Suggs and the City: Journeys Through Disappearing London (12 page)

It wasn’t in the Palace that I first set eyes on her, mind you. That would be the Roundhouse, where I’d seen her on stage. She was in a group called Deaf School and while it was them as a band that had a big influence on Madness, it was the singer, Anne, who had the bigger influence on me. Yes, the Palace holds a lot of happy memories for me, but none better than when I saw Anne’s green eyes sparkle across that dance floor.

In addition to sheltering Cupid somewhere in its rafters, the Palace was, and is, a great venue to play. Unlike most theatres, whose balconies are staggered further and further backwards, here they seem to be closer to the stage the higher up they go. It gives the place a real feeling of intimacy, despite its 2,000-plus capacity and, acoustically, it’s near perfect, as stars ranging from Charlie Chaplin to Madonna must have discovered when they played here. It changed hands again a few years ago and is now a nightclub and music venue called Koko. During the latest refurbishment, many original features that were hidden during the Palace’s new romantic interior makeover of the 1980s were uncovered and brought back to life, although rumours that Spandau Ballet were found lurking behind five baroque-style pillars have proved unfounded.

The Grand in Clapham was built in 1900 for a consortium headed by legendary music-hall stars Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell, and once had a capacity of 3,000. Since then it has served as everything from a theatre to a cinema to a bingo hall, before reinventing itself once more in 2005 as a nightclub. In spite of its chequered history, the Grand is in pretty good nick and has retained much of its original décor.

The Hackney Empire goes one better and not only retains most of its original features, it also functions as a popular theatre today, just like in the good old days. It’s had a few inevitable ups and downs along the way, but has successfully held going dark at bay. No mean feat.

This is another venue I’m pleased to say I’ve played with the band, although that only happened after I’d admired it from afar for many years. The minute you walk into the Hackney Empire you know you’re in a building of real pedigree. The rococo-, gothic- and Moorish-influenced theatre was designed by Frank Matcham, who is regarded as the doyen of theatre architects. Matcham set new standards in theatre design and built over 200 around the country, including the Palladium, Coliseum and Hippodrome in the West End. Unfortunately, the genius of his work wasn’t really appreciated until long after his death in 1920, by which time fewer than 25 of his theatres remained following the great cull between 1950 and 1975 when no use could be found any longer for so many of them. What a relief the Hackney Empire wasn’t one of them.

When the theatre was built in 1901 it was a real state-of-the-art pleasure palace and boasted the most advanced features of the day, including central heating and electric lights. Pure luxury. I finally got to play the Empire in 2008, to launch our new album
The Liberty of Norton Folgate
(have I already mentioned that?). We’d worked out a more theatrical show with which to display our new wares with the help of Luke Cresswell (
Stomp
choreographer and performer) and art collective Le Gun, who were doing the graphics, and we knew it had to be staged somewhere special. You don’t get many places as special as the Empire.

It was all shaping up beautifully in the short rehearsal period but unfortunately, in the great tradition of these things - a tradition which may, for all I know, stretch back to the days of music hall itself - the album wasn’t quite finished by the time the date of the show arrived. Despite this minor setback, we had three great nights there and the notices were terrific. They culminated in my old celebrity-stalker mate and splendiferous broadcaster Robert Elms, who has always been selfless and unstinting in his unflinchingly optimistic explorations into the nooks and crannies of this old town, describing it as the best show he’d ever seen, and not a trap door in sight! It really felt like a privilege, almost like coming home, to be treading the very boards that had been graced by the likes of Charlie Chaplin, W. C. Fields, Stan Laurel, Marie Lloyd and old Max Miller himself. The great stand-up comics of the 80s and 90s probably felt the same way when they first played the Empire, which is why so many of them lent their support to Griff Rhys Jones’s restoration project that raised £17 million a few years ago, and effectively saved the theatre from going dark or, worse, being demolished entirely like so many others.

On which note, with the curtain about to fall on my whistle-stop tour of London’s music-hall survivors, I leave you with this question. Why is it that, while so many highbrow art forms have been preserved and protected in their government-funded palaces, the fate of the entertainment venues dedicated to the working man and woman have been largely left to their own devices, only to be saved - if saved at all - by a handful of dedicated enthusiasts battling away at street level? I have no problem with the government giving cash to opera and theatre - in fact, I’m all in favour of it - but it does seem a shame, to say the least, that more effort and funding has not gone into saving some of this enormously important and influential popular music legacy for London. Because, for sure, the vibrant tradition of making songs about everyday life on the streets of the capital that started in the halls is still alive and thriving. Thank you and goodnight, ladies and gentlemen!

G
rowing up in the 1970s was pretty tough. I’m not talking about the three-day week and candlelit evenings with no TV during the power cuts. I’m not talking about football hooliganism. I’m not talking about the draconian pub-opening hours or even the Wombles. No, the thing that really made this such a painful decade for a style-conscious young chap like me was the fashion: cheesecloth, tank tops, big hair and even bigger flares.

Maybe it’s the traumatic experience of growing up in the 70s - a ten-year winter of discontent for the dedicated follower of straight-leg trousers - that explains my long-standing preference for the more classic style: a throwback to a time when being fashionable didn’t automatically entail looking like Kevin Keegan. It all began when I was a teenager, 15 or 16 years old. Along with a few friends from school, I’d taken to wearing my hair short and sporting clothes from the 50s and 60s, which weren’t easy to come by. That may not sound radical, but it certainly made us stand out back then, and would sometimes engender aggro for nothing more than just looking a bit different.

At that time, Avalon for us was a wonderful emporium of second-hand menswear - sadly long-since disappeared - called Alfred Kemp’s. ‘We fit anybody,’ it proudly said above its double-fronted exterior on Camden High Street. By the time I started to frequent this treasure trove of menswear, Kemp’s had been going for years. Back then, every London man worth his salt had a couple of suits in his wardrobe - a tradition which I’m doing my best to keep alive - and Kemp’s main customer base was local Irish working men on the hunt for something two-piece, smart and affordable to wear in church or the dance hall.

Window displays in the 1970s were often incongruous mixtures of wheelbarrows and cartwheels and odd-looking mannequins draped in fabric and wearing gangster hats: anything but clothes. Kemp’s was a more no-nonsense affair, with suits, shirts, coats and jackets hung one above the other all along the windows of its double-fronted exterior. That meant you could get a good look at the stuff before you summoned the courage to go in.

Once you stepped inside, the first thing you noticed was the smell, or lack of it. Instead of that peculiar mixture of sweat and urine (and dare I say death) that accompanied most second-hand shops, there was just a faint and rather pleasant whiff of floor polish. The place was light and airy and the clothes were arranged in size and colour. Suits and shirts on one side of the shop, coats and shoes on the other. The whole place was run more like a Savile Row tailor’s than a second-hand shop in Camden Town.

Its highly attentive staff flitted to and fro with tape measures round their necks and eyes in the back of their heads. You could nick stuff from Oxfam, but not here: you’d never have got out of the place alive. Surveying the whole affair from a narrow booth next to the cash desk was the all-seeing Mr Kemp himself. He could judge the value of a pile of clothes just by looking at them and correctly guess your measurements at 50 paces. He could detect the slightest thought of thievery before it had properly formulated in your own head. They said every trader in Camden High Street would be roused if you tried to pinch one of Mr Kemp’s suits, but I never saw anyone try.

The clothes were beautifully cleaned and presented, well cut and made to last. Looking back now, I realise that many of the second-hand suits in Kemp’s were probably made in the 40s, 50s and 60s - what would be called vintage today and very expensive. You could find the most marvellous treasures there, from velvet-collared camel-hair coats to spats and a truly wondrous selection of suits. You could walk in a scruffy teenager and leave dressed like a king. I did in 1977.

I know it was 1977 for two reasons. First, because it was the year of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee - street parties and all the rest. Second, and most important for me, because 1977 was also the year of my first visit to the Roxy.

The Roxy was a club, the hotbed of a new movement they called punk. I was 16 years old the first time I descended the dark stairs that led to this wonderland, hidden away in a dingy Covent Garden basement at 41-43 Neal Street, only a short hop from where I lived in north London. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I had trouble believing them, for there before me I saw a crowd all about my age, and all wearing stuff that wasn’t the status quo - or indeed worn by Status Quo. This was before the stuff that Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood were making was in any way affordable to the average punk, so everyone had done their own thing with whatever they had found or pinched from charity shops - everything from white dinner jackets to customised boiler suits.

The Roxy provided visible - and audible - proof that change was in the air, not just in fashion, but in music too. For me, and the rest of the crowd who gathered here, the overriding sensation was one of vitality, and - as simple as it sounds - youth. Just as I had grown tired of the mainstream fashions of the 70s, I’d become bored with most of the music - old men in capes playing concept albums with solos that went on for days or gangs of fellas who looked like brickies wearing make-up and stomping up and down in glitter and stack-heel boots. It was time to liven things up a bit, and the Roxy was the place to start.

It was the creation of a visionary promoter called Andy Czezowski, and it proved that a new, vibrant and - importantly - young scene was bursting forth, full of do-it-yourself vigour, where anyone could join in. It launched bands like the Clash, Siouxsie and the Banshees and the Buzzcocks, as well as numerous fanzines, filmmakers and DJs, but don’t go looking for it today. The whole escapade only lasted 100 glorious days, and now there’s just a rather dreary boutique on the site of this 70s fashion and music explosion.

I was making sausages and burgers in a butcher’s, which believe me is the lowest rung of the ladder, in the summer of 1977 and the Saturday afternoon before my next evening foray to the Roxy saw me scouring the window of Kemp’s clutching my wages, the princely sum of £11. I needed something spectacular but inexpensive, something that would cut a dash but still leave me with a few extra quid for the weekend. I stepped inside and spotted my quarry almost immediately. A shimmering aquamarine tonic suit. I swear there was a beam of sunlight directed right at it.

It was unlikely I’d have to fight off any of the old geezers who frequented Kemp’s to claim my elegant prize. The suit was mine for the taking, if it fitted. No sooner had I reached a tremulous hand to the fabric than an assistant appeared at my side, quick as a flash. Is sir interested? Would sir like to try it on? Close up it looked even better, a lovely three-button 60s number. But what if it didn’t fit? That was always likely for a skinny 16-year-old in a shop full of men’s suits. I knew what would happen next if that were the case: the excess fabric would be grasped from behind in front of a full-length mirror to show me what it would look like if altered, which they could do on the premises. But that act of transformation would cost another quid, which I could ill afford. And even if I had the readies, I didn’t have the time. This baby had to fit straight off the peg. I needed it now. I had places to go and people to see, special people. My man held the jacket by the shoulders as I slipped it on with trepidation and - bingo! - perfect. Would you have a look at that? I nearly tore it out of his hands as I swirled round to get the full effect in the mirror. If the jacket fits, the strides normally do too, goes the second-hand seeker’s adage, and sure enough they did. A red hanky and matching socks and a pair of Bass Weejuns completed the outfit and I was ready for the Roxy.

Five quid lighter, but with six still to go, I was very much looking the part, bowling down Tottenham Court Road, shimmering in the late-afternoon sunshine. In my mind I was a cross between one of the Four Tops and Johnny Reggae. But this was still the fashion dark ages - the Queen’s Jubilee, the NF on the rise and the foul-mouthed Sex Pistols were all over the front pages. Just walking down the road dressed like this was a statement of degeneracy and anti-patriotism as far as many people were concerned. Impervious to the jibes and jeers of the locals and with an abstracted air, I strode south for the Roxy.

I’d arranged to meet a few pals in The Angel round the corner and on arrival was met by a crowd of proto punks and kids in a mixture of skinhead and mod gear. Pubs that didn’t ask too many questions about age were at a premium. This one was normally half empty, even on a Saturday, so no questions were being asked, even if the governor was far from friendly as he stared witheringly at us while polishing glasses and chatting to a few old darzers at the bar. Much merriment and appreciation greeted my new outfit; a great night was in store. But no sooner had I ordered a pint at the bar than the door flew open and 20 Charlton fans appeared, swaying in the doorway and obviously up for it. Bumping into disparate bands of football hooligans was an occupational hazard on a Saturday night out in the 70s, so we weren’t overly shocked at their sudden appearance. Word had got around that the Roxy was a hotbed of punks and weirdos, and football hooligans of the more conservative type were coming up to town, post match, for a spot of recreational aggro. Within seconds, a Wild West scenario ensued, bottles and bar stools going in all directions. We were well outnumbered and started to make a tactical retreat towards the far end of the pub and the side exit. All except my mate Andrew who, having swiped three pints of lager off the bar, was going in the other direction, backing into the ladies’ loo - any port in a storm. I turned to see a fist coming straight for my nose. I ducked and it missed, only to be met by a Dr Marten boot right between the eyes. I went down and the back of my beautiful aquamarine jacket flipped over my head. Oh Lord, let no beer go over it!