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.
You can get a glimpse into where I was just before this, in 1982/83, in this four-part article:
I, also, am who I am because of Wham! Part 1 (of 4)
This week is more or less one year since I first posted here on Substack. I wanted to mark this with something a little bit different, and also something more personal, a glimpse into my world so to speak.
(*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.
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…
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 ).
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…
Life was beautiful. The nights were long and now blurry. The days were magical. If I close my eyes, I’m instantly back in the beige-leather co-pilot seat of David Levine’s burgundy Triumph Stag MkII, 2 hard-top removed, soft-top-down, David driving eastwards and fast, three-litre V8 growling, along an almost empty three-lane Westway (yep, once upon a time there was hardly any traffic in central London), heading into town, listening to Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together”, with our gorgeous girls in the backseat, their long blonde hair everywhere in the slipstream of the Stag’s classic T-shaped rollbars. David was with Claire Hitchen (her father, Brian, was a big Fleet Street newspaper editor), and I was with Jacky Sharrock (a fashion and glamour model, and minor UK celebrity, in that she had featured several times as a Sun Page 3 girl and Starbird). We were all singing along at the top of our voices, especially Jacky who had an amazing set of vocal chords, a total Liverpudlian lack of self-consciousness, and an innate comic ability, that kept us more reserved and self-conscious Home Counties types constantly amused and in fits of laughter… especially when she began to imitate how stiff and tense we Southerners all could be. I was just a bit besotted.
Where we were heading, I don’t remember. Clothes shopping in Oxford Street maybe, or lunch in Chinatown, or Hampstead Heath for a walk, or to a Docklands warehouse photography studio, to check something David was working on. David was a great guy. Creative. Confident. Kind. Dry-witted. Generous. Honest. Genuine. Charming. Having said all of that David could also be dark, with a sharp tongue, temperamental (especially when he was working), and stubborn, which could come across as arrogant. Personally, I liked this mix. Authentically artistic talented people often have these dichotomous rough edges, this dogged determination. He was focused and precise, yet at the same time dynamic and fluid (not in a Post-Modern way). Claire, well, Claire was gentle, fun, and simply nice. She seemed very good for David, and vice versa. And Jacky, well what to say about Jacky… she had much more than just a spark, I think it’s enough to just underscore that I was besotted, totally…
We all had many adventures together. Some went very far off-piste. I remember on one occasion I brought a bottle of rum along that I had purchased at the airport in Grenada, in the Leeward Islands. Yep, I learned to sail as a kid, got some sailing qualifications under my belt, and from time to time I crewed on yachts. The year before I’d spent several months in the Caribbean doing just that. The last Island on one of the cruises was Grenada, and at the airport (which literally looked like it had been in the middle of a pitched battle, with bullet-hole-riddled walls, and bomb craters everywhere) there was a guy outside the main entrance selling plantain rum — literally a totally clear liquid in a clear glass bottle, with no label on it, absolutely no dietary info whatsoever…
Anyway, one evening back in London, we were all heading out to a party, and right at the last minute I grabbed this bottle of rum from my bedroom, to bring along, because I didn’t want to show up empty-handed…
Long story short, poor Claire ended up in hospital, getting her stomach pumped due to alcohol poisoning from drinking (and continuing to drink) this plantain rum — which now I’m guessing had very little plantain in it, and was most likely mostly some kind of industrial alcohol solvent agent… the follies of youth!
Plaintain rum from Greneda, hey? Yep, I’d crewed on a yacht chartered by the London hotelier, Justin Humphreys. I ran several ‘errands’ for justin over the following few years. He was quite a character. His daughter, Tiph (Stephanie), was the best-friend of a close school-friend of mine. On and off Tiph and I dated. We were both quite private about this. Not so many people knew we had anything going on. In particular I didn’t think Justin, her father had any idea.
Very early one morning Tiph and I were fast asleep in her bed at her parents house — which we thought was empty (nobody was at home, her parents et al had gone away for a few days). At about 06:30am or so, Tiph’s bedroom door burst open and in walked Justin with a big tray of breakfast — for three! He sat cheerfuly on the edge of Tiph’s bed with us both naked in it, chatting, drinking coffee, and eating toast. He didn’t bat an eyelid to the disarray of our clothes on the floor, which had been very quickly removed the night before. I was totally taken aback. Quite uncomfortable, yet at the same time thinking: Wow, these South Kensington types are so relaxed and open-minded!
Tiph’s family had had a tradgedy a few years earlier. And I think it kind of underpinned Justin’s character, his weird quirky laisse faire attitude.
Justin had a motor yacht, named Talisker (after the Whisky/Scottish settlement) based in the Mediterranean, originally out of Venice (if I recall correctly). On one occasion he and his wife, and their best friends (a married couple) went on a cruise together. One night, very late, Talisker was moored just off some coastline. Justin went up to the bridge. He stumbled upon his wife and his best friend in the advanced throes of making out. In the ensuing debacle, Justin’s wife had a stroke, and was paralysd down one side of her body, lost the ability to speak, and could not walk un-assisted.
They didn’t immediately split up or get divorced. Somehow they had stayed together (at least for several years afterwards) and worked through it, and Justin and his family took care of his wife/their mother. They were all very open and quite matter of fact with me (and everbody else I saw them around) about what had happened. Now they were just gettng on with life the best they could. It’s for this reason I don’t feel that I am breaking any confidences by writtng this. I’m wrting this because I thought they were remarakable people.
Anyway, back to Jacky, Claire, David and I.
At the time, not only was I working as a freelance sound engineer, I was also writing songs. I teamed up with another songwriter, a great vocalist, named Jaime Petrie. Eventually, we both got signed as songwriters to the independent London-based music publishing company, Intersong, which very shortly afterwards was bought by Warner Chappell. We wrote and recorded many songs together, and David Levine was very often involved with this — as a close trusted friend critiquing our songs, taking photos, and making videos.
Right now, I seem to have mislaid all the copies of videos I had that he made. Maybe someone else still has copies. Maybe mine will turn up eventually. I’m for sure going to keep searching.
In particular, I remember going to Los Angeles (later, maybe 1987) for a few months. It wasn’t the first time, I’d been several times before. Quite often my trips were motivated by a wish to hook up with a girl. This time Jacky was in L.A. My friend, Hazel O’Connor was also there at the time.
Whilst there, I wrote a poem called “Values” about Los Angeles. It had been slowly bubbling up during my previous two visits there.
Back in the UK, I mentioned it to David. He asked to see it. Then he asked me to read it aloud. I obliged. David told me to forget about songs and record the poem, over some music. One thing led to another and within a few weeks I was in Matrix Studios recording a version of it to give to my publisher. The engineer at Matrix, who I have totally forgotten the name of, it could have been Paul, did most of the MIDI programming for me. David heard the finished demo and instantly offered to rapidly make a scratch video for the track.
Some perspective here — this was pre-Apple-Mac and FinalCut and the Internet! Making a video quickly was no mean feat! David’s solution to this? He went down to his local VHS rental shop on Goldhawk Road, Shepherd's Bush. They knew him well in there. He explained what he wanted to do, and he came back with maybe three big storage boxes full of films made in Hollywood. He then sat cross-legged on his living room floor with several VHS machines (some borrowed from neighbours) all wired together, with his flatmate and photographer, Sandro (I just don’t recall his surname, sorry), and spent the weekend finding clips from these movies and crash-editing them together live on to one of the VHS recorders. The end result was amazing. Totally unusable (copyright issues etc) but amazing! I can’t find it. Lost.
Anyway here is the audio (copied from a metal tape cassette) of this demo I recorded at Matrix, that David used, of “Values” (Circa 1988)…
As I’ve said, I was also writing songs with and for Jaime Petrie. Here is a song I wrote, recorded, co-produced, and played the guitars on, for him (with him singing). It’s called “Wicked Man”. This version was recorded in about 1987. Again it’s copied from a metal cassette. The song was originally written in 1985. It was inspired by something I read in some newspaper or magazine. On my original paper draft of the song I wrote the following:
Bravery in the face of extreme adversity. Malesela Benjamin Moloise - hanged Wednesday 21st August 1985 in South Africa.
The track was co-produced and programmed using Cubase on an Atari 1040ST by the amazing bassist, Colin Baldry, the equally amazing keyboardist Tom Kane, and I. We also had Akai samplers that we used for the drums etc. I cannot emphasise enough how cutting-edge having this kit and using it this way was back then! One of the backing vocalists is the remarkable Donna Gardier.
Dont worry. I haven’t forgotten. Slowly but surely we’re getting to Lemmy.
Our stomping ground (David, Claire, Jaime, Jacky, and I) was mainly from Acton Town in the West to Camden in the North to Battersea and Clapham, South of the River, to Hatton Garden in the East.
My life then centred around the King’s Road in Chelsea. Where I lived was a stone’s throw from where I worked, the now legendary Maison Rouge studios. Quite often a night out would start in the bar at Maison Rouge (yep, they had a private bar/cafe), in which you never knew who you were going to meet or what was going to happen, the list of celebs/music business legends that passed through there was almost endless…
At the time I was a bit of a fashion victim, my favourite shops being Johnsons and American Classics, in World’s End, Kings Road. Until recently I was still also the main guitarist in a kind of hybrid punk/indie band with two friends from school, Neil Brett (on bass) and Steve Rush (on vocals), and a gifted drummer Steve knew, named Neil Faulkner.
By the way, Neil Brett, Steve Rush and I were at school together with quite a few notable people. In my class alone, so people I spent five or six years with almost every school day, were Kier Starmer, Quentin Cook (aka Norman Cook aka Fatboy Slim), Andrew Cooper, and Andrew Sullivan of The Weekly Dish .
I’d also get clothes from Stephen King’s shop and got to know him. At one point he had genuine signed Warhol one-off sketches (that Andy Warhol had personally given him) on his shop’s wall.
I’d get coffee and magazines etc in the Chelsea Drugstore. And from time to time there would be some arty event or music business party in what was and now is The Pheasantry, but I think then it may have been called something else.
After work, which could quite often be after midnight, or after a night out I’d head to The Up All Night (now called Vingt-Quatre), on Fulham Road, to eat and unwind.
The list of nightclubs we went to was long… maybe the 606 for some live music, or The Camden Palace for the dance floor, or The Mudd Club, to talk pretentious shit. Jaime (especially) and I got to know quite a few of the promoters, founders, and DJs, like Philip Sallon, Rusty Egan, and Dave Dorrell.
Quite often the first place we’d head to would be The Mainsqueeze Club, on Kings Road. I remember going there one night with Jaime, Steve Brown, Jacky — and her best friend, Gina…
Gina and I did not get along!
Gina ALWAYS wanted Jacky as her wingman (wing-woman to be politically correct these days). Meaning that if Gina wanted to get with some guy, she wanted Jacky along with her — also getting with some other guy. I was kind of a bit more traditional and hoping for something more wholesome, monogamous, one-to-one and exclusive with Jacky — hence a tad of friction between Gina and I!
Immediately we arrived at The Mainsqueeze that evening Gina had her finely-tuned radar deployed looking around for some action. She clocked some guy almost instantly.
As it would turn out she eventually married him. His name was Michael Biehn. He’d been in some film we’d all seen the year before, The Terminator, and he was now filming in Pinewood Studios for a new film, Aliens.
Gina made a beeline for him and dragged Jacky (willingly — it has to be said, this was a Hollywood Star 🤷♂️) with her.
Steve Brown was mingling around talking to plenty of other people he knew. I wanted to at least try to stay close to where Jacky was — I know, pathetic, but what to say? So Jaime and I (not Hollywood Stars, just unknown London musos) moved to a corner, with a clear line of sight, where a group of people were playing backgammon. We, Jaime and I, played a lot of backgammon back then. He was good. Really good. So was I. However neither of us was as good as one of the guys playing that evening. We’d met him before, and he casually nodded acknowledgement to us when we sat down at the table. He was a black guy. American. Not like the black guys we knew from Ladbroke Grove or Shepherds Bush or Brixton. He didn’t look streetwise. He was very fashionably dressed, casual but smart. No bling and ting. Understated. With very short wirey dreads. Basically, he was a backgammon shark, and we knew it, we’d seen him fleece unsuspecting punters here before. He’d play a few games. Win some. Loose some. Then he’d suggest playing for money. Then he’d lose and lose and lose and lose some more, and then on his final bet, with really perfectly understated faux desperation he’d suggest double or nothing, winner takes it all! Of course, his opponent would agree. And of course, this black dude wins everything back and everything on the table. It was a good show to watch, whilst Jaime and I played each other on another board. The best part was his exit, precision timed to perfection, fast but not too fast, whilst the dazed mark was still grasping what just happened…
Meanwhile, Gina seemed like she was making headway with Michael Biehn. She’d now suggested that they all go to another club, maybe Tramp, or Peter Stringfellow’s, or perhaps The Embassy Club (Wikipedia seems to have taken down the listing for this club, but here is a taste). All of these were haunts of ours — especially, for Jaime and I, The Embassy.
However, much to Gina’s dismay, Michael said it was a school night and he needed to get back to his hotel to sleep for an early morning call at Pinewood.
By the way — and I did not know this until much later — a school friend, Carl Toop, (who was a dancer) was one of the Alien Warriors in this film, I mean he was inside the Alien suit — he was that thing!
After Michael left, Gina wanted to go on to Stringfellows or Tramp. Jaime and I looked at each other, then at Gina and both gave her a no-way shake of the head. For us, Stringfellow’s was a tacky meat market, and Tramp wasn’t that much better. Gina insisted. Jacky willingly agreed. They left, got a taxi, and disappeared into the night. Gina had won yet again. Getting Jacky alone was becoming almost impossible.
I tried to put it out of my mind. Jaime and I headed to The Embassy Club.
At that time, with a lot of clubs in London, well, you’d know who would be there, you’d know what kind of crowd to expect and what kind of action would be going on. The Camden Palace was almost always good. Unbelievably well-dressed trendy people but great fun and great music. The 606 Club, well, it totally depended on which band was playing. The Mudd Club — pretentious and a bit dramatic. Heaven - that was something else, with an unbelievable dance floor if you dared set foot on it. Like I’ve said Tramp and Stringfellow’s were pretty lowlife, glamorous, with copious amounts of champagne etc, but very seedy, and stupidly expensive.
The Embassy Club, in New Bond Street, in Mayfair I guess, was a bit different. You never quite knew what or who to expect there. They had good live music from time to time, especially showcases of up-and-coming talent. You could go there sometimes on a Friday evening and it would be almost empty, more like a quiet bar. Or it could be rammed to the gunwales. Sometimes it would be heaving with celebrities and industry professionals from music, film, TV, and theatre. Sometimes just very stupid very rich people visibly spending stupid amounts of money. You never knew who you’d see there or run into. Maybe some socialite like Mim Scala. Or a rock god like Mick Jaeger. Or some supermodel, perhaps Naomi Campbell. Or perhaps some British Royal or European Aristo.
One thing you could almost count on during 1985 was that Lemmy would more than likely be there.
So for transparency, I’m using a bit of dramatic licence here. What I’m about to recount didn’t necessarily occur that particular night. It could have been the week before. Or a month later. And it may not have all happened on that one occasion.
More or less Lemmy would be installed and static in one of two places in The Embassy.
He was either at the bar.
Or he was standing, or sitting on a barstool, in front of the one-arm bandit machine.
Mostly he was at the one-arm bandit.
Wherever he was he either had a cigarette in his hand, in the ashtray next to him, or in his mouth.
He always had a long drink, it looked like a bourbon and coke.
Quite often he’d have on a stetson, sunglasses, and even a long leather coat.
If he was at the bar on his own. He was just looking straight ahead. He didn’t really look around at all that was going on in the club.
If he was at the slot machine, he was totally focused on that.
Like I say, dramatic licence being used here — I’m not sure if this evening was the first time I met Lemmy, but let’s say it was.
I was long past being starstruck, but Lemmy, even back then, was kind of a legendary figure. I guess he and Motörhead had been mainstream-chart-famous since about 1980. And he was kind of being claimed by the Heavy Metal contingent as one of theirs, along with Ritchie Blackmore and Ozzy Osbourne etc. But as a teenager back in 1977, we Punks knew Motörhead, and for us they were punk Rockers (notice the specific use of lowercase and caps - punk Rockers) in the same way as Dr. Feelgood, or Eddie & The Hot Rods, or (of course) the song ‘Silver Machine’ from 1972 by Hawkwind with Lemmy singing… it was all PUNK. Protopunk. Space Rock. Pub Rock. To me, for us teenagers, Lemmy was an archetypal punk rocker.
I blundered over to him, by the slot machine, stood next to him, going for aloof I fumbled a bit with my hands and pockets, and then watched the reels revolving. He continued for a minute and then looked my way and pinned me with his gaze, in a very straightforward way, not irritated or annoyed, but not not irritated or annoyed. Basically, his look said ‘What the fuck do you want?’
In one short burst, I told him my theory. That “Ace of Spades” — which I loved — was more punk than metal. It was more Technical Punk Rock.
Once my theory was complete, Lemmy kind of nodded and Mmmd as if considering the proposition, all the while looking straight into my eyes. And then turned his head back to face the reels again, and continued playing.
I remained standing next to him watching and he didn’t seem to mind or care at all, he just carried on with his game.
After a minute or two, when it felt like I wasn’t interrupting, I continued. I told him my name. Said I was an audio engineer. Said where I was working. And that I was a musician too. And that I had a publishing deal. And I was trying to get a record deal, with my mate Jaime, who was over there, and pointed him out...
Remember, I was twenty-two and I’m guessing Lemmy was around forty. And he’d made it, in my eyes.
Anyway, he just kind of nodded and acknowledged as he continued playing.
And that was the beginning of some very short but very influential (for me) conversations I had with him whenever I saw him at The Embassy or elsewhere, so maybe eight or ten times maximum.
Lemmy had a presence that it’s difficult to explain. He was intense but not to the point of being overpowering or overwhelming, you felt you were being listened to and involved in a conversation, not being talked at.
He had very strong, clear opinions and he voiced them, strongly and clearly.
I’d say the most direct way I can describe my experience of him is that he was very clever, extremely astute, very genuine, and very authentic.
I’d say we talked about two topics: Politics. And the music business. When I say we talked, Lemmy talked, I made an occasional comment or asked a question.
And when I say talked about politics, not detailed nuanced deep-dives and analysis. It was more generally to do with how all politicians were corrupt and we didn’t need any of them.
About the music business, he was just very encouraging but urged caution in what were shark-infested waters. He expressed that music could be influential and that songs, in particular their lyrics, could have a big impact. This had a big impact on me, in particular, because at the time my music publisher only seemed to want Jaime and I to supply them with trite three-minute love-song bubble-gum, a product they could sell, and basically knocked back anything we came up with that went into more profound areas.
I’d say Lemmy was demonstrably an idealist, and he lived and breathed what he did. It was an honour to have met him.
This half-hour interview below from 1995 really captures who Lemmy was.
First, here is a 40-second clip from this video, just to give you a taste.
It’s all in a name
For those of you who like to delve, as a sound engineer and songwriter, I used more than one name, so for example (amongst others) Nic Briscoe, Nic Casparis, Nic Rudrum, Rudrum, U.NIK, and there were several Ting and Stuff’n’Ting remixes.
From 1985, for about five years, I continued working with Jaime Petrie and eventually, we signed an album recording contract with a major label.
Then in the very late 1980s, my life changed almost unimaginably in many ways… however, that’s another story.
Below are a couple of tracks from my archive that were never released and more or less have never been heard.
“Ease On Down” — written, recorded and produced, by me in 1990, at R.G.Jones, in Wimbledon — is a club track, featuring Donna Gardier. Originally recorded after playing a rough demo to and having some discussions with Rusty Egan — however, it was never released on his label, or through his contacts. Only a few white labels of this rough monitor mix (bodged edits and all) went out to clubs in London and Brighton. There were two other versions of this track recorded with two other singers. Keep in mind, this is nearly thirty-five years ago…
“New Horizon” 1991, is a song I recorded a demo of at home on an eight-track cassette recorder. Very few people have ever heard this song. Again, keep in mind, much more than thirty years ago, and a very quick demo at home…
As stated earlier, this longish article is an introduction, a kind of set-the-scene springboard piece, for an ongoing collaboration with Brad Kyle of Front Row & Backstage — a series of shorter written and possibly filmed anecdotes, that Brad then fleshes out in his own inimitable style. From time to time I also intend to write these more in-depth reminiscences.
Here, below, is a link to the first of Brad’s pieces…
Please note: I have another infotainment channel on Substack, called Unleashed & Unlimited, where I post podcasts, articles and content unrelated to music.🖋🎥🎙
Clearly, this was pre-‘The Selfie’ generation. There were no mobile phones. This idea of getting a photo of yourself in every situation and with every celebrity you encountered was just not really part of the culture in 1985. At best you may take a camera on holiday or to a concert, or perhaps have a Polaroid camera at a party. But getting photos of yourself with clients at work… that idea simply would not have entered my head…
I myself at the time had a slightly less sexy burgundy-coloured Triumph 2000 Mk2. Man, I wish I’d kept that car!
Nic! This is so cool!! What an interesting life! I hear you on the long form (I can imagine it’s exhausting!) - but I hope your collab with Brad produces many more insights into your fully lived life!