Its no secret I'm listening to music nearly every waking minute - but not until I wrote about jamming to Jeff Beck's "AIR Blower" in the bathtub did I realize how fun it is to write about music inspiring those moments; sometimes even making those moments special in a way they wouldn't be ordinarily. Films have the luxury of having music playing at the most bombastic and melancholy moments, perfectly setting the mood and making the moment all the more explosive. Well, I like to look at my life that way. My entire memory is wired by music, and if the moment is important, I'll remember just the song I was listening to. With the music and the memory eternally in sync, its safe to say the moment will never be forgotten. Here's to hoping this will become a routine column on the blog, I hope you enjoy it... x
I was certainly running late after a quick trip into Kingston to pick up a tape recorder (for the interview that never happened that night) and crazy glue for my beloved faux-turquoise flower ring that had decided to break. We called a cab as soon as we arrived back at my friend's ridiculously small dorm room at Kingston University, where myself, my sister, and said friend roomed for the week+ I spent in London. I anxiously prepared myself for the evening, scrambling to fix my hair as I contemplated changing purses and what color stockings I should wear. Ordinarily, these would be only minor thoughts, but everything seemed of mass importance as I geared up to hit the Classic Rock Awards. Still, the cab seemed to arrive quicker than I knew possible, and suddenly, the purse and the stockings didn't seem so important. (I never did get to change purse, though Iggy Pop sat on the one I did bring, and my stockings were gray - to contrast the black dress and black heeled ankle boots, of course!) I rushed to the door as my friend called out well wishes.
The black cab had comfortable leather seats, and my cab driver spoke loudly, with a thick Middle Eastern accent, into his cell phone. I cued up London Calling and as far as he and I knew, he was simply going to drop me at the Surbiton train station. The butterflies in my stomach quickly became acrobatic, as I checked the time on my iPod. I was to be outside the Park Lane Hotel at 6 o'clock. It read something like 5:40, and I knew "fucked" was an apt word to describe my current dilemma. I turned down my music, and spoke over his Eastern radio station. I inquired, "How long would it take you to get to central London? To Park Lane?" He said thirty to forty minutes, and it seemed a safer bet than taking a train to Waterloo, and the tube to Green Park. I counted my pounds, and any frugality was out the window. I had to be on time, and saving money to spend at TopShop was no longer a priority. We drove through the outskirts of London, as the names on each road sign seemed familiar from books I'd read. I looked out the window was London's nightlife unfolded before me, and the sight of Royal Albert Hall awed me. I immediately thought of Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day in The Man Who Knew Too Much. And again, those butterflies fluttered around excitedly.
I hadn't had time to apply my make-up back in Surbiton, so I set about doing so. It was dreadfully dim-lit in the back of that cab and my compact mirror was simply not cutting it. I rummaged through my purse and eyed the layout of the cab. The opening hums of "Spanish Bombs" played, and I knew exactly what my solution was. I quickly asked, "Is there a mirror on the passenger seat visor?" No sooner had he said yes was I flinging myself into the seat. He was taken back by my swift actions and quickly remove a book from the seat before my petite frame landed there. With my Holly Golightly moment over, I suddenly felt very comfortable and very assertive. I gleefully stroked red lipstick onto my lips and applied my mascara with ease. With my only responsibility fulfilled, I took a moment to soak up all that was happening. Scurrying through London, on my way to the Classic Rock Awards. Up until that moment, I felt the opportunity would be snatched from me, but right then, I knew it was mine to savor. My cab driver, too, felt comfortable, as he asked, "Big party?" I smiled and said, "Yeah, sort of." He could feel the excitement stirring up inside of me. I saw an expansive park to my right, and felt we were getting near.
Well... I felt wrong. My cab driver tilted his head to the left, and said, "Which Park Lane Hotel are you trying to go to? There are two." I hadn't any idea what he was talking about, and quickly said, "The Park Lane Hotel... Between Green Park and Hyde Park Corner." That was all I knew, and I simply recited what I had been told. We stopped in front of the other Park Lane Hotel, a branch of the Hilton. Certainly if it was the Hilton, I would have been told the Hilton. I didn't know, and any time I thought I had saved was dispersing before my eyes. I asked my cab driver for his cell phone and welcomed myself to its services, as the driver scurried inside the hotel to inquire if it was indeed the Park Lane Hotel. I scrambled to call my friend back at her flat, and asked her to retrieve Ross Halfin's phone number from the pocket of my coat. I called the number Ross had given me, and heard a voice unlike the one I had spoken to earlier that day. I said I was looking for Ross Halfin, and I had indeed reached the correct number. "Can I speak with him, please?", I said - only to be told that he was already on his way. I filled in the anonymous voice on the other line with my dilemma. "My name is Michelle, I'm supposed to meet him outside the Park Lane Hotel, but my cab driver says there are two." I was mildly flustered and hoped this man could be of some help. "Well, do you have his mobile number?" I thought I had called that number, but alas, I was wrong. My aid on the other end provided me with the number, which I hurried to dial, only to receive no answer. Fuck. I dialed once more, once again receiving no answer, and surveyed the Hilton. There certainly didn't appear to be anything rock and roll about the place, so I made up my mind. My cab driver had returned and I promptly told him to take me to the other hotel.
We arrived outside the other Park Lane Hotel - while owned by the Sheraton, clearly stated Park Lane Hotel on its exterior. I was right where I belonged. Any residing doubt was squashed when I saw a bevy of residing hair lines and sports coats. A red carpet was assembled and paparazzi cameras flashed. Oh yes, I was certainly in the right place. I thanked my cab driver profusely, tipped him generously, and positioned myself on the steps leading up to the hotel, not the ballroom. The red carpet was spilling out of the ballroom and looked like a madhouse. I would stay away from that, thank you. I watched as decadently dressed event-goers arrived in limos and black cabs. A leggy blonde emerged from a limo, stopping to make sure everyone got a grand look at her. By the way she carried herself, she certainly fancied herself a big somebody. She was Chrissie Hynde's daughter, I would later learn. A paparazzo sat near me and he would quickly scramble to stand up each time a vehicle arrived. The only face that was recognizable to me wasn't really a face. It was a beard, in fact. It belonged to the always recognizable Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top, who arrived with his immaculately dressed partner. They walked past me, straight into the hotel. London Calling was long over after all of my ordeals, and I was listening to Jeff Beck's "Going Down" when Ross approached me. "There you are! You've been waiting over here, you're supposed to be over there." He pointed out the entrance near the red carpet. Mmm, I was quite happy where I was, and I had been found. I had been waiting about fifteen minutes, and he finally retrieved me at 6:20, twenty minutes after we were due to meet. Luckily, he had been late as well, and my worries were wiped clean. We rushed passed the red carpet, into a quiet room, where he sternly told a woman, "She's with me."
I was there. Finally. Every minor hurdle was obsolete, I was in a dream situation.
Alas, every time I hear "Spanish Bombs", I recall my Mr. Toad's Wild Ride-like adventure through London, that dark November evening. It seems the entire ordeal was destined to be memorable, not simply the names I encountered. London Calling in its entirety serves as the biggest form of inspiration, prompting lofty schemes as to how I'll next land myself in that mystical city. Spring '11, its all coming together!
While on the topic of the Clash, check out my review of their fantasic live album From Here to Eternity on Altsounds.com
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