The Ace of Spades & The One-Arm Bandit

How I met Lemmy Kilmister.

1985

In 1985 I was twenty-two, living in London (in Chelsea to be precise), working as a freelance sound engineer, clubbing almost all the time (in and around central London), and aspiring to be a professional musician — by my definition back then meaning signed to a major record deal and involved in making charting records.

Everything I’m about to write about herein could have actually happened during 1984 or 1986 — nearly forty years on it’s all a bit of a blur. Back then I seemed to move flats at least every six months, and the pace of life was almost always full-throttle. So more or less I’m talking about circa 1985.

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You can get a glimpse into where I was just before this, in 1982/83, in this four-part article:

(*Spoiler alert) Here’s the final section of those articles, just to set the scene…

Blessed

What's also coming to my mind is that during the next two years or so in London, with Tolley (my girlfriend back then), my path crossed with David Bowie (as an extra in one of his videos, and hanging out at another of his video shoots, Blue Jean, with Paul Ridgley — Andrew Ridgeley’s brother — who mimed the drums), Tony Visconti (in Maison Rouge), Guz Dudgeon (in Maison Rouge), Stephen Bishop (in Maison Rouge), Chaz Chandler, Eric Burden, and Alan Price (of The Animals, in Maison Rouge), Steve Jolley and Tony Swain (in Maison Rouge), Spandau Ballet (in Maison Rouge), Steve Levine and Boy George (in Maison Rouge), Trevor Horn and Frankie Goes To Hollywood (in Island’s Basing Street Studios, soon to become Sarm West), The Edge (in Basing Street Studios), Paul ‘Webo’ Webb of Talk Talk and Dave Dorrell (Sally Anne’s close friends), actors and brothers Joe Mcgann and Paul McGann (again Sally Anne’s close friends, Joe became a close friend), Clive Black (our publisher and Don Black’s son), Duncan Bridgeman (then of I-Level — later of 1 Giant Leap — in the rehearsal studios in Holloway Road), Carol Hayes (a top London PR), David Levine (an amazing photographer, who became a close friend), Chris Thompson (of Manfred Mann's Earth Band fame — Paul Ridgley, Jaime Petrie, and I sang backing vocals and were in a video for a single called Push & Shove he released with Hazel O’Connor for Greenpeace), Lemmy (chatting and drinking with him next to ‘his’ one-arm-bandit machine in the Embassy Club), and Rick Parfitt and John McCoy (recording and/or mixing in Maison Rouge). I also remember getting totally hammered in The Camden Palace VIP bar with Phil Lynott (assisted by Andrew Ridgeley and Dave Mortimer aka David Austin). And later, maybe in 1986 or so, going backstage at a Prince concert in London and meeting him, I think this was with Jamie Petrie, but maybe not, but definitely Jamie and I met briefly with James Brown, and also with Elton John, at big shows they did in London. You get the picture, there are many others I could mention or have forgotten to mention. All of them, all these superstar musicians and producers, in their own way, were inspirational icons for me, and I feel very blessed to have met them, even if only briefly.

With George (Michael), it's a much more profound sense of gratitude. It's clear from the news headlines (about his death) that this man really touched so many people's lives on so many levels. George truly was an unwitting catalyst, unbeknownst to himself benefitting and connecting many others he crossed paths with.

In that respect, I am just one of many, and my story is no more special than any of the others. Add to this we are all probably unwitting catalysts in our way, we all touch so many others’ lives.

For me, all of this, the story I have just recounted, now is simply many great memories (and some not-so-great), of young carefree days. George was not so much part of my life, nor even part of the soundtrack of my life. It's more that he, and all those people back in London in 1982/5, and the person that I was, were and remain part of the fabric of my life, woven into it, now inseparable from it. We can’t change the past. None of us can change who we were. Nor the things that we did — good or bad — or that others did to us — good and bad. It is what it is.

‘You win some, lose some, it's all the same to me.’ (Lemmy, from Ace of Spades)

All just water under the bridge. Mistakes made. Achievements gained. Lessons learned — hopefully. Amends made — wherever possible. What now? What next… ?

About putting pen to paper, to write all of this, well, it’s a one-off trip down memory lane. It’s by no means a planned regular journey. To remind you, the original version of this article was posted on FaceBook, privately, two days after George Michael died. This final updated version is being published publicly to celebrate and commemorate what would have been George’s sixtieth birthday.

Our past is often quite difficult to explain (even to ourselves)…

And as for all the people back then, mentioned herein, whether I meet with any of them again matters not, as they are all here with me wherever I go.

A heartfelt thanks again to all of you who were part of this magical time, especially Tolley, Sally Anne, Hazel, Tony, Steve, Deon, Ricki, Paul, Jaime, Andrew and in particular to George — always so kind, generous, friendly, and joyful.

The End — for now at least…

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Back to 1985

Anyway, immediately contradicting myself, here I am again in April 2024 putting pen to paper to reminisce about almost forty years ago back-in-the-day, in 1985 (or thereabouts)…

Why? Good question — why, indeed? To be very honest, I had (and still have my doubts) as to whether anyone would find what are, in reality, quite mundane memories, of any interest whatsoever. Normally I stay very quiet about all of this stuff.

Part of the answer is encouragement from others, in particular

Brad Kyle

of

Front Row & Backstage

, Paul Macko of

Deplatformable Newsletter

, and Michael of

Michael Acoustic

. Whenever I’ve ventured to recount an anecdote from my times in the music industry these three fellow Substackers in particular have immediately spurred me on, with restacks, and comments, and (like I’ve said) huge amounts of encouragement on and offline.

Especially

Brad Kyle

, who in many ways is a kindred music business spirit. Like myself, throughout his career, he encountered, sometimes almost on a daily basis, famous superstars and music business dignitaries, just as part of his everyday life. Sometimes this was as fleeting as someone politely saying ‘Hi’ to you as they passed by, whilst exiting a lift, on their way to a meeting somewhere else. Not really an anecdote, however if that person was, say, David Bowie, it kind of sticks in your memory — David Bowie said hi to me! (And he did, say hi to me, several times.)

When something like that first happens to you, well you can hardly believe it happened. After, let’s say a year in the business, and it’s happened to you hundreds of times, well, the starstruck impact diminishes, it becomes normalised. However, you soon learn to keep your mouth shut around those NOT in the industry, it’s just NOT worth the grief it can cause. The mocking ‘you’re a bullshitter’ disbelief. The envy (when compared with their mundane day-to-day). The ‘could you possibly namedrop any more names? you insecure pretentious bastard’ and the ‘so you think you’re better than us’ reactions. So yeah, if, one Friday evening, you spontaneously find yourself out clubbing in central London, in a backroom VIP’s only private bar (brimming with just that, so-called industry VIPs), and getting beyond shitfaced drunk with Andrew Ridgely from Wham and Phil Lynot from Thin Lizzy, then best just keep it to yourself or play it down massively the next time you’re down the pub with your mates…

Q: What did you do over the weekend, Nic, get up to anything?

A: No, not really, just went for a quiet drink after work on Friday evening with a couple of work-mates up in London.

Forty years or more (or less) on, and those memories are still there, archived, mostly unshared, some best never shared, some too mundane to even bother with, some, well some may touch and resonate with others… let’s see, time will tell.

I can give you a quick example of one of my very mundane (not much really happened), yet (for me at least) simply mindblowing anecdotes…

I was a young (very-early-twenties) fledgling freelance sound engineer, based mainly at Maision Rouge, under the guidance of its studio manager, Tony Taverner. I got calls from many other studios to come and cover sessions. You have to understand that I was not a famous, sought-after engineer, however there were very few young competant engineers in London who could walk into a recording session, in an unfamiliar studio, and hit the ground running — knowing your way around and being able to competantly run a 48-track recorder, multichannel console, and all the auxillary equipment was a sort-after commidity back then. So, I would very often get called by a studio and asked to come in and cover when their main engineer was taking a day off (and their client still wanted to work).

One day I got a call (actually, to be accurate, it was Maison Rouge’s office that got the call, and they suggested me) from Air Studios in Oxford Street. It was on like the sixth or seventh floor, overlooking Oxford Circus. It had a Neve console, which I was familar with due to my long stint at CBS Whitfield Street studios (which unbeliveably does not seem to have a Wiki page or an associated website — unbelievable because it was one of the most important studios in London at the time…).

Air needed a competant engineer short-notice, for that coming Saturday afternoon, to run a very straight forward playback/listening session for a recording artist. These sessions were kind of selection sessions, where an artist listened back to several different takes (versions) of the same track on a multitrack recording — different versions of the same lead vocal, or the same guitar solo, or bass line — and basically chose which one or which parts to use. It was a doddle. You laced the tape on to the multitrack, pushed up some faders, opened a few channels, set some basic levels, and Bob’s your uncle. No micing-up. No recording. No editing. Just hitting the play button. Sitting. Listening. Rewinding. Fast-forwarding. And occasionally changing reels of tape. Meanwhile the producer or arranger and the artist would decide and log which recording takes they wanted to use. Easy peasy.

So I said yes, I had no plans for that Saturday, so why not.

I didn’t even think to ask who I was working with, it didn’t even enter my head, what did it matter.

I showed up to Air late-morning, got shown around the studio control room. There wasn’t much conversation with the Air studio staff, not many people were there, and it was Saturday morning, everyone was a bit subdued. I just got my head down and got on with setting up for the session. There were no tape reels yet, the producer, or the artist’s manager would bring those in when they arrived.

And then the tapes arrived, with the artist, the living-legend Paul McCartney… who very politely offered me his hand, shook mine, and said ‘Hi, I’m Paul’. To which I nearly replied ‘Yes, I know that!!!!’ But somehow managed not to and squeezed out a very formal and deadpan ‘Pleased to meet you too, I’m Nic.’

Let’s focus a bit here. I was in my early-twenties. I’d grown up with the music of The Fab Four as a main part of the soundtrack of my life. Due to my totally The Beatles and The Who obsessed older-cousin, Jonathan, I probably knew more about Paul McCartney and his life than I knew about my lovable gentle cousin himself! I’d grown up with Paul McCartney. And, now, there I was working professionally alongside him.

Yep, I spent a Saturday afternoon one-to-one with Paul McCartney, on a first name basis, sitting beside him, in the now legendary Air studios, listening to Paul’s songs with him, whilst drinking copious cups of tea/coffee. Now if you ask me what the songs were, what the project was… I have no idea, I simply don’t remember. However, from time to time, when he wasn’t immediately certain, Paul would ask ME which vocal take or guitar part I preffered: “Which one would you go for, Nic?” To which — even though I was still in a bit of a state of shock — I would as nonchalantly as possible state my preference, which sometimes he concurred with, sometimes not.

Yep, Paul McCartney asked ME for MY musical opinion. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it!

So, like I said, in many ways just mundane. Nothing really happened. I didn’t hear any tantalising gossip or dark secrets. Paul didn’t confide in me. There wasn’t any control room argument between Paul and some other superstar. We didn’t take shit loads of drugs or get totally slaughtered drinking Whisky from the Mull of Kintyre. We didn’t spontaneously start recording what would later be one of his monolithic epic hits. I didn’t get spotted and end up producing Paul’s next album, and co-writing a song with him. Paul didn’t offer me his phone number and say keep in touch. And I didn’t try to get his contact details. I didn’t ask to get a ‘selfie’ with Paul. ¹It was just another day at the office.

However, how many people can say that they spent the afternoon with Paul McCartney, and chatted about his music? Or how many people can say they spent time with George Michael whilst he was actually writing what would become hit songs? Or how many people had Jamaican-style ram-goat curry (with some very potent spices) cooked especially for them by Bob Marley’s close friend and cook, Gilly, whilst hanging out in Island’s Basing Street studios? Or co-wrote songs with DJ Skitz. Or told Trevor Horn (who I didn’t realise had been in Yes) during a work interview that in my opinion Yes were old-fashioned out-of-date dinosaurs, got a laugh and got some work. Or chatted with Gus Dudgeon about when he produced "Space Oddity" for David Bowie. Or shared a lunchtime pint and chat in The Ship on Wardour Street with Pete Townsend. Or were, as a teenager, the assistant engineer on a now epic British Soul album by Kokomo recorded in Trident’s legendary Studio 1? Or how many people can say they recorded one of their own songs in Abbey Road's Studio 2? Or how many people went on tour with Hazel O’Connor? Or did a special official remix of a Faithless track featuring Maxi Jazz — after having spent the afternoon with him going through ideas for the mix? Or mixed most of an Animals album? And on and on and on… well, if you’re into name-dropping, apparently I’m your man.

The fact is, probably hundreds of thousands of people globally have had similar experiences to these on a daily basis, for maybe a century or more. All the myriad unsung unrecognised backroom folk, well and truly in the background, that actually keep the whole industry ticking and afloat. And, of course, I know plenty of them, and I know many of their stories too…

Like, just for example:

When a friend of mine was tour managing The Foo Fighters (managing day-to-day stuff, not managing the band) on a world tour. The previous tour manager got sacked because mysteriously David Grohl’s sweat-soaked underwear from the tour turned up on eBay. My friend was the total opposite of that kind of cheap opportunism. Very honest. Very respectful. Very courteous. Very thoughtful and attentive. Very diligent. During the tour it was his birthday. He had not told anyone. He didn’t want to make a fuss, it was a very busy stint of the tour. At the end of his working day, after the show, exhausted after yet another eighteen-hour day, he side-stepped the after-party and went straight back to his room at the hotel. He opened the door and inside were all the crew and all of The Foo Fighters, in ‘SURPRISE!’ mode. They had champagne etc etc (use your imagination) and the Foo’s serenaded him on his hotel bed with an unplugged version of his favourite song, ‘Creep’ by Radiohead. My friend said he cried, sobbed his heart out, and does so (or at least wells up) every time he hears that song to this day.

Today, my main reason for writing is to introduce what hopefully will become an ongoing, from time-to-time, collaboration with

Brad Kyle

. Today I’m writing. In the future, I will not only write but also maybe tell a few anecdotes direct to camera — basically video myself reminiscing — and then hand those clips to Brad, who will then weave his magic, and take us all off in directions we could hardly imagine, that’s Brad’s talent (

Front Row & Backstage

).

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The Ace of Spades & The One-Arm Bandit.

How I met Lemmy Kilmister.

Where to start?

My favourite and lucky number is Twenty-Two, so let’s start there…

I was twenty-two years old during most of 1985. I was living just off the King’s Road in Chelsea, and mainly working at Maison Rouge recording studios in Fulham Broadway. By day, I was a freelance sound engineer. By night, well I had many guises and hangouts…