Chapter 8 Dancing In The Street
DANCING IN THE STREET
MICK
My dad must have been visited by three ghosts last night because for some unknown reason he gave me another Saturday off.
It had only been three weeks since the last one, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
When he told me this morning, I’d got out of my work gear and legged it out of the house before he could change his mind.
My first stop, as always, had been Tommy and Eric’s cottage.
When I was about ten yards away, the noises from inside made me turn on my heel and race in the opposite direction.
Those two are bloody lucky that they live in the middle of a park where nobody can hear them rut like animals.
If they lived on a normal street, someone would have rung the old bill by now.
I could have gone wandering around the Becontree estate like a lemon, knocking on doors and looking for someone to do something with, but in the end, I took myself to the tube station and headed into town.
The sun was cracking the flags, so the faces would be out and about in Soho, and that was always worth seeing.
When I climbed out of the London Underground, I made my way to Carnaby Street.
It wasn’t midday yet, so I didn’t expect there to be a lot going on.
I was pleasantly surprised by all the other mods milling around in their fancy suits and shiny shoes.
I wasn’t in a suit today, opting instead for a nice pair of beige kecks and a pale yellow knitted polo shirt.
As a redhead, yellow could be a risky colour, but this one had gold-coloured thread through the design so it complimented my ginger hair rather than clashing with it.
Walking down the street with my head held high and a swagger in my walk, I took my time to peer into all the menswear shops.
There were so many choices for a young mod these days, with John Stephen shops springing up all over the country, but Carnaby Street still felt special.
Not that I wouldn’t pop into the original John Stephen shop while I was here, especially as all the workers tended to be fit and bent.
I preferred the clothes at Vince Man’s Shop round the corner on Newburgh Street, even if they were a bit dearer. Maybe it was nostalgia, the raunchy pictures of men in swimming trunks in the Vince catalogue had helped me through some difficult times as a teenager.
Without a lot of spare cash, it would just be window shopping for me today. The few quid in my pocket were ear-marked for records, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t look.
Living at home had its drawbacks, but it meant I didn’t have much to pay for.
My dad paid me fairly, only expecting a little bit back for my keep, and I saved a bit of my wages so I could eventually move out, but I let myself keep more than half of it.
Most of that went on clothes, records, and nights out.
Unlike a lot of mods, I couldn’t be arsed with drugs.
I didn’t care if others got involved, but I couldn’t risk it myself.
For one thing, I worked six days a week most weeks and drove the van, so I needed a clear head.
And for another, I didn’t want to lose control of myself and end up flirting with the wrong bloke or letting something slip.
I’d been smacked about a few times for being too girly, and I didn’t fancy giving anyone an excuse to do it again.
Not to mention the chances of getting nicked. Both the drugs and the fucking were illegal in my case, and I did not want to end up in jail.
Besides, I’d bought a couple of shirts, a nice tie, and some second-hand shoes the last time I’d been up here, so I didn’t mind not picking up any new gear today.
There was something about being in London, dressed to impress, surrounded by other mods, that just made me feel alive.
Even being here on my own, I felt part of it.
As I wandered down the street, lads walking my way said hello, or threw a friendly look my way.
One fella said, “nice shirt” and another one asked me where I’d got my shoes.
That was the point of it–belonging to something bigger than yourself.
Wasn’t everything we did in life about belonging somewhere?
We shared a name and maybe looks with our family.
We supported a football team and acted like our lives depended on the results on a Saturday afternoon.
We went to Church to feel connected to God and each other.
Life was all about how we fit in with our fellow man.
Being a mod was no different, just another way to feel like you belonged.
I heard music playing somewhere in the distance and followed the sound.
Outside one of the clothes shops–one of the modern ones that catered to men and women–someone had put a record player on an upturned bin.
The power cord was hanging out of the shop window and only just reached.
Someone was going to do themself a mischief on that, said the practical part of me.
The sound was loud and clear now and whoever had chosen the track had good taste.
It was “Tainted Love” by Gloria Jones, which got played a lot at the clubs and before gigs, but it wasn’t something you heard in the street.
No radio station would touch black music.
Well, no legitimate radio station. A few pirate stations operating on boats in international waters would play good soul music, but you had to cover yourself in tin foil and stand on your head to get a signal.
A few girls were dancing in the street while they giggled to each other. Half a dozen blokes leaned against the shop window or hovered by their scooters, smoking and eyeing up the girls.
Stopping near the gathering, I rummaged in my inside pocket for my ciggies. I pulled one out, and before I could find a light, one of the spectators held a lit match in front of my face.
“Cheers, mate,” I said as I blew out the smoke from my first drag.
I didn’t smoke a lot–mostly I only did it socially.
I also found it gave my hands something to do.
I was a fidget, or so my mother and all my primary school teachers had told me.
I learned to sit on my hands at school, but I couldn’t do that standing up, so the cigarette helped me stay still.
A bloke came out of the shop holding a record sleeve, smoothly replaced the finished one and put it back in the plain sleeve.
The new song was very different to the one just finished, a bit slower, with a repetitive little brass bit.
The vocals were gorgeous. The strangest thing about it though, was I didn’t recognise it.
Now I wasn’t a poser. I hated blokes who pulled their clothes straight off a mannequin at Lord John and then walked around like they owned the place. Nine times out of ten, if you chatted to them, you’d realised they didn’t know Aretha Franklin from Solomon Burke.
But I wasn’t like that–I knew soul music.
I went to mod clubs as often as I could.
I read the New Music Express. I watched Top of the Pops–not that it was much use because most of the artists that appeared on there were white, British, and packaged in an acceptable BBC parcel.
Once in a while you’d be lucky and get a pre-recorded video by The Supremes or something.
Most of my knowledge of decent music was thanks to Eric’s cousin in America.
He worked for a white radio station, so whenever he got a demo from a soul singer or Black girl group, he’d give it a listen and then send it our way.
Because of Jeremy, I had access to a lot of soul music that you couldn’t get your hands on over here.
I’d heard that people living up near the ports could get records too, but I’d never been north of the Watford Gap.
So, for a soul song to be playing that I didn’t know, was unusual.
“What’s this track called?” I asked the fella who’d put the record on. Some of the blokes standing around gave me funny looks and one of them laughed to himself. I didn’t care; if I didn’t know this song, then it was bloody unlikely any of them did.
“It’s ‘Teasin’ You’ by Willie Tee. What d’you think?”
“Yeah, it’s good. Reminds me a bit of ‘I just Can’t Help It’ by Major Lance.”
The bloke, who was a bit older than me, nodded, and the posers all nodded along. “Yeah, you’re right, it does sound a bit like them. Have you heard ‘643-5789’ by Wilson Pickett? I think they sound similar.”
“Yeah, you know, I reckon you’re right.”
The other blokes had stopped watching the girls and were now listening intently to our conversation. The dancers tried their best to regain their attention but with no luck.
“I like that one,” said a tall, dark haired man in a sharp suit. “And I like his other one, ‘In The Midnight Hour’ too.”
“Yeah that one’s a good tune,” I agreed, stifling a laugh. Wilson Pickett had half a dozen singles that had been successful on the Rhythm and Blues chart in the US. But I wasn’t going to point that out and embarrass him, it wasn’t my style.
I turned back to the older feller. “Where do you get your records, mate?”
“Got a friend who works at Soho Record Exchange on Dean Street.” He pointed up the road. “He keeps back anything he thinks I’ll like the look of before he puts it into the shop. And in return, I give him a discount in here.”
“Yeah? That sounds like a good arrangement.”
The fella smiled, and I could have sworn I saw a twinkle in his eye.
“Yeah, it is. Always nice to have mutually beneficial relationships with people, know what I mean?”
I was fairly certain I did know what he meant, but I carried on as if I didn’t.
“You must be good mates.”
“Yeah, we’ve known each other for ages. We’re there for each other a lot.”
It felt like he meant more than what he was saying out loud, but I couldn’t ask him about it in front of all these other blokes I didn’t know so I didn’t say anything.