Pink Fairies

Duncan 'Sandy' Sanderson, The Pink Fairies
The Inn On The Green, London, W.10
May 7th '10

Poster Boy For The UK Underground

A frequent punishment for us 'fags' (new boys) at the 2nd division British public school I was made to attend was to get up at morning bell (7.20am) and run a couple of miles to another house across town. Wake up a crabby senior boy, get him to sign a chit, hoof it back, shower, and be ready for breakfast at 8am. If your transgression was bad enough, you might have to run to three different houses and if you didn't make it back in time for breakfast, you'd have do it again the following day and so on. Until you got it 'right'.

These were known as 'tish calls' because one had to visit a 'partition' in a dormitory where a boy was supposed to be able to sleep soundly without being molested. These sadistic penalties would be handed out by some little Hitler or senior creep (most likely a junior municipal politician or ambulance-chaser in-the-making) because one might have talked during prep or polished their shoes inadequately.

If a senior boy had a menial task that was 'beneath' him, all he had to do was yell "FAG!" and the first year lads (three of us) would have to sprint down the corridor toward the source. If you were the last to reach him, you got the job. It blew, and basically you just had to ride it out until it was your turn to terrorize some other poor kid four years hence. This was a school where you had to have your trouser pockets sewn up so you couldn't slouch around with your hands in them. Young gentlemen in the making, ha!

One day, I stole a copy of something a senior boy had left in an area forbidden to us lowly scum. It was called International Times, and I think it belonged to Martin Atkins. He was probably the coolest guy in the house at the time simply by virtue of possessing the Small Faces' 'Tin Soldier' in a picture sleeve. It didn't take much. I was deemed a miserable little toe-rag. My parents had sent me - a soccer player - to a school that played fucking rugby, a barbarian sport for thugs and thickos. Just about the only thing that offered me any solace was knowing I already had a better record collection than all of them put together, thanks to my uncle who worked for Decca. None of them had a test pressing of the first Them album or, for that matter, 'A' labels of The Rolling Stones' 'Come On' (given to me a week before it hit the streets), The Small Faces' 'I've Got Mine' or 'A Legal Matter' by The Who (as heard on "wonderful Radio London".

Them
(Decca, 1965)
The Rolling Stones: 'Come On'
(Decca, 1963)
The Who: 'A Legal Matter'
(Brunswick, 1966)
The Small Faces: 'I've Got Mine'
(Decca, 1965)

I was nearly 15, and up until now my preferred reading was Disc & Music Echo, The New Musical Express, Melody Maker, The Aquarist, Charles Buchan's Football Monthly, Ring Wrestling, Health & Efficiency and anything with the name Harrison Marks on the cover. But the International Times opened up a whole 'nother world. One that seemed far more exciting, and not only because it printed words like "fuck" and showed the odd pube (something H&E and the like saw fit to airbrush, leaving June Palmer, Jayne Tracey and Pamela Green not only 'bald' but sporting a gussett most unnatural. I knew that because Chloe, a choreographer for the Western Theatre Ballet, had shown me hers when I was 10. But that's another story.

We were seeing 'freaks' like Arthur Brown and The Pretty Things on Top Of The Pops or A Whole Scene Going, but the mainstream media had always looked down its nose at this stuff. Articles in The Sunday Times or Observer colour supplements on contemporary artists like Chris Burden or Otto Muehl always seemed condescending and derisive of their far out performance art 'events'. And surely this awful 'music' would eventually go away and musicians would all fall in line, start playing proper instruments and get their hair cut. But here was a publication that encouraged freedom of expression in all forms, be it cultural or sexual and suddenly radical new ideas were being presented. In fact, the 'revolution' was encouraged! I hated school, didn't much like authority and started to feel a kinship with anything that kicked against boring oppressors. The oboe gave way to the saxophone. The only advantage of being an oboe-ist in a traditional orchestra layout (by my reckoning) is the glimpse of mature, white panty when the first 'cello positions her instrument at the start (and repositions at the end) of a piece.

School Orchestra, June '68

So my hair gradually crept over my collar. I was already as big a fan of the Mothers Of Invention as someone with barely any money stuck in the middle of Rutland could be and, in the classifieds in the back of the paper, there was an ad for a poster of a naked Frank Zappa sitting on the toilet.

Another depicted a large, pink blobby figure was pointing to smaller version of the same thing exclaiming "Sod Off!" I felt this was more appropriate for my 'study' wall (a 6' x 8' cell I shared with Edmunds, M where we stashed our tuckboxes, brewed our own ginger beer and might have glanced at the occasional biology or geography text book) than the wrestling posters currently adorning them.

So I sent off some money and hoped for the best. 2 weeks later a tube showed up and the Farleigh housemaster, Ian Pringle, immediately confiscated the Sod Off poster, probably to give to his son..or wife. Still, there was a catalogue included that contained other items on offer. I wanted them all. Gorgeous, multi-colour posters advertising concerts (Traffic at the Saville Theatre), bands (The Move, Tomorrow), 'happenings' (14 Hour Technicolour Dream, Legalize Pot Rally), clubs (UFO, Middle Earth), featuring works by Martin Sharp and something called Hapshash & The Coloured Coat.

Some were printed on silver or gold heavy-duty paper, others used day-glo ink and all were beautiful examples of ground-breaking, psychedelic graphic design. I rustled some money together and ordered a Mr. Tambourine Man

and a Max Ernst poster

and they came - this time - with a letter inviting me to become an 'agent' for the company - Big O Posters. For every 10 posters I sold, I'd get one free (but not one involving a 5th colour or larger than 20" x 30"). My first job! And it lasted as long as it took to get enough posters to cover my share of our study wallspace. One of which was this beauty.

Had I been a couple of years older, I would have somehow inserted myself into this weird and wonderful new scene, but I got stuck doing 'O' Levels, learning to roll joints and trying to lose my virginity. Anyway, Mick Farren - whose name and abundant afro cropped up regularly during those times (not only as the vocalist for the first do-it-yourself indy band, The Social Deviants but occasional columnist/reviewer for IT) writes brilliantly and hilariously about what I missed in 'Give The Anarchist A Cigarette',

one of the most entertaining and enlightening books I've ever read. In fact, it was this book that gave me pause with the blog a few weeks ago. It just made me feel inadequate as a 'writer' and I needed to regain some confidence. Try and find it, it really is great.

Next thing I know, I'm failing all my exams, discovering sherry and Southern Comfort, stacking shelves at Tesco in Crouch End, snogging with and eventually getting Sonia the checkout girl next to the maraschino cherries in the warehouse upstairs and getting thrown out of the house by my mother after she discovered a lump of Lebanese Gold worth about 10/- or 50p as it was now known. Time was spent reading mags like Oz and Friendz, books by Burroughs, Thompson, Castaneda, comics like The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers, in fact, anything with Gilbert Shelton in it, Nasty Tales and grooving intently to The Deviants, the Pink Fairies, The Pretty Things, The Edgar Broughton Band and mighty space-groovers, Hawkwind. You might enjoy reading about some of them in Rich Deakin's Keep It Together!: Cosmic Boogie with The Deviants and The Pink Fairies and, as I've said before, I enjoyed getting turned on to new stuff by ace djs like Andy Dunkley, Jeff Dexter, Pete Drummond and John Peel.

All of this prepared me nicely for my imminent start in the music business...making the tea.

In March 1994, Mick Farren, very kindly, sent me a copy of his 'The Lonesome Death Of Gene Vincent...and 44 Other Poems And Lyrics' for my "amusement".

It came with a note saying he and founding member of Blodwyn Pig, Jack Lancaster were working on "an electronic-music poetry project that we believe is a hell of a lot more sophisticated than a lot of what's going on in that field" and that when they had "some recordings that we're satisfied with, we may well come and bother you".

Unfortunately, they never did.

Nowadays, you really need at least 2 of these...

The Pink Fairies
'The Snake' b/w 'Do It'
Polydor Records, UK, 1971

jukebox tab, written out by Twink

MX-80 Sound

MX-80 Sound
Island Records publicity pic
photo: Kim Torgerson

After reading a review - by Caroline Coon - of their Big Hits e.p. in Melody Maker, I sent the required money to MX-80 Sound in Bloomington, Indiana, for a copy. One duly arrived at the Island Records offices in Hammersmith wrapped in a 'songbook' and enclosed in a customized envelope

The record sounded very different to what was going on in England - anywhere, actually - at the time, so I called Rich Stim, their singer/contact man and after two or three phone calls, got to licence their ‘Hard Attack’ lp for a sum so small that nobody 'upstairs' even asked any questions about the band. Just like that, along with Eddie & The Hot Rods and The Snivelling Shits, they became my 3rd signing. More photos here

MX-80 Sound
Bruce Anderson, Rich Stim, Jeff Armour, Dave Mahoney, Dale Sophiea

MX had been described by Glenn O’Brien as “either the most Heavy Metal Art Band or the most Arty Heavy Metal Band” so when I found myself working for Bronze Records a year later, I thought a second round with these guys might be worth a trip. Asking my boss David Betteridge if he'd "uh, like to go to to Bloomington?" I was, frankly, a bit surprised when he said "yes". So we found ourselves de-planing in Indianapolis and being driven for roughly an hour to a coffee bar/health-food joint (with ashram attached) in Bloomington called Tao. There, we met up with Rich and his wife Andrea. I'm not lying when I say there's no better hostess. Andrea is many things, some of them to be recounted at a later date, but right now, we're in 1978 and my knowledge of 'health food' was pretty much confined to the stuff they served up at Cranks, a funky but pricey veggie restaurant near Carnaby Street where hippies, Cliff Richard, Hayley Mills, the Beatles and a few Scandinavian chicks chewed on the soups of the day. Aside from that, there was a joint we called the Hare Krishna Curry House on Soho Street where orange-draped baldies scooped rice and lentils onto plates (for free, if you were homeless) and that was IT for healthy eating in London. So being offered “bran muffins”, “rice cakes” or “granola” was mildly confusing. Crumpets and corn flakes, I knew. This stuff...wuh? What the hell was a blueberry, anyway? I knew raspberries, strawberries, gooseberries and blackberries. Furthermore, in the UK we had 2 types of coffee...regular or decaf...but at least it was INSTANT! If you lived in the city, you might find a cafe that had a contraption that could (when it wasn't broken) cough out a cappuccino but those places mainly used them to appear more Italian or Continental, which didn’t really cut it in Muswell Hill or Shepherd’s Bush. Anyway, stuff we never saw in the UK was taken for granted here and, best of all, served up by knockouts like Andrea. It didn’t take long to acclimatize and, once again, wish I lived in America.
Despite its relaxed and rather groovy ambience, Bloomington's general population wasn’t very switched-on, musically speaking. Even local boy, Johnny Cougar was deemed too ‘punk’. 'Proper' gigs were hard to come by, so they’d play wherever they could. Like the Munroe County Public Library, for instance, indelibly preserved on the Gulcher CD “Live At The Library”. David and I had to settle for seeing the band in the basement of (bass player) Dale Sophiea’s house.
It’s all a bit of a blur, but I remember how struck I was with Bruce Anderson's guitar playing. His tone was distinctive. I was already a fan from the tapes Rich had sent me but in a live context, he was extraordinary. Possessing a beatific presence, he wrung new notes and chords out of his instrument. He was one of the best guitarists I’d seen and there wasn't really anyone you could compare him to. That was something I tried to look for in my potential signings. He made it all seem so effortless.
I have a tendency to not notice bass players unless they’re Lemmy or Ronnie Lane but you couldn’t miss Dale. He has this zen-like, all-encompassing, gentle giant vibe and, without fuss, he anchored the band with an instrument that looked like a balsa-wood toy in his hands, while Dave Mahoney and Jeff Armour gave it plenty of stick in the back. Bands with 2 drummers? I love ‘em. Since I'd seen The Pink Fairies at Hornsey Town Hall and Ginger Baker’s Airforce at the Marquee, I'd always wanted a band with two drummers. MX employed the idea to great effect and on top of all this was Rich, deadpanning his way through the songs and playing his silver sax. Rich was something else. Talk about a sharp wit. He seemed at ease doing several different things at once. He was the ‘obit-man’ for the Bloomington Herald-Telephone where he'd sometimes embellish the facts about a recently deceased person. He was also in charge of its "Hotline", which found him answering random questions from the paper's readers and printing the best ones. He kept the best voicemails and used to edit them together for the amusement of his friends. One featured a lady who'd called in to report a "whole mess of birds" in her yard acting "doped up". She'd called to see if "somebody that's interested in birds..or...dope - or something like that - might like to notice these things, to act on it." He'd cycle everywhere. He was writing his first novel, "Butterworth" and gave me a manuscript. He was always on top of all the latest technology. This guy just didn't quit. And here's proof.
As always, just as things got warmed up, after 35 minutes or so, the showcase was over. It seemed an awful long way to come for just over half an hour and I could have used a whole lot more, but that's not really how it works. I was very happy to have finally seen them but I could tell this wasn’t really David's cup of tea. It was finished and Andrea, Rich and I walked David back to his hotel in the snow.
At some point, I went to Rich’s house where he and Bruce had painted his wood floor white and, in a Pollock-y style, dripped and splattered black paint over it. I had been invited to stay an extra day or two for a further taste of the Midwest and was totally up for it. The following morning, I met the band’s friends and wives, several of whom turned up bearing gifts. Mark Bingham, the band's producer seemed to have a huge appetite for 'college hoops' and carrot juice. The Hoosiers were his team, and their coach, Bobby Knight, later became the subject of an MX song, 'White Knight'. There was a sack of carrots in the kitchen so he stuffed a huge bunch of them, tops and all, into something called a 'juicer'. Tasted foul. Still, he was friendly and we connected through music and film. He told me about ‘Eraserhead’, a film he’d just seen in Greenwich Village at Cinema Village on E. 12th Street. He spoke of this new director, David Lynch, and described the film in a way that made it sound like either it was the best film ever made, or possibly the worst. It sounded fascinating and I made a mental note to check it out next time I was in New York. When I finally saw it at Cinema Village on 12th St., it gave me horrific nightmares so I had to go back to see it again the following day only, this time, not high.

Dave and his wife, Kim Torgensen, came over and presented me with a 'clay record' she’d thrown with an MX-80 logo stamped into it. For years, my electric kettle sat on it...now, it's in my office.

MX-80 Sound clay record 'award'
by Kim Torgerson

Jeff stopped by to watch the basketball and hang out. Bruce practiced guitar (unplugged) on the sofa and told me about Lonnie Mack, a guitarist from Dearborn County, Indiana, who'd never made it to England. His 'Wham Of That Memphis man' lp (Fraternity Records) is a classic.
A friend of theirs called Steve Hoy showed up. I never really knew what he did (other than appear in a photo on the front cover of Hard Attack) but he was funny, and easy to talk to. Dale’s wife, Elana, gave me a t-shirt that she’d silk-screened.

ht
Bloomington, IN
photo: Andrea Ross Stim

Bruce and Dale both had jobs at the Von Lee, a local cinema, and I was invited to that night's screening of John Waters’ follow-up to Pink Flamingos, ‘Female Trouble’, a film Dale had booked as part of his midnight movie series. Well, everybody knows about John Waters now, but back then he was a tiny cult figure/underground film director, at best. After the initial shock, I thought it was one of the funniest things I'd ever seen. You can make your mind up here. It took a while for (even) Pink Flamingos to make it to the UK but I remember taking a date to see it at The Screen On The Green in Islington. Never saw her again.
That afternoon, I got to meet Gulcher Records owner Bob Richert who loaded me up with Gizmos stuff and Gulcher Magazines. Everywhere I went, people were laidback, generous and extremely friendly. Too bad it wasn't like this where I came from.
Sadly, I never did get to work with the band again. 10 months later, David Betteridge took me with him to CBS, while MX-80 moved en masse to San Francisco/Berkeley where they found a home with Ralph Records. It would appear they retained the rights to most of their releases, so go visit their own Quadruped Media outlet for those, and much much more...

poster for 'Out Of Tunnel' (Ralph Records)