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Stairway To Nowhere: Chapter One

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AN INTRODUCTION TO THE STAIRWAY
Huh! I come awake, my chin on my chest.

Neck pain.

Eyes throbbing pain. Drooly shirt front. Bladder full.
 
“I need to piss!”
 
“No time big boy.” Miki says swerving us across three lanes of downtown traffic, “We’re almost there.”
 
“We’re late Luke.” Annette adds.
 
Fucking managers. “We’ll be wet Luke if I don’t have a slash soon.”
 
“Shut up!”
 
The truck lurches, stops, doors swing open and spit me out onto the asphalt. Staggering for balance, ice cold night air knifing my lungs, head clearing but then I’m shoved toward and swallowed by the stage door mouth. Down narrow gloomy corridors, through a door, bearing a tarnished star on flaking paint. The dressing womb. Toilet stall in the corner, thank fuck. Pissing in almost orgasmic relief, I lean one hand against the wall in front of me. Back in the room I find a speckled mirror, framed by lightbulbs, only three of which work, and a cold, metal, folding chair. Starting to focus, make-up ritual, deep breathing. Enough of that, fuck all that yoga shite Sting does, get a cigarette lit, suck some blessed relief. Fag balanced on the burn- decorated table edge. Foundation, eye-liner, eye shadow, blusher, hair gel spiked, perfect.
 
“Any chance of a beer?” I ask the room.
 
“No.” Annette says.
 
“Two minutes.” Someone yells through the door.
 
“Whaddya mean two minutes? What about the sound check?” Dik demands.
 
“Have to do it in the first number.” Mulligan says.
 
“Shit.”
 
“Are the guitars and bass in tune with my synth?” Mulligan asks.
 
“Give it here.” I say.
 
Practice amp dead, my ear pressed to bass guitar like fucking Beethoven trying to guess the bugger into tune. Have to do, close enough, I think. I hope.
 
Back out into another birth canal corridor, low ceiling, naked bulbs barely above the top of my head, wading from pool of light to pool of light, feeling the floor rise beneath my Docs. Rumble of crowd growing. Doors slam open, blinding lights, red, green, searing gold, silver, blue. Lights die, I’m plunged mid-step into an abyss. Tap-dancing across snakes nests of cables, a starter roar from the crowd. Fumble guitar lead into pedal, then into a strange amp set on fuck knows what, drag pedal next to mike stand, cable into pedal, cable into guitar, eyes adjusting to the gloom, back to amp and flick standby by switch. Twist volume knob up full, middle all tone controls. Menacing tidal wave of feedback pulsing as I swagger back to microphone.
 
“Good evening!”
 
Blam – lights up, full chaos, searing heat, blindness.
 
“We are Fashion.” Dik’s voice booming all Bog-like, bam, bam, thud, as he does a quick check of his snare and bass drum.
 
“Meeeep … warble!” Mulligan’s synth up and running. “Boom boom boom boom boom boom boooom” bass line intro to Red Green and Gold and we’re away.

Oceans of light, then drowning in darkness, coming up gasping, sweat building already, guitar neck slippery, finger positions and song structure now rooted deep in muscle memory, automatic pilot engaged, adrenaline thrill sparking like high voltage through tired wiring, head aflame with pulsing beat, guitar slicing magnesium chops through the back beat. Huge breath, mouth to mike to find it, pull back a couple of inches, and:
 
“Red, green and gold – let this be the color for all .. no more black and whi-yite game – together we can overcome all!”

This next one must be Burning Down, teeth gritted throttle that fucking guitar neck, smash the chords’ face in, sweat flaying in arcs through the lights as I dip and whirl, psycho carousel of thunder, rising like Poseidon to the mike:

“Can I borrow your lighter – ‘cos my forehead’s getting tighter – and I gotta go gotta go – bu-urn some-um-thing da-own”.

And even before there’s a chance, the smallest gap
into which might creep a whisper of applause, we’re into the third number:

“Die in the west and you’re halfway to heaven, heaven, heaven!” bawled over bratty chords, thunderous bass and drum avalanches.

There’s a gasp of breath after the last looping vocal note and into the sudden ear-roaring silence the applause wells and breaks over the lip of the stage. Take that and I’m straddled, balls to the crowd, and don’t you all just wish you could be me! A dip to the bottle of water a roadie has magicked at my feet, seared throat soothed with ice cold water shock.

“This is our new single. It’s called Citinite. You won’t like it!”

And we’re off into Mulligan’s hurdi-gurdi carousel, drowned Ferry, acid vocals with Andalusian guitar slicing the face from the windshield. Pain in my throat, notes totter on the brink of discord, breath is now furnace hot with every landed fish mouthful seeming to deliver minimum oxygen to starved muscles. One more song segment to go – I think –into Big John and then Hanoi Annoys Me, both of which Dik sings, before I have to sing The Innocent. Move off the mike and dance this beautiful fucking guitar around the moonscape stage. Mulligan and Dik’s faces rising occasionally through the lightshow bombardment like satellites lost in a cosmic stew. Teeth and grins and nods and snarls slamming in strobe. Back to the front of the stage to strafe them with the opening chords to Hanoi Annoys Me. Light spilling back off the stage giving occasional glimpses of upturned faces, arms snaking above a mass of writhing bodies. Then back to the mike to boast:

“We are innocent, it’s not our fault, if we don’t stop moving, we won’t ever come to a halt.”

And then we’ve nailed the set’s carcass to the back wall and run for the wings, a passing “thank you very much” tossed at the mike.
Panting side-stage like dogs, sweat drenched, grinning at the growing roar for more.

“Not too long – let’s go before they change their fucking minds.”

Back out into the land we now own, a roaring wave of applause washing up over me. Mea culpa, absolved, and adored. No messing, smack them with the Fashion anthem and then dive back off down the rabbit tunnel to the dressing womb.

Sweat everywhere, gasping, drowned as rats, towels lobbed over heads, Annette bobbing and gushing, the words “fucking brilliant” buzzing through the air like honey-stoned bees. A drink, a drink, my condom for a drink. A soothing stream of some cheap lager, ice cold pinning me in my seat, a babble of voices, the room filling. I can hardly breath, somebody get me a cigarette. A line, then two of white powder appear on the table at my elbow. No need to even roll my own note these days, kapow, brain floodlit, mouth buzzsawing words into easier to understand pieces, delivered with accelerating blood pulse. Limbs, smooth arms, slim shoulders, silky hair, long legs of mini-skirted slinkers, ruby mouths, proffered breast fruit, juicy arses, a joint here, another line, a shot, then outside, into a cab, I’m suddenly in orbit around a club dance floor, or two, then a hotel lobby, the room, the bed, the faceless orgasm, the exhausted slump sideways into tomorrow.

The door is being pounded. It’s time to get up and do it again.

FREEDOM!

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Why do you first start playing guitar and singing?
 
Something magical about the process, the struggle, overcoming people scoffing at your first fumbling attempts? I’ll show you lot! Being socially awkward and looking for a way to have girls even look at you?
 
Maybe it was worshiping your musical heroes. Thrilling to Hendrix and Cream, getting that overwhelming feeling of “wow!” the first time you hear the latest Beatles or Stones single. And you, an adolescent soup of hormones all fired up in a miasma of naïve misunderstanding of what you think fame and fortune mean.
 
And before you know it, the fame parasite has its hooks into you. That first time you hear your voice and guitar recorded, even partway in tune it doesn’t matter, you’re doomed. And your ears are already dreaming of bigger and better sounds. Your fingers start to itch lusting after Les Paul Goldtop Deluxes. Your whole body breaks out in a sweat at the thought of hordes of nubile female flesh that will be yours, veritable fields of pussy laid out and available. The magazines and newspapers feed your sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll scandal dreams. Limos ghost through the New York landscapes of your dreams.
 
You get a band together. You rehearse in some sweat pit of a rehearsal room for a few months, forge the bond, the band against the world. You revel in your dream, your difference from the herd. You get your first pub gig and all it takes is a few friends to tell you how amazing you were and you might as well have signed on the dotted line in blood. Later, you will.
 
More people show up for your gigs. You start getting mentioned in the local newspaper. You do the local radio program. Your following builds. There are now people outside your gigs trying to get in and someone smashes up the toilet and you get banned from your first venue. At some point some sleaze bag steps out of the crowd tells you how great you are and promises to make you famous and wealthy beyond your wildest dreams.
 
You record a demo, play a couple of gigs in small clubs in London that go really well and some record company signs you to a lifetime of opening act slavery with promises of future headlines.
 
You slog your guts out touring, warming up crowds for bands who go on to become global megastars while you find it increasingly difficult to live on promises. You start to drink more, make more use of your drugs of choice. The band starts to bicker. The gigs are suddenly work and not fun.
 
You cross America twice, mostly in a van, playing an insane schedule of shows. You come back to England three months later and your fans are now listening to something else. They’re all wearing different hats and you’re no longer the hot new thing about to happen.
 
So at some point you say bollocks to this for a game of tin soldiers and you run away. By the skin of your teeth you still have a girlfriend who’s living in France. So you go to live in the sun in the Southwest of France with a twenty-year-old sex goddess. You get a job peeling garlic and onions in a restaurant kitchen. On your days off you romp on nudist beaches clad only in your Doc Martens.
 
But of course you’re still a musician, through it all you never stopped being a musician. It’s not the being a musician part you have a problem with, it’s the being in the music business part. So with no plans whatsoever of becoming famous you start a band with some local musicians you enjoy hanging out with and then you record THIS.
 

 
THIS isn’t about being famous. But it is about why you picked up a guitar in the first place. And whether anybody likes it or not doesn’t mean a thing to you. You like it. You had a great time playing this, and you think it shows. And you don’t give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut whether anyone agrees with you or not. Because finally this … this is freedom.

Sting… Bono… Luke Sky… who?

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I never had a train set, never had a bike, lived on a council estate and ran with a gang. I never went on holiday, went to a state school, son of a taxi driver, but no feeble-minded git, me – no, clever. Sharp. Ambitious. No dole factory pension illusion for me. Pop star me!
 
As a teenager, I was laughed at for being a freak, I never got shagged, instead I got beaten up in the toilets. I was the black sheep of the family, who did I think I was, first with that long hair and guitar, then with that spiky hair and make-up? Blokes don’t wear make-up in Brum. Must be one of them bloody pooftahs. I’d get my own back though, show every bastard what was really what. Pop star me!
 
The first gig, we gatecrash: The Mekons at The Bournbrook Hotel, borrow all their gear, we only have curly guitar leads, drum sticks and the best-looking clothes. The Mekons give us five songs before their support band. We only have four songs, so we have to do one of them twice. Right before we go on, drummer Dik Davis and I go to the gents, which is stinking up the corridor outside the saloon bar. The saloon bar’s full of British Leyland track workers, swilling it down and setting fire to their fingers to prove how hard they are. We’re standing in the ammonia puke stench, taking a leisurely piss, when we hear a voice behind us, slurred and thick with menace.
 
“What the fuck am that doin’ in the gents?”
 
“’Ey girls, the ladies is downstairs,” booms a second voice.
 
“Oh very funny, you dimmock.” Dik says.
 
“Yeah, ha-soddin’-ha spunk bubble.” I add.
 
“What do yow say, yow bleedin’ queer?”
 
Dik turns from the tile, smiling, “Your missus doesn’t think I was very bleedin’ queer last night.” he says.
 
I don’t have time to laugh or brace myself, much less zip up. My face is slammed into the tiles and everything goes to fuck. I get hit, I try to hit back, I get kicked, I try to kick back, but there are fists and boots everywhere. It doesn’t last long, it’s over really quickly, probably just as well. As suddenly as it started, it stops and they’re gone. The British Leyland lads are already back in the saloon bar, laughing over a fresh pint of slop about the fun they had with the queers in the bog.
 
I’m down on my knees, cheek against the slimy tile. I struggle up from piss-stained knees, wobbling, waiting to see how badly I’m hurt. I can taste blood and my lips feel like old inner tubes. I see a pair of black leather legs sticking out of a stall. Dik’s lying on his back, head propped against a crusty, brown toilet bowl. One of his eyes is already starting to close and his nose is streaming blood.
 
“Yow alright?” I ask him. My mouth feels broken. He grins up at me.
 
“’Ello darlin’,” he says, “Come here often, do you?”
 
Just the working class fighting the working class – a necessary part of keeping things the way they are.
 
We play our five songs – one of them twice as an encore – and fourteen minutes later we’re out of the door, and off down the road, with the applause still ringing behind us.
 
Pop stars us!
 
We work hard, the gigs get better, we think we’re on the stairway, but we’re not, we’re Brummies, working class council estate oiks, second city, second class, tolerated but not really invited to the party that is London. Court jesters? No, pop stars us!
 
A year later onstage at The Hollywood Palladium we’re still the support band – we’re not The Police: a teacher on bass, a public school hippy on guitar, and a member of one of the richest familes in America on drums. We’re shite! We still have our pride though. We’re clinging to it by our black glitter fingernail polish. Pop stars us!
 
Come on you bastards, when do we get our go? All this promising us the nice car, then buggering us senseless and sending us home on the bus with spunk running down our legs.
 
Your single won’t be a hit – we’re spending every penny to make sure “Message In A Bottle” by The Police is bought in every country across the globe. Whether they have electricity or not!
 
Sodding pop stars us! Now one old man, two dead, and one missing – pop stars us? Not really … not even close!
 

ON TOUR WITH U2 – 1980

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(Excerpt from Stairway To Nowhere)

The thing about U2 in England in 1980 is that they are a great band. They are vibrant, passionate, energetic, they are on a mission they believe in.
 
And then there’s Fàshiön – exhausted from two years on the road, a road littered with broken and false promises, going through the motions with very little new material, slowly being devoured by internal dispute and dissent. Apart from that we’re doing just fine!
 
In fact, Miles Copeland (manager of The Police and head of IRS Records) will be later quoted in New Musical Express saying: “Fàshiön are all at sea – but doing quite well”.
 
Ah there’s nothing like having your record company’s backing … and that’s nothing like having your record company’s backing. More like having them behind you with a fistful of daggers. But I digress …
 
U2 have great songs and put on great shows. It’s a bit like touring with a bunch of really nice, well-behaved boy next door types. They don’t do any of the booze or drugs. If there had been any groupies they wouldn’t have done them either. No, they show up, treat everyone with courteous respect, play amazing music, then say goodnight and drive back to their bed and breakfast in a battered old transit van.
 
The U2 “tour”, with only a couple of provincial exceptions, turns out to consist of gigs in London’s smaller clubs, clubs we’d first played back when we thought we were on our way up.
 
First stop, May 22, is The Hope & Anchor, Upper Street, Islington, London.
 
“I see we’re back playing in someone’s mouth again.” I say, eying the red painted walls and dangerously low ceiling of The Hope & Anchor.
 
“Some of my happiest moments have been spent playing inside someone’s mouth.” Dik says.
 
“Pity we didn’t all become dentists instead,” I say, “Then again …”
 
“What’s he moaning about now?” Annette asks.
 
“Oh, the usual,” Mulligan says, “Everything.”
 
I watch Whistling Pete and Pedro try not to get squashed lowering bass cabs through the street level trap door that in former times was used to load huge barrels of beer into the pub cellar.
 
“I was just saying, we were here two years ago, that’s all. Remember there was that journalist bird from Record Mirror. Gave us a great review, she did.” I say.
 
“That’s not all. She gave great he—”, Mulligan says.
 
“Yes, yes, alright, alright. Spare us the grizzly details. True and otherwise.” I say. Then to Annette, “So is there going to be any press here tonight, boss?”
 
“I’m sure the usual will be here. NME, Sounds, Melody Maker.”
 
“Tractor Breeding Monthly?” I suggest. “Wasp Farming Quarterly? The British Journal of Dung?”
 
“Shut up Luke.”
 
“Yes boss.”
 
“Hello. Are you Fashion?” asks a fresh-faced lad, “I’m Bono. I’m the singer with U2.”
 
“Very nice to meet you Bongo.” Dik says.
 
“Yeah, welcome to the big time mate.” I say.
 
“Take no notice of them Bono.” Annette says to Bono, who has a slight smile on his face. “No one else does.”
 
She squints at her file-o-fax.
 
“We’re opening the show for you tonight. You open for us tomorrow at The Moonlight Club.,” she says, “So, we’ll get set up, and if you can have you back line ready at the side of the stage—”
 
“That postage stamp-sized thing over there,” I say. “That’s the stage.”
 
“Shut up Luke.”
 
“And next to it, that alcove where they stack the mops and sawdust, that’s the dressing room.” I say, “Watch your head on the ceiling.”
 

THE FINAL RECORDINGS

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The next week it’s business as usual as we completely fail to come up with a hit single. At the end of the week Annette shows up at the studio and tells us she’s got us a gig for 50 quid opening the show for fellow-label mate losers, Chelsea at Notre Dame Hall in London.
 
“Opening?” Dik asks, incredulous.
 
“For Chelsea?” I add.
 
“50 quid?” Mulligan says.
 
“It’s a gig, guys.” Annette says, grinning with embarrassment, like a dog caught eating its own vomit.
 
“For them, yes. I’m sure it’s a big gig for sodding Chelsea!” I yell.
 
But then I’m too depressed to be angry any more, so I slump in the corner and play automatic rubbish on my unamplified Ibanez Iceman.
 
We go to London and play the show without swallowing, like the well-trained little whores we’ve become. The next week’s reviews, that mostly pan Chelsea, don’t even mention us. Apparently we don’t even warrant a bad review any more.
 
A week later, I’m slumped opposite Dik in a kaff in Moseley village.
 
“I’ve got us some free studio time.” Mulligan says.
 
We barely glance up from our fry ups.
 
“How long have we get to pay for it this time?” Dik asks. “Before someone comes round to break our legs.”
 
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Mulligan says, “It’s over at Pete King’s place. He’s built a studio under his house. They’re just fine-tuning the set-up so he’s letting us use it for free.”
 
“Okay. Pity we don’t have anything worth recording.” I say.
 
“Let’s have a bash at Fiction Factory.” Dik says, “And Bad Move.”
 
These are both songs that Dik sings. I’ve even switched to bass for Bad Move as the bass line is beyond Mulligan.
 
“I suppose.” I say, dragging an unwilling sack of unconscious enthusiasm up the cellar steps, banging its head as I go.
 
Next afternoon, we’re halfway through recording Fiction Factory and it’s going surprisingly well. Pete King, as manager of Steel Pulse, has built a tidy, compact, state-of-the-art studio in the basement of his house atop Moseley Road hill.
 
In between takes Dik is playing a dangerous, flirting game with one of Steel Pulse’s girlfriend, a sloe-eyed South American-looking beauty.
 
“Hello darlin’” he says. She looks away unimpressed. “Here, I wanted to ask you something. I was wondering where you got that beautiful arse. Only I’ve get to get a new one, ‘cos mine’s get a crack in it.”
 
She yawns and drifts away. I breathe a bit of a sigh of relief. Last thing we need is to get thrown out before we’ve mixed down and get our sweaty hands on the tapes.
 
“See you haven’t lost your touch then.” I tell him.
 
“Oh, she’ll be back.” he says, “Watch and learn big nose.”
 
“Yeah. Right.”
 
Annette ducks into the cellar studio. If she has to duck as you might imagine I’m spending most of my time either sitting or doing bad Groucho Marx impersonations.
 
“I’ve got you a tour.” She says.
 
“Funny.” Mulligan says, “My hearing must be playing up. For a second I can have sworn she says she’d get us a tour.”
 
“What’s that then?” Dik asks, “Only I’ve forgotten.”
 
“You know. It’s where we slog all over the place working our taters off for little or no money and then everyone thinks we’ve split up.” I say.
 
“Very funny. Do you want to hear this or not?” she asks.
 
“Okay boss. Spill the Heinz then.” Dik says.
 
“It’s with U2!” She declares.
 
“What, just the two of us?” I ask, “Which two?”
 
“No, no. U2.” She says.
 
“Well I’m glad it’s with us as well. Otherwise it wouldn’t really be much of a tour without us. For us, I mean.” Dik says.
 
“The band.” She says. “From Ireland. Letter U, number 2.”
 
“I’m sure they can’t be as bad as that. No need to describe them as number twos.” Mulligan says.
 
“Wait a minute.” I say, “I’ve heard of them. They’re good! I suppose that means we’re going to opening again. What is it, 50 quid a night and a bag of chips?”
 
“No, it’s a split bill.” She says.
 
“Sounds painful.” Mulligan adds.
 
“Means one night you open for them, the next night they open for you. We split the door 50/50.”
 
“Might be alright.” I concede, “What sort of gigs.”
 
“Only clubs.” She says, “But they’re definitely a band on the way up. Can’t do any harm, being on tour with them. I hear Island Records are interested in them.”
 
“On their way up, are they? Better than where we seem to be headed.” Dik says.
 
“Island Records eh? I doubt we can get Desert Island Discs interested in us.” I say.
 
“That’s the gratitude I’ve come to expect from you lot.” She says, “I’ve been on the bloody phone for two weeks getting you this.”
 
“Oh, we’re ecstatic. Don’t let the lack of jumping up and down fool you.” I say morosely.
 
(coming soon … on tour with U2, 1980)