I was nervous and excited to move to London. London was where the action was and after spending all my nearly seventeen years in rural France, I was ready for excitement. I was glad I had Aimee, my best friend since girlhood, along. I doubt I would have been brave enough to go alone. We were elated the Royal Academy of Art accepted us a year early. I planned to study hard, but Aimee and I couldn’t wait to experience the live music scene and to see where punk was born and where the Beatles recorded.
The first two weeks we stayed in our Piccadilly neighborhood. We visited the John Singer Sargent exhibit at the Royal Gallery, and took walks just to see the sights and come to grips with the fact we were really living in London. London was so unlike Paris. There were lighted billboards and other assorted advertising stuck on many buildings.
Our studies at the academy kept us from doing much outside the weekend, but after the first two weeks, we felt brave enough to venture outside Piccadilly. I picked up a local entertainment newspaper one Friday afternoon, and took it back to our small bed sit.
I sat on my bed and leafed through the paper before seeing an article on a band called The Piss Ants. Aimee sat beside me, reading over my shoulder while I read aloud, “The Piss Ants’ lead singer/guitarist is seventeen-year-old Keith Morrison.” I stopped reading to comment, “He’s the same age as us,” before continuing. “He’s quite possibly the next Joe Strummer and as good a guitarist as Clapton or Page from the Yardbirds days.” I giggled. “The reviewer says his voice sounds like he gargles with gravel and honey – a sharp contrast to his boyish good looks. . . . Look at the picture. He’s gorgeous,”
Aimee snagged the paper from me. ”Hmm . . . a bit scruffy looking, but not bad.”
I grabbed it back, giggling. “Je pense qu’il est magnifique. They’re playing tonight on Wardour Street and they’re a punk band.” I took out our London map. “Wardour Street is close enough to walk.”
After a quick dinner I changed into my favorite bright pink chiffon mini skirt, with equally bright leggings, added black ankle boots, touched up my makeup and tied back my thick auburn curls with a matching black bow. For finesse I added my tiny white skull earrings wearing pink bows.
Aimee looked equally punk wearing a tattered short denim skirt and white leggings with horizontal black stripes and spiky black boots. She looked like a punk rock pixie with her short dark hair moussed into spikes with a couple strands poking down the middle of her forehead. I felt shorter than my five feet because Aimee’s two-inch heels gave her a five-inch advantage. If only our parents saw us now. I was glad they didn’t.
We entered the small, dimly lit club –- my first time inside a London club. I stared in fascination at the attire some concert-goers wore. One girl had a bleached blonde Mohican that stuck up in one-inch spikes. Another girl wore a leather skirt and a zip-up leather waistcoat. I wondered how she managed not breaking a sweat. It being late September, the poorly ventilated club felt like a hundred degrees. I’d only seen such colorful people in pictures. London was definitely more exciting than the boring town I just left.
At last the house lights dimmed and the music from the break tape subsided. The supporting band came on stage, and I quickly grew bored. The lead singer’s vocals were weak, there was no audience interaction, and their songs were formulaic. I hoped The Piss Ants were as good as the article said. I’d just spent five pounds out of the meager allowance my parents sent and wanted my money’s worth.
When the Piss Ants hit the stage, I felt my jaw drop. Keith Morrison was even more gorgeous than his picture. He was drop-dead gorgeous! The band was incredible too. There was great rapport between the members and Keith oozed charisma from every pore. His short guitar solos showed he was every bit the talented guitarist he was acclaimed to be, but also provided the band, a power trio, with much of their energy. Everyone slammed into each other or jumped up and down so fast, they were almost blurs. A few people leaped on stage only to turn around and fly into the arms of other concertgoers. One girl with slapped-on makeup and a tight shirt cut way too low, jumped on stage, grabbed Keith and kissed him before a stage hand grabbed her and escorted her off stage. I hoped they kicked her out.
I couldn’t stop staring at Keith. He was tall and thin with shaggy hair as black as a crow’s feather and stunning blue eyes. His Levi 501s had shredded knees and fit so snug they looked painted on. His t-shirt had a Union Jack emblazoned on the front, and showed every curve on his torso. All this was topped off with a silver studded belt and red high-top Chuck Taylors. I couldn’t take my eyes off him and felt a little embarrassed for it.
The highlight was Keith singing the Monty Python song from which they got their name. It was funny when he changed the words to Maggie Thatcher is a real pisshead making Britain much less stable . . . There’s nothin’ Maggie cannot teach ya about making the rich more rich . . . It was brilliant.
Aimee and I became addicted to the Piss Ants. Every time we saw them, we had to arrive earlier to ensure we’d get in. They were becoming increasingly popular. Unfortunately the demands of attending lectures and meeting deadlines for art projects, we only saw them on weekends.
By mid November we arrived at the club early to a huge crowd already waiting. “Mon dieu,” I fretted. “There’s already
a long queue. “Mon dieu,” I fretted. “I hope we can get our usual spot.” We took our places and shivered against the cold, damp air.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be up front,” Aimee protested. ”It’s too rough with the stage diving and body slammers.”
“I’m five-foot nothing. I have to be up front to see.”
“Well if it gets too wild I’m moving and you should too.”
I pretended I didn’t hear as we entered the club and plowed through the crowd and thick walls of cigarette smoke. One advantage to being small was I could duck and slip through crowds and Aimee followed. We landed at our usual place in front of center stage. I hoped the supporting act would be good.
To everyone’s surprise, my heartthrob walked on stage. The crowd surged forward.
“Good evening, you wankers,” he yelled above screams of adoration. ”The supporting act canceled and we got asked to play both sets. Do you want to fuckin’ hear The Piss Ants play all night?”
The roar of the crowd was so deafening I swore my ears would ring the rest of the night. Then I realized I was screaming as loud, if not louder.
Keith reeled backward in mock stagger, slapping his hand to his forehead. He beckoned Jimmy and Billy, the drummer and rhythm/bass guitarist.
The show began. It was rough, but I wouldn’t relinquish my coveted place. Aimee and I clung together for strength.
At one moment I swear Keith’s and my eyes met, then his eyes quickly darted away. I couldn’t help staring at him. When Keith broke a guitar string, I quickly snagged it, wound it into a bracelet and slipped it on my wrist.
After the show everyone screamed for an encore. Aimee and I screamed for London’s Burning while another person screamed for the Sex Pistols’ God Save the Queen. The band returned to the stage, amongst more screams. Keith laughingly asked if anyone wanted to vote between the two factions, then played our song. Aimee and I looked at each other and shrieked –- convinced we’d been favored.
When the encore ended, Aimee wanted to leave, but I wanted to cling to the lingering aura of this wonderful night. A sudden revelation hit me. ”I know! Let’s get their autograph! They’re sure to be famous soon and this may be our last chance.”
“No, I should get back,” Aimee grumbled. “I have a huge project to finish this weekend. Besides, we have nothing suitable for an autograph.”
I glanced around, then grabbed a poster from a near-by pillar. ”This will do. Come on, it won’t take long.” Aimee didn’t always share my enthusiasm and it drove me nuts sometimes. We wound our way to the back stage door and lingered.
“Come on, Brigitte.” Aimee was growing impatient. “Partons a la maison.”
“No, we’re not going home yet. Just give me a few. . .”
“Can I help you ladies?”
I spun around and saw a very large guy with a mustache and goatee and a thick mane of coppery hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. His arms were about as thick as my thighs. On his left bicep was some tattoo I couldn’t make out in the dim light. He didn’t look much older than Aimee and me as he took a long drag from his cigarette.
I was suddenly tongue-tied. “Oui, nous sommes ici pour obtenir autographes.”
“That translates into we came for autographs. She’s particularly interested in Keith,” Aimee piped up.
I suddenly realized I’d spoken French and he probably hadn’t understood anything I said. That was the least of my embarrassment. I didn’t think Aimee needed to advertise I was infatuated with the singer. I was trying to be cool.
“So, you want to meet Keith, eh? You and a thousand other girls. I’m Ryan, the band’s manager. I’ll take you to Keith.” He seemed to study me a moment before leading us through a door and into the room that held the band. ”Keith, I have some birds wanting to meet you.”
I quickly got over the indignity of being called a bird when I saw Keith standing in a corner lighting a cigarette. My heart skipped a beat. He was beautiful but there was a fragility about him I’d not noticed before. I didn’t want to seem like I was staring so I gazed at the décor of the room. It was tiny with graffiti from floor to ceiling and two beat up sofas that looked as uninviting as an old dog’s bed.
“Hello.” Keith gave me a shy, boyish smile. ”What’s your name, then?” He stuffed his lighter into the pocket of his tattered Levis and took a drag. On his left lobe hung a gold chain and he had to be over six feet tall.
I hoped I hadn’t stared too long before sputtering, “Je m’apelle –- I mean I’m Brigitte. This is Aimee.”
He broke into a wide grin. ”You’re French?”
I felt myself blush and was glad the room wasn’t brightly lit. “We’re from a town called Brest — in Brittany.”
“How long are you here for, then?”
“Three years at least,” Aimee answered.
“We just started at the Royal Academy of Art,” I added.
He grinned again. “So we’ll be seeing more of you then. Do you two want something to drink?” He grabbed a beer and twisted off the cap.
“Oi, take it easy,” Ryan warned. ”I don’t need you hung over for tomorrow’s show.”
Keith threw him a defiant look. “Fuck off!” He turned back to Aimee and me. “What’ll it be? A beer? A Coke?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Aimee said. ”We should go.”
Leave it to Aimee to bring me back to reality. I handed Keith my poster. “We just came for an autograph.”
He signed my poster. ”If your friend wants to go, you can hang about and I’ll give you a lift. My motor’s a couple blocks away.”
I was tempted, but my sensible part kicked in. ”No, we’d best go together. It’s safer.”
We began to leave.
“Oi! Can I ring you sometime? Do you have a number?”
I stood, unable to speak. Why did he want my number? I hoped he didn’t think I was easy. I decided to risk it and with shaking hands, scribbled my number on some scratch paper. I thrust the paper at him and headed for the door.
“See you tomorrow?” he called after me.
“I’ll be here.” I turned and shot him a smile.
“Il pourrait etre dangereux,” Aimee warned as we headed outside.
“I just gave him my phone number. And how is he dangerous?”
“Because of his lifestyle. He probably does drugs and you heard his manager say he has a drinking problem.”
“You don’t know he does drugs. Anyway, I just gave him my number.” I braced against the cold wind as we walked home.
“How many other girls’ numbers do you think he asks for?”
“I’ll be careful. I know he can have any girl he wants. Still I’d like to know him.”
“You never acted like this back home. Now we get to the big city and tu es frappe avec un rock star.”
“I’m not smitten because he’s a rock star. Besides, he can’t be that experienced. The paper said he’s only seventeen. I’ll be seventeen in three months.”
The next day was Saturday. I tried convincing myself Keith probably wouldn’t call. Oh, why was I fretting? Back in France I was busy studying to graduate early and not interested in boys. But Keith was different. I wouldn’t wait around for his call. Aimee and I slept until 10:30. Aimee was anxious to finish her project so we went to a local cafe for breakfast. Keith called while we were out. He left a message: ”Where you are this Saturday, twentieth November, 1988. I hope you weren’t kidnapped by aliens or worse. I’m hanging about in my flat writing tunes, so ring me, okay.” He left a number.
His message made me laugh. “Should I ring him back?” I wanted to, but it would help to have Aimee’s reassurance.
“You’re asking my advice? You, the self-assured one?”
“Well, I’ve never felt like this before. J’espere qu’il est sincere.”
“You will never know if you do not ring back.”
I let out a big breath. “Wish me luck.”
“Bonne chance,” Aimee responded.
I took another deep breath and punched the number. To my dismay, I got his answer phone that relayed a rather cocky message. “Hi, this is Keith. Maybe I’m home –- maybe not. If I’m home and don’t answer, I don’t want to talk to you. Good-bye.”
My first instinct was to hang up, but something deeper said not to, so I began leaving a message. “Hi, it’s Brigitte . . .”
[To be continued… Click here to view all chapters.]
