Gary Kemp: I Know This Much: From Soho to Spandau

From Soho to Spandau

First published in 2009 by

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Gary Kemp

The right of Gary Kemp to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Desgins and Patents Act 1988

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Photographs not credited below have been supplied by the author. The author and publisher are grateful to the following for permission to reproduce their copyright material.

The Same Band—courtesy Ian Fox; first Blitz gig—Derek Ridgers; Steve Strange—David Johnson; Waldorf hotel—Herbie Knott/Rex Features; St. Tropez—Jean Aponte; HMS Belfast —Virginia Turbett; Botanical Gardens—David Johnson; Steve Dagger—Graham Smith; Casablanca club, Top Of The Pops backstage—Neil Mackenzie Matthews; at the Kemps’ house—Martin Kemp; New York—Neil Mackenzie Matthews; Ibiza—alanolley.com; Kemp family, Liverpool Empire, True tour—David Johnson; Parade tour Gary, ‘baroque ‘n’ roll’—Denis O’Regan; Barricades tour—Patrizia Savarese; Charlie Kray, ‘being Ronnie’—Richard Blanshard/Miramax; Gary and Lauren—Nick Harvey; Jonathan Ross show—Brian J. Ritchie / Rex Features.

While every effort has been made to trace the owners of copyright material reproduced herein, the publishers would like to apologise for any omissions and will be pleased to incorporate missing acknowledgements in any future editions.

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007323302

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007323333

Version: 2016-01-18

I stand opposite the house. I‘ve come here for something—ghosts maybe—but what can I possibly expect? Others hold the key. I feel hurt by its silent disregard. The old step, shaped from children‘s play, looks deserted now, unattended, no longer the stage it once was, and sadly smaller. Looking up, I can just see through the first-floor window, the window nearest the pub, the pub now gutted and boarded, empty and silent. There‘s a shaft of light on the far wall of the room that reveals its size, and suddenly the geometry unfolds and begins to take shape: the two single beds pushed against each wall; the large walnut wardrobe; the Arsenal scarf hanging like a smile on the moon-landing wallpaper; and the square hole my father made in the wall to keep a caring eye on his sleeping babes. To the left, a small boy with a new guitar now sits on his bed. I should know him but he‘s hard to see, hard to define, so many years have distorted him. But now I can hear the lively piano coming from the pub, the pub that spills people, all noisy and lewd with Christmas beer, into the cold street. I try to ignore them, to experience the guitar, strange in my hands, but the celebrations outside disturb my concentration. Laying it down on the bed, I cross over to the window to see what it is.

And suddenly, there I am.

To Finlay, Milo and Kit

‘I have nothing to say, entirely, simply, and with solidity of myself, without confusion, disorder, blending, mingling.’

Montaigne

‘The annoying thing is that critics in twenty years time will probably write a great, nostalgic, dewy-eyed retrospective on how good it was in these clubs in London and how these innovators were doing this that and the other.’

Steve Dagger ( Sounds , 1980)

‘Time, he flexes like a whore, Falls wanking to the floor; His trick is you and me, boy.’

David Bowie

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Excerpt

Dedication

Epigraph

London, 27 January 1999

Chapter One: Wakey Wakey!

Chapter Two: Home-made

Chapter Three: We Are the Boys and Girls

Chapter Four: Waterloo Sunrise

Chapter Five: Twenty-four Frames a Second

Chapter Six: Fags and Beer

Chapter Seven: Following the Durm

Chapter Eight: Revolt Into Style

Chapter Nine: A Crash Course for the Ravers

Chapter Ten: The Journey Begins

Chapter Eleven: Soul Boys of the Western World

Chapter Twelve: Remake/Remodel

Chapter Thirteen: Leaving Home

Chapter Fourteen: A Bullet from Disco Danny

Chapter Fifteen: Embracing the Enemy

Chapter Sixteen: Starmen

Chapter Seventeen: Barricades

Chapter Eighteen: Falling

Chapter Nineteen: Being Ronnie

Chapter Twenty: A Bigger Splash

London, 30 April 1999

Into History

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

There are moments in life when your entire confidence depends on the coordination between you and an inanimate object. Symbolically, and actually, the problem was a noose around my neck. Every time I knotted my tie the pointy bit was either above or below my waistband—too long and I felt like an accountant, too short and I resembled a Soho bartender. I rip it off again, wipe the back of my hand across my forehead and try to steady myself before another attempt. I’d earlier decided to go for the pink Turnbull and Asser shirt, freshly depinned, but I’d changed my mind and broke sweat struggling to remove my cufflinks in order to change into the more sober, white one. Pink had looked too presumptuous; a little cocksure. I don’t want to give that impression.

Unfortunately clothes had always been an obsession. As a boy there had been my snake belt and Trackers, with their compass-in-the-heel bonus, then tears spilt over desired Ben Shermans and Budgie jackets; two-tones; brogues; toppers; the thrill of my first Bowie loons; cheesecloth; plastic sandals; mohair jumpers; Smiths; straights; high-tops; GI chic; loafers; kilts; Annello & Davide ballet pumps, and all the madness that was the eighties dressing-up box. The event determines the clothes, but the execution of putting them on prepares you for it, and right now I’m suffering from nerves and in a bit of a state about the length of my tie.

I struggle with the knot in the mirror and wonder if any of this really matters. What the hell am I thinking about! My hair’s freshly trimmed but my face looks tired and drawn from lack of sleep. Last night I’d woken again to play out potential moments from the trial in my head and had not slept since 4 a.m. God, this isn’t working! A flush of insecurity pours into my chest and I feel sick down to my knees, but the doorbell rings (was that it earlier?) and I pull up the heart-shaped knot, throw on my jacket and coat and head downstairs. My tie will have to do. So, I hope, will my truth.