SF. Pt. 22. Sympathy for Oscar.

This might be a good time as any to mention how I met Oscar. Late sixties it was. I’d gone to California with a girlfriend of Sam’s who will remain nameless. She wanted to go to San Francisco, where the flowers grow, so very high. Well brought up girl she was but bloody clueless. Lucky for her I went with her or she would probably have ended up on the Spahn Movie Ranch with Charlie Manson . Anyway we were having a stroll through Haight Ashbury (lots of sunny people walking hand in hand) and somebody tells us about a free concert that’s supposed to be happening somewhere.

Which is how come we found ourselves at the Altamont Speedway one hot dusty night in 1969. I had a bad feeling about it from the beginning. Just getting out there was a nightmare. Hippies with sleeping bags all whacked out on every drug you can think of stumbling through the gloom. The vibes were not good.

I’d been to a few of these dos with Sam before so I knew what to expect. Usually she’d be off interviewing stars and I’d be sitting backstage on big black boxes smoking joints with roadies. That’s how it was at Altamont. Behind all the lights and the amps was all the hustlers, drug dealers, promoters, musicians the usual freak show except for one bloke in a Paisley velvet suit, shades, beard, beads, big hair who was passing out sugar cubes. He seemed to take a shine to me. Had I been at Woodstock? He asks. Did I like Santana? What’s happening in London these days? I’m Oscar by the way.
'Dick.'
'Nice boots Dick. Anello and Davide?'
'Yes.'
'Thought so.' Hallo I’m thinking. What have we got here? Jumping Jack Flash is it? Oscar wasn’t quite so fat and disgusting in those days.

Jagger and his lot start their set. It seems OK and first. Under My Thumb. We’re sat behind some amps enjoying a puff when suddenly we both notice something going on in front of the stage. 'Stay here and look after this,' said Oscar, sticking a joint in my hand. Then he’s pushing his way through to the front where things are starting to get weird. Everything’s happening in slow motion, people are screaming and it’s hard to make out what’s going on. I vaguely remember seeing Hell’s Angels bashing people…with pool cues it looked like. Beer cans are flying around like fucking cannon-balls.

'Sod this for a lark,' I say to Oscar. 'What happened to peace and love?'

'That was last week Dick,' says Oscar, 'the party’s over. Follow me.'

So we’re the first ones on the helicopter. I can hear Jagger trying to calm the waters. ‘People please be cool...etc.’ Very strange. I was getting echoes of my old math teacher over the noise of the rotors. ‘You boys in the leather jackets in front please sit down and behave yourselves!’ Not an unreasonable request but of course they don’t bloody listen. ‘You boy, yes you with the sawn-off pool cue, go and stand outside the headmaster’s office.’ The hippies are just milling around looking confused. Drugs will do that. Next thing there’s a big scramble to get into the helicopter and we’re off in a cloud of dust and pot fumes.

Oscar had big house on the beach at Malibu. Bloody unreal it was. There was truck-loads of sinsemelia coming and going day and night, he had blokes mixing acid in the kitchen and the phones never stopped ringing. There was always lots of action at Oscar’s house

Oscar was also one of the first to recognize the true potential of the porn industry. I could recount a few anecdotes about Johnny Wadd and his 13 inch plonker (erect mode) but I don’t suppose anybody is interested in that. Long story short I went back to England to lend a hand with shipping and distribution. I eventually became Head of European Operations.

So there I was back in London trying to sort things out with Sam and thinking about my next move. I was living just off the King’s Road and I kept noticing this unusual shop...the name seemed to change every month or so. First time I noticed it the name was ‘Let It Rock’. After that it was ‘Too Fast To Live Too Young To Die’. A few months later it just said ‘SEX’ in big letters. That got my attention. For some reason that got changed to ‘SEDITIONARIES’ and I think it ended up as ‘World's End’ or something.

I went in when it was ‘SEX’ and had a look around. It was clothes mostly. Ripped t-shirts with slogans scrawled across them, boots, studded jackets. There was some bondage clothing too made of leather, chains, and rubber. It was unusual stuff at the time. The clothes had what we know today as attitude. The owners were Malcolm and Vivian.

Malcolm was an art student so you could say he was challenging the academic separation of 'art' from 'life'. Basically I think he was trying to annoy people. Push the envelope as they say these days. Viv looked after the clothes. She was always coming up with new ideas...the more outrageous the better.

I don't know how Malcom and Viv made any money. They certainly attracted some odd characters to their shop. Most of the customers were always nicking stuff. One time I was in there and this bloke was trying to stick a safety pin through his nose. ‘What you fink Dick? Like me new look? Alright is it?’

Those early piercers were a tough bunch. People had to do their own piercing in those days. You couldn’t just pop down to the 7/11 if you needed a new nose-ring. Back then you did it yourself, at home, in front of the mirror. You could get a friend to help but mostly it was trial and error. And maybe a dab of Dettol if you were lucky.

The times were changing I reasoned. I’d watched it evolve from Folk to Dylan, to Crosby, Stills and Nash etc. etc.. I was always wondering where I fitted in and how I could make a few quid off it. The Fab Four had had a good little run but clearly the next musical innovation would have something to do with suppressed rage.

Fashions always seemed to be dancing along just in front of me too fast to get a grip on. I was just piddling around really until I came across the Filth. Cause they weren’t called the Filth then. They were the Bad Bunnies but I soon changed that. Got them some ripped up shirts and stuck a few safety pins in strategic places. Good musicians too some of them. I remember an article in 'Sniffin' Glue'. It showed a diagram of the three finger positions on a Guitar..."Here's one chord, here's two more; now form your own band.”

So I hung around and got to know a few of them, one thing lead to another and next thing I know I’m managing a punk rock band. I expect lots of people remember the Nipple Erectors and the Snivelling Shits but how many remember the Fab Fukkers? Not many eh? That’s what I thought. How about Scum? No? The Stench? That was me. Got a write-up in Trouser Press? Never mind the bollocks. Anyway I was the one who took the Stench over to the States. Organized a concert tour for them. America was crawling with British punk groups in those days. Like a swarm of spiky leather locusts. The trick was to do a few live concerts in the Bible Belt, start a riot or two and get the radio stations interested. Maybe get on TV. Then hopefully they’d push your single so you could sell a million copies. Then you’d sign a record deal and do a bunk.

Public relations was important and I was always very strict with the lads. Hotel rooms had to be smashed up before they got any drugs. Sometimes after a busy day the lads were tired and didn’t want to know…
'Right you lot. Look lively. I want these rooms trashed before you get any kip.'
'Aw Dick...'
'Don’t ‘Aw Dick’ me. Can’t keep the reporters waiting. Lets have those TV’s out the window...now!!'

It went quite well at first. We’d cracked the one-nighters in the cowboy bars and trashed a few theaters. I’d done the odd talk show. We had a hit single 'Fuck Everybody' and we were starting to get into stadiums. The money was coming in and I had a few record companies on the hook. If things went well I’d soon be able to piss off somewhere with the filthy lucre and leave the group to self-destruct.

But about halfway through the tour we started to fall out. It was obvious they were a bunch of wankers. They didn’t like sharp objects and couldn’t stand the sight of blood. They ran off at the first sign of a punch up and I’d even catch them hiding from groupies. There was no way any of this lot was going to slash himself half to death in the Chelsea Hotel. The hit single ‘Ice Cube Up My Arse’ was obviously a fluke. The album ‘Hey Cuntface!’ wasn’t selling like we’d hoped it would. The Fukkers had fucked off, The Scum was breaking up and people had got used to the Stench. I was on the point of saying sod it.

Then came the big lawsuit. It was our misfortune to cross paths with Pedro and Jesus Gonzales. Jesus was a bright young fellow from Sonora who arrived in the US in the back of a car driven by his brother Pedro. Jesus settled in quickly. He'd only been out of the trunk two days before he landed a job as a cleaner in a Holiday Inn. One of Jesus’s duties was keeping the parking lot tidy. He was sweeping up some broken TVs one morning when he got an idea.

Couple of weeks later we’re in L.A. packing up to go back to England. I’m just getting the groupies to sign their waivers when there’s a knock on the door.

It’s a lawyer representing a Mr. Jesus Gonzales, a citizen of Mexico currently employed as a parking attendant at the Bakersfield Holiday Inn. Seems his client got hit on the head by the knob off a 36” Sony! What!?! Not the fucking set mark you! A fucking knob!! Furthermore, furthermore!, his client was unable to work for a month and had to undergo expensive medical treatment. And the lawyer had a sheaf of doctors bills to prove it.

'Wetbacks and Jews? You don’t stand a chance Dick.' Says Oscar. (I’m sorry if this offends anybody but that’s the way he talks. Comes from reading too much Elmore Leonard. I’m actually toning it down).
'You got any witnesses?'
'Just the lads. They’re always very careful where they throw stuff.'
'Sorry Dick. You’re toast.'

He was right. In court Jesus identifies our bass player as the man who threw the TV at him, senor.

Jesus did alright. Cost us a million dollars out of court that did. As I said to Oscar later, as we were walking along the beach picking our way between the starlets, next time I’ll aim for his fucking head. Probably bounce right off Dick, says Oscar.