Touching From a Distance (6 page)

Once our home life had settled into a routine, Ian became frustrated with his lack of involvement in the music business. Tony Wilson had already presented
What’s
On
on Granada TV, and it was clear that something was beginning to bubble right under our noses. Unknown to me, Ian placed an advertisement in the music press in the hope of getting a band together. He signed himself ‘Rusty’ and had only one reply. This came from a guitarist called Iain Gray. He was a gentle figure, who enjoyed cracking jokes and for most of the time managed to cover up the fact that he was still grieving for his mother who had recently died. Ian began to see him on a regular basis, initially to exchange ideas about song writing. The two of them began searching Manchester night-spots and pubs for others to join the band, and met Peter Hook, Bernard Sumner and Terry Mason in the process.

As if being summoned to a religious gathering, we all assembled at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, Manchester, on 20 July 1976 to see the Sex Pistols. Ian had missed them the first time, much to his dismay. This was their second gig at this venue. He strode along looking for the right building and as I ran to keep up with him, he hurriedly explained that this band ‘fought on stage’. There weren’t as many people there as history would claim, but everyone who was to become anyone attended.

Peter Hook, Bernard Sumner and Terry Mason were sitting somewhere in front of us and although Ian spoke to them, he did not introduce me. Four small waifs strutted across the stage dressed like cronies of Oliver Twist. I wondered who was the mastermind behind this plan, but Ian was ecstatic. Seeing the Sex Pistols was confirmation that there was something out there for him other than a career in
the Civil Service. Their musical ability was dubious that night, which reaffirmed Ian’s belief that anyone could become a rock star. After the performance everyone seemed to move quickly towards the door. It seemed as if we had all been issued with instructions and now we were set to embark on a mission.

Ian’s determination gathered momentum. In August of the same year we packed one borrowed rucksack and hitch-hiked to Mont de Marsan for the punk rock festival. For me it was a welcome opportunity to go
on holiday. For Ian it was business – part of his career strategy. A bus and a boat-train took us to Paris. As we sat in the square at Saint-Cloud and devoured the last of our packed sandwiches, we didn’t suspect it would take us at least two hours just to get out of Paris. Once on the N10, it was comforting to know we were at least on the right route, but I can’t imagine why anyone ever picks up hitch-hikers. Every time we got into a car with a couple, they invariably had a row. One person would want to
take us as far as possible and their partner would want to eject us at the earliest opportunity. Then there were the two German hitch-hikers who insisted we walk behind them. We bowed to their superiority and allowed them to pass us. They were picked up within minutes. I’m afraid to say that at one time we were so desperate for a lift that Ian hid in the doorway of a tobacconist’s and left me alone at the side of the road. When a businessman in a smart car stopped, Ian ran out just in time to jump in.

After yet again causing an argument between a French couple, we were dropped on the outskirts of Bordeaux. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight and by the time we trudged into the city I was beginning to panic. We didn’t have a tent, it was nearing closing time for the hostel and, worst of all, Ian’s allergy to the sun had begun to take effect. Ian had always told me that he was allergic to the sun, but I had never seen it before. His hands were crimson and had swelled to resemble a huge pair of red rubber gloves. The busy port reminded me of Liverpool and I had visions of us perched on a park bench all night, afraid to go to sleep. Ian was very calm. He simply approached a young man buying petrol and asked him for a lift to the hostel.
Panic over. They bandaged Ian’s hands, although they seemed sceptical of our story that the sun was responsible. When two boys who were sharing Ian’s dormitory came to bed, he closed his eyes and stifled his giggles as they discussed his bandaged hands lying motionless on top of the covers.

The following night was spent in Captieux. There were two hotels, one on either side of the road, so we chose the cheaper looking one. After battling with the language and the uncooperative waitress, we managed to be served with one omelette and a plate of peas between us.

Despite all this we did reach Mont de Marsan. The festival was held in the stone bull ring, where we sat and consumed the cheapest wine ever trod while our skin blistered and curled before our eyes. The bill included Eddie and the Hot Rods, Roogalator, Pink Fairies, Nick Lowe, the Tyla Gang and the Gorillas. The most memorable band to play there, and in fact the only band I do remember, was the Damned. I thought Ian would try to talk to them, but he hardly moved never mind spoke to anyone. During the afternoon, several people collapsed from heat exhaustion. In the evening, the music stopped when a violent thunderstorm caused the open-air stage to become electrically unsafe.

We tried to sleep that night, first on the concrete seats in the bull ring and then on the wooden park benches outside. At dawn we began our way home, but there are many routes out of Mont de Marsan. Even after the early morning mist had lifted, we could not decide which was the correct one. A man and his small daughter eventually gave us a lift to Arcachon and a welcome bag of tomatoes.

Arcachon is a town with wide white-sand beaches, pine trees, fresh seafood and a silent, heavy heat. The youth hostel was full and, as we did not have a tent, we took the ferry across to Cap-Ferret intending to hitch to Bordeaux from there. As we sped along in the alarmingly small boat, Ian dragged his sore hands in the sea water.

The journey back to Paris was a good deal quicker than the journey to Mont de Marsan and after having our last thirty francs conned out of us in the Gare du Nord, we were glad to be back on English soil.
When Ian took me to see Iggy Pop in Manchester early in 1977, he introduced me to Peter Hook and Terry Mason who were sitting directly in front of us. As Hooky and Terry grinned at me from across the seats, I decided that this was more like it. Their enthusiasm and energy was boiling over and at last Ian had made contact with some realistic candidates for ‘the band’. ‘Where’s Barney?’ asked Ian. Pete made a movement with his hand, indicating that Bernard was under the thumb. That was the best gig I had ever been to. The audience were ripe for intoxication and Iggy Pop – the original punk – did not disappoint us. Most of us clambered up to stand on the back of our seats, save Ian who was too tall. There were too many of us for the bouncers to prevent it. As I stood swaying and rocking, I held on to Ian’s head to balance, not caring if the seat collapsed – the music was all that mattered. Throughout, Ian was surprisingly still, despite David Bowie making an appearance on keyboards. Perhaps he hoped that it would soon be him up there on stage.

Our decision to move back to Macclesfield was made quite suddenly, but it was something I had wanted for a long time. We found Oldham very isolated and the arduous bus journey into Manchester every morning was depression itself. We were both working on flexi-time and although it was Ian who insisted we start work as early as possible, he intensely disliked getting up in the morning. He held me responsible for easing him out of bed, but my efforts to get him to the bus stop on time were seldom appreciated. He would urge me to run on ahead in order to instruct the bus driver to wait for him. This I pretended to do every morning. By the time we arrived at Sunley Building, we would be arguing all the way up the escalators. I worked at the Department of the Environment in the same building as Ian, but on the sixteenth floor. It was my fault Ian had to get up in the mornings and it was my fault if he missed the bus. As soon as we met one of his work mates he would be all smiles, cheery and full of fun!

The Asian family we sold our home to were amenable and very polite, and even though they expected us to leave our meagre sticks of furniture behind, the sale went through smoothly. Ian could be
very quiet and polite when it was required and it wasn’t until I spoke to Pete Hook that I realized how racist Ian could be. Drinking spirits always had an adverse effect on his temper and it was only after one of these bouts that he began making vicious, prejudiced comments in an Indian restaurant. He talked about how one family took the toilet out of the house to make another bedroom, defaecated onto newspaper instead, and then threw it into their neighbour’s garden. The rest of the band thought this outburst very funny, but this facet of Ian’s personality was hidden from me and at the time I thought Ian shared my ‘live and let live’ views.

In the end the actual move was so badly co-ordinated that we had to move in with Ian’s grandparents again. However, it would not be for too long this time. They would visit Ian’s parents every Saturday and let us have the house to ourselves for the day. This gave me a chance to catch up on my hidden washing! Then I would stand in the back garden to put it through the mangle before hanging it on the clothes horse. It was a wooden affair which wound up to the ceiling on a small pulley. The whole ritual was reminiscent of my childhood in Liverpool and as I turned the mangle I couldn’t help but think what a small distance I had travelled in such a long time. My life appeared to be almost pedalling backwards.

Ian’s reggae fad had passed and he began to experiment with punk, but it was a half-hearted attempt. It wasn’t in his nature to follow the crowd to an extent where he would not stand out. He bought a khaki jacket and wrote ‘HATE’ across the back in orange acrylic paint. This took a long time to dry and left an imprint on Kelvin’s car seat. He would never have shown himself up by pogoing with the rest of them. When we went to gigs, I enjoyed being squashed and having to move in time to everyone else, but Ian was looking for a more individual way. He very much wanted to be the centre of attention.

Iain Gray had fallen into a routine of visiting us at the Hulme address every Saturday and although he had become literally part of the family, Ian’s dream of having a band seemed to be displaced by the companionship he was providing for Iain.

While Ian was too soft-hearted to tell Iain this, he became fanatical about meeting the right people and going to the right places. I didn’t object to staying late at city-centre clubs until the early hours, but Ian never let me sleep in and go to work late. We always had to be in work for 8 a.m., no matter how little sleep we had managed to get the night before. One night we were forced into catching a bus that didn’t stop as close to home as we would have liked. We found ourselves crossing a deserted wasteland of rubble, streets with pavements and kerbs, but no houses. There was very little light and although I had no idea where we were, Ian didn’t seem concerned and picked his way across in the gloom, with me hanging on to his arm in fright. Ever so quietly a car drew up alongside us. Ian pulled away from me and, leaning into the car, exchanged a few words before the driver cruised away. I asked Ian what had been said and he confirmed my worst fears: he had just been offered money for my services. I was furious with him for putting me in that position, but waited until we were in the safety of his grandmother’s scullery before letting him know it. Ian said nothing. He turned around, brought two long hands up and put them around my neck, just tight enough to render me immobile. After a few moments, he released me and we went to bed. We were up and about as early as usual and the incident was never mentioned again.

Peter Hook, Bernard Sumner and Terry Mason had known each other throughout early childhood. When they all found themselves at Salford Grammar School, they joined forces and became great friends. As the punk era arrived, they began looking for a singer for their band. Numerous odd-balls answered Bernard and Terry’s advertisement in Virgin Records, the most odd being a hippie who was dressed in what was clearly an old tasselled cushion cover. Danny Lee, a friend of Peter Hook, was said to be able to ‘out-Billy Idol’ Billy Idol, but he never actually managed to get up and sing. When Ian rang Bernard Sumner’s number, Bernard remembered bumping into Ian at local gigs and made a snap recruitment decision. He told Ian there and then that he could be in the group.

This left Iain Gray very much on his own. He must have felt rejected as he vented his bitter feelings on me at one of the last nights at the Electric Circus gigs. His rude verbal abuse offended me, but as he didn’t touch me physically I didn’t care. All I wanted was success for Ian and, at the time, the number of casualties was unimportant. Also Iain’s attitude was a little unfair.

To determine whether Ian really could fit in with the rest of the lads, Bernard arranged a ‘getting to know him’ session. This involved an outing to Ashfield Valley near Rochdale. He found a soul-mate in Terry Mason. They had both spent a large portion of their lives avidly reading the music press and waiting in record shops, hoping to be the first to buy each new release. They saw music as the main ingredient in life and believed everything the music press said. Ian in particular revelled in the tortured lives depicted in the songs of the Velvet Underground; any music which didn’t demonstrate a certain sadness, violence, or perhaps a struggle against impossible odds, was dismissed.

I decided to take driving lessons and even though Ian had no wish to drive himself, he was very supportive. I enrolled at a school near his parents’ house so Ian could visit them while I was having my lesson. I had no car of my own and there was no one to take me for a drive in between the one-hour lessons each week. One night my instructor directed me to drive down a deserted back street in the middle of Manchester and I found myself on a piece of wasteland behind a derelict mill. Luckily the look on my face was enough to tell
him he had made a mistake. Not wanting to tell Ian what had happened, I carried on taking driving tuition from the same man until the day I failed my test. Ian was wonderful when he heard of my failure. I think at that time, if I’d committed murder he would have stood by me. His loyalty made him very stubborn and he was loath to admit that I didn’t yet have the experience to pass the test.