Screwtop Thompson

9. Half as Nice

Auntie Pat had enjoyed a rich and colourful past, although she probably hadn’t enjoyed it quite as much as she should have. Nowadays she preferred the trappings of an ‘ordinary’ existence. Accordingly, when she popped in for a cup of tea she seemed just like a normal auntie: she was pleasant, humorous and without fail considered the needs of others before her own. True, she was very attractive and shapely. Even as youngsters we could see that. Yet nobody would have guessed that she had once been famous. During the liberated decade she was a member of the pioneering all-girl vocal group, The Katkins, who’d had four top-twenty hits in a row. Following that she’d gone on to be one of the most in-demand session singers in the country, appearing on numerous well-known recordings. In other words, Auntie Pat had tasted stardom. In recent years, life had become much quieter.

She wasn’t our real auntie, by the way. She just happened to live nearby, and Auntie Pat was what we’d always called her. Born Patricia Elspeth Stephens, she was known throughout the world of pop music by her stage name, “Peeps’ (later changed temporarily to ‘Peppy’). Sometimes she’d come round while we were watching Top of the Pops, and occasionally they would show old black-and-white clips from years gone by. Suddenly, smiling for the cameras, would be a youthful Auntie Pat with her co-performers, instantly recognisable by their trademark ‘pile it high’ hairstyles. Also the shortest skirts imaginable. Their hits all used the same template: songs about loneliness that you could dance to. They also shared a common theme. Their first disc was ‘BABY, COME RUNNING BACK TO ME’, a minor triumph which only just scraped into the chart at number nineteen. It was enough to attract the public’s attention, however, and they quickly followed up with ‘BABY, COME BACK SOON’. This did much better, as did the seminal ‘HOW LONG, BABY, HOW LONG?”.

There then ensued some dissent within the group as they began to squabble about the musical direction they were taking. It was the usual problem: one of the girls (not Auntie Pat) wanted to be recognised as leader of the outfit, rather than as merely one third of a trio. Only after several months had passed did they release ‘HE CAME AND WENT’. It got as high as number twelve and paid the bills, but the end was now clearly in sight. As soon as the song dropped out of the charts the group split up; they’d missed the chance to record the album which might have saved them from obscurity.

The four singles had all been produced by Auntie Pat’s former husband, the legendary Michael ‘Dwight’ Gardner, whom she married very young. Theirs was a stormy relationship, due mainly to Dwight’s unpredictable nature. He had a very chequered history, to say the least, and was reputed to have made and lost his fortune several times over. Convicted for armed robbery whilst still a teenager, Dwight studied electronics in jail and at the end of his sentence found employment as a sound engineer with a record company. Very quickly he moved into production, scoring some success, and subsequendy crowning himself ‘the high priest of rhythm’. He also fancied himself as a vocalist, and it was his jealousy of Auntie Pat’s sublime tones that ultimately soured their marriage. He had proposed to her not long after The Katkins drifted into his sphere of influence, and in the beginning they had been happy. After the group’s demise, however, his attentions seemed to focus elsewhere. She left him when he began beating her up regularly.

Unfortunately, that was not the end of their entanglement with one another. Some months later Dwight unearthed a demo he had recorded as a duet with Auntie Pat, a soulful ballad entitled ‘THIS AIN’T HOW IT SEEMS (IT’S A SHAME)’. The song had been written by Dwight and then shelved, apparently forgotten. Such was the way of the music industry. Now, though, Dwight decided to bring his considerable production skills into play. Working late at night in his private studio, he adapted the recording by using an editing device which crudely ‘bleeped out’ selected words from the song, consequently leaving much to the imagination. The remastered version was then given a new title: “THIS AIN’T PAINT ON MY JEANS (IT’S A STAIN”), with the performance credited to ‘Dwight and Peppy Gardner’.

Dwight knew a lot of people in the music business, and the tape was soon circulating amongst those ‘in the know’. Once the required ‘buzz’ had started, an easy ride lay ahead, ‘THIS AIN’T PAINT’ was released as a single just before the start of the school summer holidays (a popular time for such questionable offerings) and was a massive hit, reaching number two in the charts despite being banned by all the mainstream radio stations for its presumed lewd content. Building on his own notoriety, Dwight fuelled the controversy further by holding a press conference; wearing his customary dark glasses he then sat in silence before the assembled journalists, steadfasdy refusing to answer any of their questions. The stunt was just part of a perfectly timed marketing campaign aimed at milking the song for all it was worth (a rumour later emerged that the so-called ‘ban’ had been concocted with the help of certain radio insiders). Finally, as a coup de maitre, the record was ‘rush released’ in its original unadulterated form, and Dwight made even more money. Needless to say, Auntie Pat never received a penny, though she did at last obtain her long-sought divorce. Naturally, she was mortified by the entire episode, as she disliked any kind of smut or innuendo. Therefore, she felt compelled to disappear for a while from the public’s gaze.

♦

Dwight later tried his hand in management, taking on an experimental rock group called The Seas of Saragossa. They quickly came to rue the day they signed their contract with him. Though they lived an apparent life of ease in a stately mansion (rented for the purpose by Dwight) they were, in fact, his virtual slaves. Instead of royalties they were paid a weekly wage, and when they ate they dined on eggs and chips in a very un-hip transport café, where they were forced to endure taunts about their long hair from the rest of the clientele. Nonetheless, Dwight worked hard on their psychedelic image. Prior to a gig one night, he arranged for there to be several photographers from the tabloid press in the audience; he then ordered the group to smash up their instruments and amplifiers ‘live on stage’. Disastrously, they misunderstood his instructions, and proceeded to destroy their equipment at the end of the very first number. For years to come, witnesses told the story of how Dwight was seen fighting his way through from the back of the crowd shouting, “Not yet, you idiots!” By the time he reached them it was too late. The damage was done, and he was obliged to deduct the costs from their wages.

The hapless group eventually succeeded in escaping Dwight’s clutches by issuing a declaration in which they publicly eschewed all drugs. Dwight, of course, sacked them immediately without so much as a second thought. (The statement finished their careers anyway: album sales nose-dived overnight, never to recover.)

The Katkins, meanwhile, had long-since faded into oblivion. All that remained were their records (and a few clips of black-and-white film).

I had a vintage copy of ‘BABY, COME RUNNING BACK TO ME’ on the original label. Occasionally, I removed it from its paper jacket and gave it a spin.

Listening to it after all those years made it sound very distant and remote: I simply could not imagine that one of those faraway voices belonged to our Auntie Pat. Furthermore, I noticed that there was more to the composition than first it seemed. If you listened to it properly you came to realise that the song was full of sadness; and also a yearning for something better. Yet in reality nobody did listen properly: when the record came out, the people who bought it just wanted to dance.

This did not matter to Auntie Pat. Luckily, she was able to pursue her natural vocation as a very gifted singer for many years. Every popular group, or ‘band’, as they now called themselves, demanded her presence at their recording sessions. She appeared on dozens of albums, mainly as a backing singer, but also when the drink-sodden lead singer was unable to reach the required high notes, especially if ‘rising fifths’ were involved.

Gradually the liberated decade gave way to the progressive one; then came the more sensitive decades.

At the turn of the century a young and up-coming band put together a very sympathetic cover of ‘THIS AIN’T HOW IT SEEMS’. The sleeve notes included a dedication to Auntie Pat, and their delicate approach appeared to assuage some of the pain she’d previously associated with the song. When they requested her to perform it with them at a festival, however, she gracefully declined the offer.

Auntie Pat was increasingly seeking the quiet life. She had made enough money from the session work to live on (carefully) for the rest of her days, and she no longer felt the need to sing her heart out. I couldn’t help thinking, though, that she retained a vast reserve of talent as yet untapped.

Clearly others thought so too. One day the phone rang. “Oh, hello,” said a man’s voice. “I’m trying to get in touch with a Mrs Patricia Gardner, or you may actually know her as Patricia Stephens…Oh, yes, that’s right, Peeps. Yes, well, I wonder if you could tell her Michael rang?”