SF. Pt. 18. Abbey Road.

I’d been to an opening at Indica. A Japanese girl had set some stuff up. There was an all-white chess set and a white ladder. You were supposed to climb the ladder and at the top there was a magnifying glass attached by a chain. You looked through the magnifying glass at some small words on the ceiling. They said “Y E S.” I watched John Lennon climb up the ladder. Yes, he said.

Well I didn’t think too much of it at the time. Then some weeks later we were at the EMI Studios on Abbey Road. A lot of people were recording there in those days, or nights I should say. Beatles, Stones, Pink Floyd. It was the place to go late at night if you wanted to keep up with what was happening. You never knew who would show up there.

Studio One I think it was. They were supposed to be working on Sergeant Pepper but nobody was in the mood. I talked to a few people then Sam told me she had to go off and do an interview with somebody or other. Would it be cool if she popped off to Jane’s? That would be her mate Jane Asher I supposed who may have been having it off with McCartney at the time. Not sure so don’t quote me on that. By this time me and Sam were at the point where we would go out together and come home separately. Nothing was real and nothing to get hungabout. It didn’t matter much to me.

Anyway Sam left and I was out in the car park having a puff with Rick Wright who was waiting for Juliette to come and pick him up. I remember looking at a puddle full of soggy leaves and finding it odd because there’d been no rain for several days. Then a car pulls up and Mal says hop in and off we all go to the Bag ’o Nails..

‘So Simon,’ says Lennon as we settled into our banquette, ‘what’s new in the world of popular journalism?’

‘Oh the usual.’ I say.

‘Lucky you.’ He says.

‘Problems?’ I ask.

‘Bloody women.’ Says Lennon, and then… ‘I’d tell you about it Simon but I don’t want to be reading about my love-life on page one tomorrow.’

Now what I’m thinking. Cynthia doesn’t look happy. Out of her depth. Perhaps this won’t turn out to be just another night in the bag after all. Steve Marriott is dancing on a table to the delight of his fan club. I want to know more about John’s women troubles but I’m not going to ask. I don’t have to. Seems he wants to talk. Trouble is I can’t hear half what he’s saying. Hendrix has started and there’s an amp right in my ear. ‘Words,’ says JL, ‘I can’t stop playing with words. Turning them inside out and backwards. I try to talk normal like but everything gets turned around. Listening to too much Goons in my youth I expect. No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low. That is you can’t you know tune in but it’s all right, that is I think it’s not too bad.’

I nod and try to mutter the right things in the right places. I’m supposed to write something about Hendrix for next week’s Melody Maker…deadline tomorrow afternoon. John’s asking me something…do I want to go out to Weybridge tomorrow? Well of course I do. I’m not going to say no to an unofficial interview. Strawberry fields forever. Pity about Mal. Heard he got shot in Los Angeles.

What a load of old cobbler’s. Who writes this stuff? It wasn’t like that at all. I do remember Lennon being in the Bag that night and Hendrix playing but the rest of it is just made up. I don’t even remember Simon being there.

I do remember going out to the Abbey Road studios with Samantha. Sam was in her element. She liked hanging around with all the beautiful people. I tagged along sometimes for something to do.

There didn’t seem to be much recording going on so I wandered around chatting to a few people. I was sharing a joint with somebody called Stash. A prince according to Sam. Nice fella. Slipped me a bit of blotting paper. Things got funny.

Samantha said she was going off somewhere with some people. I said OK. I remember having a slash in the car park when a car pulls up and Mal asks me if I want a lift somewhere. Where you off then I ask. West End, says Mal, some club I expect. So I think why not and get in the car. Not a bad bunch these Scousers.

‘Bag o’ Shite.’ says a voice from the back. I turn round and fuck me there’s John Lennon and his missus Cynthia sitting there. ‘Hello Dick,’ he says. Something tells me he’s in a snarky mood for some reason so I keep myself to myself. He can be a nasty bugger when he’s like that. But he wants to talk anyway…how’s things in the world of sport then Dick? He says. Alright I say… It's getting hard to be someone, but it all works out. It doesn't matter much to me... Bloody hell I think, he’s rambling.

As the Rolls moves out of the car park a bunch of girls rush over and started banging on the windows. ‘Don’t you lot ever sleep?’ Lennon asks. I give a gracious little wave.

That was a strange night. We got shown to the best table in the Bag. Down near the stage where some bloke called Jimi Hendrix is about to give his first live performance in London. That’s what the announcer said anyway. Across the way Steve Marriott is dancing on a table. Showing off I suppose as usual…. there’s a few other pop royalty scattered around the place… Toni Basil and some other girls were giving me saucy looks so it’s just as well Sam wasn’t there.

Then this Hendrix bloke starts playing. Cynthia is on Lennon’s right and I’m on his left. There’s an amp going right next to us. Cyn is smiling but I can tell she’s not happy. She’s trying not to look like a provincial suburban mum. He’s bored with her obviously. “Well Dick, says Lennon, “How’s the world of sport?” Alright, I say but tell the truth I can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s a historic occasion you could say, but all he wants to do is talk about his love-life. So I’ve got ‘Hey Joe’ in one ear and this bloke going on about women in the other. He’s reached a crossroads he says. Got to make a choice between the past and the future. I can’t remember what I said. What can you say to other blokes about that stuff? I’m stoned out of my pod and I got my own troubles anyway with Samantha. She wants a divorce. We’ve only been married a week. Lennon starts rambling again…always, no sometimes, think it’s me, but you know I know when it’s a dream. I think I know I mean er ‘yes’ but it’s all wrong, that is I think I disagree. Something about a working class hero. Mostly I’m wondering. Why me?

Sam told me later I’d witnessed a historic moment in rock. The apogee as it turned out. Hendrix hit London. Nothing that happened since has even come close. And poor old Mal. He goes and gets shot several years later by coppers in Los Angeles.