate, Michael,’ he said. ‘So nice to see you again. Which way is the green room?’