This memoir I am certain is factually and chronologically correct - I remember landing at Kennedy Airport, NYC in November 1980 on my first (of two) transatlantic forays to date - it was November 4 - the day the American public voted in Ronald Reagan as their new leader but, curiously, coming as it did shortly before the murder of John Lennon in New York City - my recollection is of having been in London when I heard that dreadful news - one of those puzzling inconsistencies with which I cannot square up. I am sure I spent six weeks in the States, which would have had me still Stateside at that momentous time - memory is fickle...
Preamble:
This journey I undertook was memorable in many ways - for the variety, scope, synchronicity, sheer intensity and diverse experiences I encountered along the way. It came at a time of deep unrest and confusion in my life; many years before I truly found my way. 1980 ushered in a new decade - the 70's for me had started with such promise: new uni.. student in 1970, (Philosophy & Sociology - Exeter), aspirations of rock stardom (I cut a rock album in Hamburg, W Germany, 1972, produced by Uwe Nettelbeck, manager of legendary ‘krautrock' band ‘Faust'.. this creative enterprise was cut short and finally aborted following on from the gunning down of Israelis at the Munich Olympic Games.)
For me, the 1970's were dogged by inordinately severe back luck and timing (the above is but one example of many), excruciating personal underachievement and momentously bad life-choices... so, by the advent of 1980, I was due enrichment and a turning of the tables - the 80's however, were (personally) but a marginal improvement on the previous decade, still dogged by bad luck, lacks of sound judgement and failures on my part.
I therefore arrived in New York that fateful November, kind of ‘on the run' from a desperately deteriorating, precarious, and nefarious family situation - emotionally scarred/numbed and deeply enmeshed in the prevailing drug culture of that time..
Itinerary:
NYC - Philadelphia - Washington DC - Richmond, Virginia - Jacksonville, Florida - Miami - Tampa, Florida - Tallahassee - Mobile, Alabama - Biloxi, Mississippi - New Orleans - Montgomery, Alabama - Atlanta, Georgia
November 4/1980 - Kennedy Airport NYC
Flying across a deep blue, placid and endless Atlantic ocean, we first encountered Newfoundland, then hit the Eastern seaboard of the US on a beautiful fall afternoon - the excitement was fuelled by the anticipation of meeting long-lost old friends and also savouring the sites and sounds of history and legend - the USA!! On arrival, my first encounter was with a ‘Moonie', intent on recruiting this englisher to his cause - portentous beginnings..
Now, I defy anyone not to have been thrilled and have marvelled at their first encounter with the New York (Manhattan) skyline - arriving by yellow cab in the early evening, the sheer enormity of electric brilliance, overdrive and architecture was mind blowing:
I made my way up to Greenwich Village, to the studio apartment of an old uni.. friend, Peter Blegvad, a musician, artist and illustrator (‘Leviathan' - the Independent), who was later to claim fame on the avant garde music scene with SlappHappy and Henry Cow. We immediately got down to playing our geetars and smoked and drank the night away with abandon, in his huge loft apartment.. the next few days passed in a flurry of musical and social experiences that typified interactions of the time. (mad mad mad...)
I, however, was anxious to get travelling and found a novel way of so doing. I discovered via the voluminous New York Times: ‘Auto Driveaway': this was a great and novel way of travelling across the States: rich people who wanted to winter vacation in sunnier climes (e.g. Florida), also wanted their car with them, but could not be assed to drive them all that way - this is where I came in - hired drivers to take their vehicles across the continent for their use on vacation; for the price of the gasoline, I was to drive this brand-new Oldsmobile all the way down the eastern seaboard: New York to Fort Lauderdale in Southern Florida:
NYC - Richmond, Virginia
I was on my way! Armed with a huge bag of weed, a brand new Oldsmobile the size of a small European state, I snaked my way out of New York City, through the desperately poor neighbourhood of New Jersey (the unspoken of, unannounced underbelly of the US - I was shocked and appalled at the depth of poverty and squalor I encountered, adjacent as it was to the affluence of nearby NYC - dirt-littered, rubbled streets, kids running about virtually shoeless/homeless, truly a third-world scenario. This was a side of US life I was to encounter at regular intervals on my travels, especially south of the Mason-Dixon line).
So! This is it - the grand adventure begins - the wide, wide, velveteen open road (‘black top'), more country music radio stations per square mile than you could shake a stick at, gasoline cheaper than water (it needed to be with a gas guzzling V8)... Driving through Philadelphia, another amazing mass of urban madness, on into Maryland, an outstanding riot of New England colours of fall - greens, purples, reds; especially yellows and browns of every nuance and shade, stunningly fecund and beautiful; scudding clouds, azure blue autumnal skies, a veritable paradise, light years away from drab London UK..
Next stop, Washington DC - in true maddeningly (in retrospect) carefree hippie style, drove right up to the White House lawn, sat there in my travelling mansion, rebelliously, lit up a spliff and smoked a tribute to the newly elected president of the USA (naïve and innocent times). That night I drove on to Richmond, Virginia - I arrived there early evening and surprised my young, recently-relocated Mancunian brother-in-law (not strictly true - was not legally wed to his sister) - the reception was less than rapturous and after supper in a local diner, I ended up sleeping in the car, as he did not think his gran'mamma would be happy to see a long-haired white boy (dis-)grace her porch. The house was a ramshackle old wooden affair in a black neighbourhood and full of fascination and history to me...
Richmond, Virginia - Fort Lauderdale, Florida
Next day, I continued my journey south; I journeyed through some wonderfully American sounding towns, also revealing a rich indigenous and European heritage: Emporia, Rocky Mount, Fayetteville, Elloree, Charleston, Savannah; towards dusk, I finally passed into Florida, through Jacksonville and ended up in pitch darkness, meandering off of the main road and sleeping in the car. I awoke early next morning - in a veritable swamp! Evidence of tropical jungle, alligators and all manner of strange animals spurred me on my way...
I stopped at the aptly named Great Cove Springs for my first ever Macdonald's breakfast - this was a true innovation back in 1980 and where I encountered for the first time that weird and wonderful American invention: sausage (flat, circular) and ‘hash browns' for a mere 50 cents, including eggs ‘easy over' and as much coffee as I could swallow in one session...
I continued driving down the east coast of Florida throughout the day, past what was then Cape Canaveral, a forest of huge structures pointing towards the stars, until I reached my initial destination: Fort Lauderdale, just North of Miami. I dropped off the auto, in good repair, to its owners, who were renting this vast bungalow-type detached property somewhere in suburbia - all I remember is, that on entering the front door, a vast swimming pool about 25 metres in length stretching out to eternity:
I was just told, deadpan: "you can get a bus into Fort Lauderdale from across the way" and left to get on with it - uncharacteristic lack of hospitality, I felt.
I bussed it into town and was once again awestruck by the opulence and extravagance I encountered in town. The pavements were as wide as London streets in their entirety and some buildings even had deep pile red carpets outside! It was extremely hot trawling through the wide arcades. I remember an inner canal, which ran parallel to the coastal beach and was filled to the rafters with expensive and huge motor cruisers, yachts and schooners of all descriptions:
I kow-towed it to the beach and was bowled over by the beauty, temperate nature and depth of colour of the Atlantic coast this far south. I spent the night stretched out on the sand dunes and beheld a truly memorable sunrise early next morning - whew!
However - Florida was surely ‘not my scene' and I decided to take a chance and head for New Orleans, Louisiana, a fair few hundred miles North and West from there. This was to prove a move of great significance for me and in narrating the story you will see provenance and synchronicity of the highest order in the subsequent unfolding of events.
Fort Lauderdale, Florida - New Orleans, Louisiana
Car hire being the ubiquitous and cheapest form of transport in those days, I hired me a bright red, shiny Chevrolet Cougar sports car for the trip to New Orleans, for next to nothing:
Needless to say, I was tickled pink to be in charge of such a piece of extravagance for my trip across Florida, (those days, easily pleased) - little did I know what was in store for me that evening...
On route from Miami toward the West coast up along the Mexican Gulf, I picked up a hitch-hiker - we drove across some esoteric indigenous American Indian reservations and swamps that day, with correspondingly exotic names: Lake Okeechobee, alongside the Caloosahatchee river, through Myakka River State Park..
It turns out that my ‘companion' that day, being some sort of ‘ latter-day Christian evangelist', was staying at a centre, to which he invited me to spend the night. Little did I know what I had let myself in for. We pulled off the road, just south of Tampa and entered this ‘nether world' the like of which I had never imagined possible and to which I subsequently vowed never, ever to return as long as I had breath in my body. Consisting mainly of mobile homes, I was ushered into these folks' home and then subjected to a form of right-wing racist propaganda that had me quaking in my boots. Why I just did not turn tail immediately and head outta there I do not know (too scared, I think.)
Anyway, it turns out that these folks were convinced that Satan had arrived in the USA as a black lesbian and all black folk the reason for all that ailed the ‘glorious Amurican Reepublic'. What would they do to me if they knew I was shacked up with an African American and father to two mixed race kids? Needless to say, I kept real quiet about that...
Later that evening I was subjected to a gathering of similar-minded maniacs in a huge purpose built dome and had to endure a couple of hours of mindless proselytising by some jerk preacher, his adoring congregation jumping up in unison every two minutes shrieking: "HALLELIUH, PRAISE THE LORD!!"
I spent what was probably the most uncomfortable night of my life in these folks' home and could not wait to escape the next morning - whew!
Driving northwest up the gulf with a huge sense of relief and feeling of having escaped death by insanity, I eventually cut out of Florida and passed through Mobile Alabama, a temperate wasteland and shortly into the exotically named, Biloxi, Mississippi.. Toward evening, I prepared to enter New Orleans with great expectation. The arrival was truly awe inspiring:
To reach New Orleans from the east by road, you have to cross Lake Pontchartrain via a 5 or 10 - mile long bridge that hugs the water all the way across:
The view of the city of New Orleans at sunset, approaching it from the lake, was simply stunning and remains eternally etched upon my memory..
New Orleans & Richard Thomson Porter:
Now, I can reveal one of the most synchronous and strange happenstances that I encountered in my whole life; to rewind an instant: way back in 1967, when I was a 15-year-old public-school boy whose horizons were entirely filled with girls and blues music, both in the hearing, listening and playing, I met a young guy from the Lake District in Northern England who was to have a profound effect on my life.
The circumstances were somewhat convoluted. One of my best friends at school, John Barber, (with whom I played in a Blues Band - Tearman's Blues Band), having already left school that year, being some two academic years ahead of me (God how we envied him!) had travelled ‘up North' and was living in a border town called Carlisle, on the Scottish frontier - this barren and windswept town was a full day's hike from London. Come the winter holiday, I lost no time in hitching a ride up there to see him..
There they were, the two of them, living an adult life - earning real good money, working on the newly built M6 motorway, playing music at every spare moment, romancing girls and enjoying life to the fullest. Richard cut a dashing figure in those days, young, raven-haired, great looking, a connoisseur at chatting up and bedding all the local young women and with an irrepressible humor and an indefatigable energy for all the good things in life. At 18, he had all the charisma of eternal youth and a bravado and zest that seemed truly monumental.. A hero, a role model to a young impressionable school kid like me!
Over the next few years our friendship grew; later, he disappeared to the States when I was just setting up shop in London, trying to get a foothold in the music business. He came back, in a whirlwind as usual, recently married to a beautiful young American-Armenian lass, Linda Serabian, whom he had met whilst becoming a New Orleans street musician. His adopted family had afforded them a six-month European honeymoon. Boy, had he landed on his feet there! The girl came from a wealthy family and later was to set him up with a famous and culturally historic recording studio in Bristol City, Tennessee.
We spent the summer months playing and tripping out every weekend in his little North London pied-a-terre at the base of Alexandra Palace - it was dreamy and fun. He then left to return stateside and I was not to see him again until my descent into New Orleans, some 8 years later. Now, I had completely fallen out of touch with him - all I knew was that, 8 years previously, he had returned to New Orleans with his new bride - I had heard nada - nothing during that time.
So, I was taking a huge gamble, a long-shot, if ever there was one, in expecting to find him so many years later in a big city.
Cutting back to the trip - just crossed Lake Pontchartrain on that glorious autumnal evening - I headed into town - where to start looking? I made for the French quarter, which is where all the music happens and seemed like the obvious first port of call:
I parked up, and headed into a bar - the first one that came to hand. There was a band playing on stage - this crazed, hunched-back one-legged singer was belting out a Jackson Brown number - I did a round turn, staggered and almost lost it - it was him!! Richard, my old buddy, up there as usual, wildly entertaining the crowd...
But how he had changed - I scarcely recognized him; gaunt, wasting away, minus one leg, he was but the vaguest shadow of his former self. Wow, when the number finished and I ran up to the stage, it was if time stood still - that reunion remains one of the most potent and emotional moments of my life. Of course, I had to join the band up there that night and we played a rip-roaring set that had the punters on their feet.
However, once the joy and excitement had worn away, I realize that my buddy was really in a desperate and hellish situation - things had gone extremely awry for him in the intervening years - he had lost his right leg below the knee in a motorbike accident, had ended up in the infamous House of the Rising Sun' - a Louisianan penitentiary and now was a virtually starving and impecunious street musician, living solely on his wits - separated from his lovely wife at the time and living in some rat-infested garret in the poorest part of town. I did what I could for him, but selfishly, had plans to visit another buddy who was up in Atlanta, Georgia - I hung around with Rich for a few days, but left him, to drive the few hundred miles upstate to Atlanta - I gave him as much money as I could spare and vowed to revisit him at a later date - the parting was fraught, he begged me not to leave and I did so with a bad taste in my mouth.
Atlanta, Georgia - Julian (& Joanna)
At last; arriving in beautiful, sun filled, leafy suburban Atlanta was a wonderful moment - not least as it betokened a joyful and warm reunion with two of my greatest buddies form Exeter uni. days: - Julian Brogi and Joanna Gibson, a wonderful couple of erudite and beautiful souls from Ealing in West London; our friendship had been, instant, deep and spontaneous from the very first meeting - kindred spirits in the world of literature, art and music, this bonded couple (the ‘perfect couple' if there ever was such a thing,) both heralded from immigrant families, as do I - Julian, half English, half-Italian, Joanna, half - French, half English. We spent two glorious years as friends, going everywhere together, doing everything together - like a close knit family of compadres. They had acquired the archetypal VW camper van, so ubiquitous of the sixties and seventies, with a miniscule engine with a top speed way in excess of 20 miles per hour!
Alas, even their impeccable togetherness had been eroded by their move over to Georgia - they were, much to my amazement, no longer a couple when I arrived, but still good friends and colleagues - how times change the unchangeable! There I was, happily ensconced in suburban leafy, Atlanta.
Julian, (Ju), was part of an up and coming rock outfit that was beginning to establish a name for itself state wide. At uni, and thereafter in London, we had played frequently in bands together - Ju was an amazing drummer and, I, as guitarist without compare (in Notting Hill Gate, at least,) our playing had a spark and intensity of great proportion and depth - imagine if you will, a youthful John McLaughlin and Billy Cobham, such was the nature of our interactive musical expression...
So, I passed several glorious and fun-filled weeks in Atlanta - venturing downtown, to historic sites as Martin Luther King Boulevard and catching the latest wow movie in town - the Elephant Man, with John Hurt. I became Ju's chauffeur whilst in town, driving around in his beat up 1950's V6 monster:
I befriended a young lady, Terri, who was an Americana collector and we spent several weekends checking out Americana fairs in and around Atlanta - we had a ball and later I persuaded her to drive down with me, back to New Orleans to check up on Richard - this was an unmitigated disaster, as upon arrival, I was piggy-in-the-middle between a needy old friend and an even needier new girlfriend.
Not being able to satisfy either of their needs to their satisfaction, I was forced to retreat back to Atlanta, as Terri needed to get back to work. On the way back, we stopped off at a motel in Montgomery, Alabama - site of not too distant race riots - a vey heavy and foreboding place indeed. As luck would have it, Terri's auto engine blew up 50 miles outside of Atlanta and we had to bus it back - an inauspicious end to a fatefully flawed voyage.
I had by now run out of funds and in typically American eighties style I stumbled on a couple of way-off-the-peg employment opportunities:
- 1. Extra in Canadian movie: ‘Hard Feelings' - this was an anti - war movie about a young Canadian draft dodger - whilst on the run in Atlanta, I was hired to play the part of, of all things an American G.I.!! Kitted out in full, authentic G.I. uniform, including dog tag, I strode around Atlanta like a true American Boy. On meeting me, the director, hearing my English accent, commented: "Whatever you do, do not open your goddarn mouth!" I spent 3 days filming/sitting on an unmoving greyhound bus - payment $100 a day, plus all I could eat - nice work if you can get it!
- 2. Shelf builder for a shoe designer in a shopping mall: This lasted just a few hours - payment: $50 + several snorts of cocaine; this was the one and only time I tried the stuff, which is just as well, as it was a fantastic buzz!! I remember just feeling...GOOD, and confident as hell, without a care in the world (for a very brief time..)
- 3. Marijuana harvester: This was possibly the scariest week of my life. Having agreed to venture out onto a remote Georgian farm, way out in the countryside near to Macon, Georgia, a farm close to the aptly named ‘Indian Grave Mountain' (height 585 metres,) I spent a week cleaning the most potent grass you could possibly imagine. Basically, the trick was to separate the flower (‘head') from the dross - the rest of the plant. It was only the flower that had real value. Upon arrival, I was given the bed nearest the door - we sneaked in like thieves in the night - I commented something on the lines of: "I hope the cops don't find us, they'll lock us up and throw away the key." I will never forget the amusement that caused my fellow harvesters: "Cops! It is the farmers in the next valley who you want to watch out for - if they discover what is going on here, they'll blow us all away in an instant!" Remember, I'd been given the bed nearest the door - that cheered me up no end... Anyway, I spent the next five or so days in a complete stoned haze, cleaning this stuff - payment - $500 and as much of the weed I could carry..
Thus ended my truly memorable transatlantic jaunt - a couple of days later I took off from Atlanta airport on a Delta Airlines flight to Heathrow, with about 2 lbs of prime Georgian weed stuffed down my pants (what a reckless fool I was in those days). Watch out for next visit in 1999 - cutting CDs and laying old ghosts to rest...
@l - 10/04/09
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