Rock Star (6 page)

1968

After a late start, Kris discovered sex with an enthusiasm surpassing even his best friend’s.

‘Cor blimey!’ Buzz exclaimed one day, as they lounged on the beach in Majorca. ‘You never bleedin’ stop! At least I give it a breather once in a while.’

Kris laughed. Two and a half years away from home, fending for himself, including a year and a half spent hitchhiking across Europe, had given him a new sense of confidence. He was not only sure he could be independent without scrounging handouts from his mum, but he was now secure in the knowledge that he could pull the birds with the best of them. He might not be tall, dark and traditionally handsome, but at nearly twenty he had his own style. Crooked good looks, dirty-blond hair, a wiry body, and a solid suntan.

‘Best thing I ever did was draggin’ yer out of England,’ Buzz remarked.

Kris rolled over on the hot sand. He had his eye on two giggling girls in bikinis standing by the edge of the water. ‘I’m not gonna argue with
that,
mate.’ He squinted at the girls. ‘Which one you want?’

Buzz looked surprised. ‘Am I gettin’ first choice for a change?’

‘Yeah, why not,’ Kris said generously.

‘The one with the big tits,’ Buzz decided.

‘Aw,
c’mon.
Do me a favour. Y’know you like ’em skinny.’

‘I feel like a handful today.’

‘Screw you.’

The two friends laughed, while the girls – who knew they were being watched – pretended not to notice.

‘
You
pull ’em, then,’ Kris said.

Buzz groaned. ‘I’m still recovering from that little Swedish raver last night. I can’t bleedin’ move, can I?’

Buzz had lost his eerie pallor, and was now a deep gypsy brown. He wore his black hair long and unkempt, and one gold stud earring decorated his right earlobe. He was so thin his ribs stuck out.

‘Bloody hell!’ Kris said, with mock annoyance. ‘Why have I always gotta do the pulling?’ Leaping up, he swaggered across the sand towards the giggling girls. ‘’Ello, darlin’s’, he said confidently. ‘Speaka da English?’

They spoka da English all right. They were on vacation from Liverpool.

Taking a survey one day, both Kris and Buzz had decided that the easiest girls to have it off with were the English. A quick bit of the verbals and it was up, up and away. Second were the Scandinavians – Swedish, Danish and Finnish – easy pickings. The local Spanish senoritas were a no-no, while German and French girls were a pain in the backside. And Americans – impossible, unless you romanced them and got them pissed – which took time and money. Neither of which Buzz or Kris was inclined to do.

After a brief chat-up, Kris took the two giggling females over to meet Buzz, and before long it was Sangrias (a lethal combination of red wine, fruit and lemonade) all round, and playful gropings on the hot sand.

By sundown things were getting serious, and a romantic stroll along the beach led the way to a quiet wooded area, where after five minutes of concentrated foreplay it was time for the great moment.

Kris got off on that first plunge into a new girl. Every time he did it he thought of the two stuck-up little Edwards girls and the other girls at school who’d called him weird and wouldn’t give him the time of day. When he jammed it into a new female he was doing it to all of them, and it felt good.

‘Will I see you later?’ his latest conquest asked, awkwardly hitching up the bottom half of her bikini.

‘What hotel are you at?’ Cleverly he avoided answering her question.

She told him and he nodded knowingly. ‘An’ how long you stayin’, luv?’

‘Six more days’, she said obligingly, adding hopefully, ‘Can I see you later?’

Ah, six days to avoid that particular beach and hotel, and then it would be safe again. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t manage tonight,’ he said regretfully. ‘Whyn’t I see you here tomorrow?’

And that was how it usually went. In and out and on to the next. Evenings were for work. A gig at a local restaurant playing the guitar and singing – and then usually a late night session at a club or discotheque where they got together with other musicians and really let rip. They were getting so hot on their guitars that they’d acquired quite a reputation, and any visiting players sought out the two English kids to jam with.

They had stayed in Majorca for nearly a year, sharing a one-room apartment. The weather was sensational, the booze cheap, and a continual stream of tourists kept the place interesting, not to mention hot and cold women on tap at all times. Before that they had travelled across Belgium, Germany, France and Italy – taking jobs along the way, and enjoying every moment of their new-found freedom.

The drag was they hadn’t been discovered, and that bothered Kris more than it did Buzz, who seemed quite content to live his life in the sun without, any of the hassles of England. Kris knew for sure that if they were ever going to put a group together and try to do something decent, it was not going to be in some Spanish holiday resort getting laid regularly. Eventually they were going to have to go home, whether Buzz liked it or not. England was where it was all happening, and he was anxious to be a part of it. New groups were springing to prominence all the time – he read the trades – a couple of weeks late but better than nothing. The
Musical Express
and the
Record Mirror
were full of success stories – Rod Stewart, the lead vocalist from the Jeff Beck Group, was making his mark, and groups like Blind Faith, Yes, and Led Zeppelin were leading the trends.

It was 1968, and ever since the advent of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, England was hot. The swinging sixties all started in London, with fashion, movies, style, and most of all – music. London was definitely the place to be.

One day, after receiving a letter from his mother, Buzz said, ‘I think I’m gonna ask Daphne t’come an’ stay with us fer a couple of weeks.’

Buzz never called Daphne mum, he always referred to her by name.

‘Why?’ Kris blurted out, forgotten guilt creeping up on him.

Waving her letter in the air Buzz said, ‘She’s given up ’er job, chucked out that new bloke she was livin’ with, an’ – I dunno – she sort of sounds on edge, y’know what I mean?’

‘Where’ll she sleep?’ Kris asked. ‘There’s no room here.’

‘She can have my bed. I’ll kip on the floor. Yer don’t
mind,
d’you?’

Christ! Did Buzz know? Impossible. Daphne had sworn him to secrecy – she would hardly confide in her son.

Forcing himself to sound casual he said, ‘I couldn’t give a monkey’s.’

‘Okay, I’ll give ’er a ring then,’ Buzz decided. ‘I guess I can just about scrape up enough readies for ’er ticket.’

Kris wondered if Daphne would expect him to resume service. He had no desire to do so. After all, he was no longer the innocent virgin she had initiated on her garage floor. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, it was just that the guilt of giving one to his best friend’s mother was too much to take.

Buzz went off to the local bar to call her, while Kris figured out what he was going to do.

He didn’t have to figure too long or too hard. When Buzz returned he was pale beneath his tan.

‘What’s the matter?’ Kris asked quickly.

Buzz sat on the edge of his bed, his thin face a mask of shock. ‘She topped ’erself, didn’t she. Daphne’s dead.’

*    *    *

Returning to England for the funeral was the most depressing thing that had ever happened to Kris. It was October, and he had forgotten the icy cold, the afternoons when it was dark by four o’clock, the relentless drizzling rain, and the heavy traffic. Most of all he had forgotten what it was like to live at home with his two sisters – both unmarried – shrieking at each other all the time; his stepfather, Horace, the television zombie; and his mum, Avis – still cleaning other people’s houses, and ruling the home front with her loud voice and bossy manner.

‘Yer too skinny,’ she informed Kris sternly. ‘Why didn’t yer write? I could box yer ears, y’little bastard!’

Both his sisters stared at him jealously. The younger of the two said, ‘It’s all right for
some
people, ennit? Just laze about in the sun all day an’ don’t send mum no money. I pay for
my
room an’ board.’

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ Kris said quickly, ‘I’m not stayin’.’

‘Shame!’ exclaimed his other sister, who had inherited her mother’s sarcastic tongue. ‘Goin’ off to
America
to be a
pop star
, are we?’

He couldn’t stand his sisters, but his dislike for them paled in comparison to his relationship with his brother. Brian came over for Sunday tea trailing his wife, Jennifer, and two snotty-nosed kids. The two-year-old was the reason Brian had been forced to get married in the first place, and the baby, Kris figured out, was just to make
him
feel bad. Brian’s smug face said it all.
I’ve got a job, a wife, and a family. What have you got, little brother?

It’s about time you decided what you’re going to do with yourself,’ Brian lectured him pompously. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bloody disgrace the way you’re worrying ma?’

‘Fuck you,’ Kris muttered, a low aside destined only for Brian’s ears.

Unfortunately the two-year-old caught the rhythm and proceeded to chant,
‘Fuckoo, fuckoo, fuckoo!’

‘You low-life scum,’ Brian said angrily. ‘Teaching my boy to swear. You’re just a no-good layabout – whyn’t you start behaving like a man, cut your hair and get a job?’

Is that what you think being a man is all about?’ Kris asked, with a derisive snort. ‘Short hair an’ some lousy job?’

‘I don’t have to worry about it,’ Brian puffed self-righteously. ‘
You’re
the one that looks like a bloody queer.’

Kris started to laugh, which infuriated Brian even more.

Avis cracked the whip. ‘Will you two shut up?’ she said, her loud voice booming across the table. ‘If yer wanter act like squabblers, go outside an’ do it.’

‘Yes,’ chorused the sisters, livening up at the prospect of a possible fight.

‘Another cuppa tea, luv,’ Horace requested, oblivious to the simmering hostilities around him. ‘I don’t want ter miss the football on telly.’

Kris knew he wasn’t going to be able to take family life for long. He was used to his freedom now, and sleeping on the couch in the front parlour – because one of his sisters had taken over his old bedroom – was a real drag. He had only been home five days, and already it was time to move on. The problem was he had no money, and Buzz was no help. Ever since Daphne’s funeral Buzz had refused to leave his house. He didn’t want to practise, or go round the clubs. He didn’t want to do anything.

Daphne had killed herself in the traditional way – stuffed her head in the oven and turned the gas on. Nobody knew why. ‘Poor dear. She got depressed a lot,’ a relative explained at the funeral. ‘Depression’s a terrible burden to bear.’

Buzz thought differently. It’s ’cos I left her alone,’ he said grimly. ‘We was always close, an’ I deserted her.’

Kris didn’t know what to say. He still felt guilty – maybe it was
his
fault.

‘C’mon,’ he told Buzz. ‘You can’t just sit around bein’ miserable. We gotta get somethin’ goin’ for us.’

‘What?’ Buzz said stonily. ‘Fuckin’ what?’

‘I dunno,’ Kris replied in desperation. ‘But I’m goin’ to figure
somethin
’ out. You can bet on it.’

*    *    *

With fifty pounds borrowed from his mother, and a temporary job washing windows again, Kris moved away from the family home dragging Buzz with him. Buzz couldn’t stay in his house anyway, the lease was up and he had to get out. Daphne had left a few hundred pounds. Unfortunately the funeral and legal fees soon ate that up. Buzz gave all her possessions to relatives, and followed Kris to the squat he had found in nearby Kilburn. The squat, an abandoned derelict house, had been taken over by a bunch of hippies whose credo was
LOVE AND PEACE.
The place was a mess, but Buzz fitted right in to the indolent lifestyle – it suited him fine to do nothing all day, and then sit around at night playing his guitar by candlelight watched by a bunch of admiring long-haired girls.

It did not suit Kris. He had far more ambitious plans. With the money he’d borrowed, he bought himself a second-hand motor-scooter, enabling him to get up to the West End of London, where he began hanging out at all the rhythm and blues, rock, and all-night jazz clubs, hoping to get a chance to connect.

He soon found out he was not the only one. Before long he met a black guy called Rasta Stanley, a would-be drummer currently making time running errands for a record company. And Ollie Stoltz, a talented bassist straight out of a scholarship year at the Royal Academy of Music.

Triumphantly he told Buzz he thought he’d found their group.

‘It’s all horseshit,’ Buzz said, dragging heavily on a joint – his new favourite habit ‘I’m not gettin’ into any of that competitive crap.’

‘Right,’ agreed Flower, Buzz’s current love, a sixteen-year-old runaway from Brighton with huge, limpid blue eyes, and fair hair which hung in a straight curtain to below her ass.

Kris felt the anger boil up inside him. This is what they had been striving for since school. The right combination. The dynamite group. And then . . . POW!! Rock stardom would be theirs, and there’d be no looking back. He could buy his mum a mink coat, and tell Brian to go shove it in his left ear.

Now this little frother with the dirty hair and big stoned eyes was telling Buzz what to do. He wasn’t going to stand for it. No way.

‘Flower, luv,’ he said calmly, ‘whyn’t you go down to the corner shop an’ buy yourself a packet of fags an’ a box of Maltesers’, He fished a precious pound note from the pocket of his jeans. ‘My treat.’

This got Flower’s attention. After smoking dope and screwing, normal cigarettes and chocolate were her main passions.

‘Really, Kris?’ she asked unsurely, as if he might whisk the pound note away as soon as she got up.

Pressing the money into the palm of her grubby little hand he said, ‘Yeah, only I want you to go right now. Okay?’