A Tussle Ad Astra
by Wrongtom
I turned 45 last weekend. A few months back I’d considered marking the occasion by releasing a single (on 7” of course), but it seemed a little tacky, like a commemorative plate or tea towel, or the Silver Jubilee Tomahawk my brother got in 1977. Did that actually happen? A Queen’s jubilee bike for kids?
I figured a 45 themed party could be fun. You might worry that a strictly 7” set could be perilous as I stumble into the snake pit of middle age. A three minute hit is never a good look if you need to make a dash for the loo, but if I gathered enough DJ friends, even the weakest of bladders amongst us should have enough back-up to keep the set rolling.
This was all academic of course. Corona restrictions meant there would be no party, and it fell on my girlfriend to keep my spirits up on the day. Which she did. Aside from an unusually windy trip to the park, I had a lovely weekend. This wasn’t my worst birthday by a long stretch. Nope, that accolade goes to my 22nd, on May 23rd, 1997.
To understand what really happened that night we should go back to August 26th 1996, when Olive released their single ‘You’re not Alone’.
Bank holiday Monday. Nottinghill Carnival was in full swing. Big tunes that year included the relentless soca of ‘Cool Me Down’ by Anslem Douglas, Blackstreet’s ‘No Diggity’, and you couldn’t turn a corner without hearing the collective cry of “OH NOOOOOO!” as Red Rat’s ‘Shelly Ann’ kicked in.
You wouldn’t have heard ‘You’re Not Alone’ however. In fact it didn’t even trouble the charts, lingering just outside the top 40 for the next couple of weeks before disappearing.
Overnight success is often a homespun myth. The last thing we want the great unwashed to find out is their new favourite song stalled in the nether regions of the charts 9 months ago, or was once a flop for the singer’s previous band, or — in the case of ‘Take On Me’ by A-Ha — took 5 versions, 4 years and 2 music videos to propel it to number 1. Fortunately for Olive, it only took one re-release the following spring for it to hit the top spot.
Jump forward to 1997. My 22nd birthday. ‘You’re Not Alone’ hit number 1 the previous Sunday, and it had been inescapable all week. I couldn’t get my head around why. It felt like a throwback to hardcore which had only recently evolved through jungle and into drum & bass. How had this captured the nation? Was it a misty-eyed memory of hardcore’s swan-song ‘Let Me Be Your Fantasy’ from ‘94? Or perhaps because it’s actually more akin to a well crafted pop song than its Amen break might suggest.
None of this crossed my mind at the time as I started my beat-up old Astra. I just switched off the radio and stuck in a tape of Red Rat’s debut LP, crying out “OH NOOOOOO” all the way into college with my exhaust rattling beneath me.
I parked in a cloud of dark toxic smog. The exhaust was hanging on by a thread but I was late for class. Kwik Fit would have to wait. A video production lesson, a lecture about the Amish, and then it was time for a rehearsal with my band.
I’d recently formed a group called Wrong. A kind of live hip hop outfit in which I was the rapper (!). I hadn’t yet cottoned on to the fact that if you give me a mic, I will almost definitely say the wrong thing and probably ruin the mood in the room. Less than a year later, I’d wind up in a slanging match with a lawyer firm at the Jazz Cafe, getting us banned from playing in various local venues, but at this point we were still a few songs short of a full set.
Inexplicably, mid rehearsal, our guitarist suddenly remembered it was my birthday, wishing me a happy 21st. Thanks but that was last year. We packed up our gear and I spent the next hour and £125 on a trip to the exhaust centre. Not how I was expecting to spend my 22nd, sat on my own with Olive taunting me on Kwik Fit’s tinny office radio. Fine though, my car was fixed and I was ready to party.
I don’t drink booze, and I’ve happily spent my life as the designated driver, even on my birthday, so I gathered up a motley crew and hit the road to Islington where we had guest list for one of Sean McLusky’s infamous Sonic Mook Experiments.
If you’re not familiar with the name, Sean was a drummer. First with a couple of Bristolian punk bands, then with JoBoxers who formed from the ashes of Vic Goddard’s Subway Sect, bothering the top 10 in ’83 with a brace of singles including the maddeningly catchy ‘Boxer Beat’.
In the 90s Sean turned to club promotion, with nights like Fantasy Ashtray and the aforementioned Sonic Mook Experiment, still fondly remembered by those who actually showed up to catch maybe a Welsh language punk band coming on after a big-beat set, only to be pelted off stage after 5 minutes. Maybe you were there, upstairs at the recently opened 333 enjoying a slice of battenberg and a cuppa, or downstairs doing a pub quiz in a nightclub which used to be East London’s biggest gay venue. Some of the staff remained and it was fun watching awkward hip hop lads reduced to quivering school boys at the sight of some leather-clad men kissing behind the bar.
Wait, where was I? Somewhere driving up the A3 when my brand new exhaust dropped off. We dumped the car on a side street and bunked a train to Waterloo where, once again, we jumped the barriers for a free trip to Angel. I’m not sure if I’m imagining the next bit but I think we were briefly chased out the station for not paying, but made it up Chapel Market unscathed, and into the Rhythmic: a half finished club space, with exposed pipes and air con. Less shabby chic, more a modern health and safety violation.
On this occasion it was also half empty. Someone thought it would be a great idea to open the night with a load of teen punk bands. They’d trashed the place and been ejected, along with half the underage crowd, leaving the venue looking like the final act of Threads. Confused and desperate people wandering aimlessly, looking anywhere for the remnants of a good time. I was £125 down. My car was pretty much a write-off. My birthday was looking like a nuclear disaster.
At the bar I encountered an actor/comedian who I won’t name for legal reasons. He was wasted. In a hot minute we somehow spilled our drinks on each other, had a kind of light tussle on the ground where no punches were actually thrown, before he hugged me and walked off laughing. “Where’s my drink?” asked my girlfriend on my return. It was mostly down my trousers, some on the minor celebrity’s coat.
In the spirit of Sonic Mook, I decided it might be a good idea if I gathered up the band to jump on stage and start playing. I asked Sean if we could rush the stage “Yes, RUSH IT” he insisted, probably hoping the headline act would fight us for picking up their instruments. One of my bandmates refused the bum rush, and that was that.
I wonder if Olive had these problems. Tim Kellet’s previous band Simply Red definitely weren’t down with the bum rush. Perhaps Robin Taylor-Firth, known for his involvement with Nightmares On Wax, was a little more rush-friendly. They certainly sounded well rehearsed and polished, and now I’m listening properly, Ruth-Ann Boyle’s voice is reminiscent of Tracy Thorne. I think I’m actually coming around to Olive after all these years. I have the album on, it’s not what I was expecting at all. Some of You’re Not Alone’s washy synths and ethereal strings remain but it’s mostly a downbeat affair.
Which reminds me, Joe Muggs has just written a great piece in praise of exactly this, the downtempo beats of the late 90s, often written off as trip hop. Depth Charge, Earthling and Tranquility Bass all get a mention, and Nightmares On Wax take pride of place, now that Smoker’s Delight has had a quarter of a century repackage.
Back to my birthday, the club night was over. Most of my mates had sloped off already. Tubes were closed. All the car seats were taken. I was two long nightbus journeys from home and didn’t even have a walkman to keep me company. I was alone
Just when I thought all was lost, my friend Reg pulled up in his van. He didn’t particularly want to take a trip to the far reaches of SW London when he lived in Southall but it was still my birthday, and he was nice like that. We didn’t listen to Olive on the way home but in hindsight it feels like we should’ve done.
You know what? This wasn’t a bad birthday at all, in fact I’d like a commemorative tea towel of this night.
