On of May, 1998 a group of XTC fans (Chalkhills subscribers all) assembled in London to talk a great deal of rubbish and laugh a lot...
Pictures courtesy of Steve Clarke's tricksy new digital camera!
A little late in coming, I suppose, but some people prefer it that way. Massing waves of respect and gratitude are directed towards Tim Kendrick, gracious host and organiser of the London Chalkhills gathering, an event which not only allowed me to indulge myself in endless XTC monologues (things which make my Chalkhills posts seem interesting in comparison), but which was also a catalyst for the mutually long-awaited meeting between me and the numinous Becki diGregorio.
From Left to right: Bob Prowse, Mick Casey, Phil Hetherington, Me, Becki diGregorio,
Steve Clarke, Dan Prendiville, Andy Miller.To begin with there was the train journey from Newcastle to London - purgatory; I was sharing a table with two men who used phrases like "careerwise", "jumping ship", "touching base" and who both clutched headed paper from the "International Society of Organisations". Thank Sony for the personal stereo.
Once in London I paid eight pounds for a guided tour of the local traffic jam by a balding psychotic with rudimentary motor skills; I only started to feel even remotely safe in the taxi when I contrasted my position with that of the cyclists - cyclists - who ducked in and around the seething steel beasts. As one cyclist to another I doff my helmet to you, and then hurl it at your misguided heads - you are a suicidal menace and you added at least two pounds to my cab fare by taunting my driver into chasing you up blind alleys out of spite. I would no more ride a bike in central London than sew my lips to a Prelate.
From Left to right: Bob Prowse, Tim Kendrick, Phil Hetherington, Me, Becki diGregorio,
Steve Clarke, Dan Prendiville, Andy Miller.My initial meeting with Becki went perfectly - we clicked like a waltzing skeleton - and, after an exchange of gifts, some lunch and a little light tourism we met up with Steve Clarke for a rather splendid meal in Manoram (is that right Steve?), a Thai restaurant in Maiden Lane. A real treat, thanks Steve - my only previous experience of Thai food had been sucking chip fat out of my neck wear - we enjoyed that very much. The wearing effects of travel had taken their toll on both Becki and I and, knowing we had a full evening ahead of us on Saturday, we had to wimp out on Steve and return to the hotel early. Ah yes, the hotel - the architectural missing link between a tithe-barn and the murkier areas of the Bastille. The razor power point by the mirror didn't work and the only other power outlet in the room was over at the far side. So I had to shave a bit, walk across to the mirror, memorize which bits needed shaving, go and shave, check back and so on. This took a long time.
From Left to right: Tom Slack, Me, Becki DiGregorio, Mick Casey, Bob Prowse, Phil Hetherington, Tim Kendrick More sightseeing on Saturday and then, a little after the appointed time (Becki and I had been looking at the old Assyrian relics - as featured on her CD cover - buy it buy it buy it - in the British museum and had been laid low with hysterics after hearing an American tourist ask; "Say, do you have the Rosetta Stone in English?"), we made our way to the Langham Hilton. As casual as slippers we stood before this spectacular edifice to swankery and expenditure. Fuck, we thought, they'll think we've come to steal the silverware. Becki, clothed in best big-shirt and denim maxime-relaxorama threads, approached the pink faced young man with the top hat who stood guard at the door. "Is this the Langham Hilton?" "Yes Madam." Madam?! Oh, we're doomed. In we went. A gathering of finely-dressed young-and-wonderfuls stood at the top of the stairs. Our note from Tim said that he'd booked the Elgar Suite for the afternoon. There was no sign for the Elgar Suite. The fearless Becki strode on, "We'll ask", she said. And there you have the difference between the English and Americans - I felt like I was simply in the wrong place, that I should apologise to everyone and then leave, hurling myself bodily under the first bus I saw to cover my shame. We approached the desk - looking like a plumber's convention - much to the horror of the girl behind it who was very helpful, tracking Tim's booking down to another room and then escorting us directly to the lift (do not pass go, do not speak to anyone, try to look like you're not here) and making quite sure that we were out of public view as soon as possible.
The room was easily found, the door bulging out with each beat of the XTC music it strained to hold back. Already assembled when we arrived were Tim our gracious host, Andy Miller, Steve Clarke, Phil Hetherington, Mick Casey and my old pal Dan Prendiville. It's always odd meeting people you've emailed - Dan and Steve I'd met before, but the others I hadn't, even though there had been certain previous exchanges of email and contraband. As usual I'd forgotten my camera (I should nail it to my eye). Conversation flowed pretty free and easy and the subjects trailed around all aspects of XTC and off into the murky foothills of other subjects as movies ("XTC are the Orson Welles' of the music industry. Discuss." - and we did) a very rough poll showing that the favourite movie of all right-thinking XTC fans is Powell and Pressburger's "A Matter Of Life And Death" (known as "Stairway To Heaven" in the USA). As you can imagine, with three hours of so of wide-ranging conversation a lot of ground was covered and little of what was said will translate well into the written word - what I can report faithfully, though, is a happy gathering, with plenty of enthusiasm and laughter. About halfway through the afternoon Bob Prowse arrived and joined the fun.
From Left to right: Neville Farmer, Andy Miller, Becki diGregorio, Tim Kendrick, Me, Phil Hetherington, Mick Casey
Dan Prendiville,Thereafter we left the hotel, trekking on to the Spaghetti house, a journey which we made with such efficiency that we arrived with 45 minutes to spare and thus were forced to sample various ales in a nearby establishment. Poor Andy Miller! Having already decided that he would be unable to attend the evening meal he bought a full round of drinks as his contribution to the continuing festivities. Then, in a moment of utter madness, he called home and declared his intention to stay the distance. Hope you didn't get into too much trouble, Andy...
The conversation and theorising continued at the Spaghetti house, where we partook of food and fine wines ("we want cake") and warmly greeted the arrival of Neville Farmer. Neville happily turned out to be as nice as guy in person as he had over the phone - friendly, open, informative and - though obviously protective of his friendship with the band - enlightening in respect of band politics and studio procedures, etc. He brought some excellent photographs of the band in action, covering - I think - the recording of O & L, Nonsuch and the forthcoming album. Just after Neville's arrival, Tom Slack arrived and our number was complete. The food was wonderful - pasta and pesto, yeum - and our decision to move on coincided exactly with the dying notes of a well-fed group rendition of "Punch And Judy". In the pub, Finnegan's Wake, we continued our conversation and tippling, Neville coping very well with the the barrage of questions and theories from all of us.
As always with these things there is never enough time to talk with everyone as much as you'd like - I was so overawed at having my soul-sister Becki to hand that I missed the chance to talk with the others quite as much, even though we did bunch into groups towards the end of the evening; as the gathering broke up I was concious of not having spent as much time as I would have liked talking with Mick Casey and Andy Miller, fine fellows both. I hardly got to speak to Neville either, but that was more by design - he's already been subject to my dumb questions often enough, it was time for other people to persecute him for a change.
