Johnny Rebel Meets Progressive Europe
Part IV
Woke up from a big sleep for a big day. Erin slept while I walked up to the gym to get my day started. Coming back, I woke her up to let me in and reveled in the shower, "So this is how the common Londoner bathes." Erin went to work and I began my day with a return to Brixton. The tube still broken, I was able to see the grey sand banks of the grey Thames dotted with swirling grey gulls and the lone beachcomber who couldn't possibly have a sane reason to be walking there.
Only 48 hours later and, comparatively speaking, I feel like I run this town. I had only walked high street twice, but this being the third, now with my bags safely tucked away elsewhere, wearing street clothes, without the Search For Lodging hanging over my head - I was cool. Took my time strolling up to the market. The Brixton Market is always described with wonderful adjectives: colorful, vibrant, Carribean cuisine, West Indian goods & handicrafts. Vendors were still setting up, but I liked the looks of what was already there - funky clothes, bootleg videos of Jamaican entertainment, toiletries & undergarments, and butchers. I don't know if I was expecting starfruit & mangos, but the longer I walked, the more fresh cuts I could see and smell. Say what you want about cooking meat, but raw meat ain't all that to sniff. Being the only white guy felt like my main job back home, so Brixton was a nice familiar. After a good half-hour reading Color Copy Plastic Jackets , I decided to look for some prepared food.
I found some across the street. Oh, this was new, fast Indian food. This had BAD IDEA stamped all over it, so I had to eat there. Rice from the cooker then choose your scoopin's. Some patrons were eating traditional style (no utensils). I grabbed a fork and reassured myself of the ayurverdic antacids my old lady packed for me. First was the pay queue, then the pick-up queue for spicy good eats. The brown-tinged grease left at the bottom felt much nicer than the orange grease some fast Italian foods leave.
After refilling my water bottle at the drink dispenser, I walked out with a queer, but not unpleasant, new sensation in my tummy. I made my way back to the thrift garments section of the market, looping toward Electric Avenue, and remembering that I packed no long-sleeved shirts, jackets, or coats; I found all three in a sturdy flannel that looked quite the business.
Exiting the market, I happened upon a street musician serenading the ever-revolving storefront bus stop crowd with [?!] an accordion. Now that I have some time, let's do Red Records for real, let's see what my first purchase will be... hmmm, which of you albums will be the first import of my trip? Okay, I see the CDs. I guess this means the records are ... upstairs? No staircase leading up. Downstairs? Yeah, basement-style like a community hall sound clash. No staircase leading down. I wanted to ask the person behind the counter, but figured that this would be pretty rude - some white American "Is this all there is?" I flip, through some CDs, noting a few interesting titles, but nothing to tap my £ over.
With a big day already chockfull of plans, I take the tube to Tottenham court station. This queued out into a large intersection - 4 lines (including curbside parking) in 4 directions. I took my time placing myself on the compass, walking and counting addresses. Plotted, I set out for the Atlantis bookstore. My facts may be jumbled, but I believe this is the bookstore resurrected by Jimmy Page in 1970 whatever . Established by Aleister Crowley legal alias Beast 666, the bookstore was actually on top of the basement/dungeon he conducted ceremonies and sacrifices in. A friend once gave me an old printing of "Magick: In Practice and Theory" , which may have even suffered the same fate as my copy of "The Satanic Bible" - set ablaze by the righteous fingers of an irresolute family member. Nonetheless, his bookstore remains of this world, long after he does not.
My first step was to find the museum, the bookstore being a couple blocks up and just on the other side of the street. I walked up the blocks opposite and turned onto the street I deduced the store was on. Walking Haunted London wasn't quite exact, and this part of the city was not distinct city blocks. I see a bookstore, not a chain, but not the Atlantis, either. Any other day and I would browse for a while, but my day is full and I really want to see this landmark.
I do find a tavern in the spot rumored to be the Plough Tavern, a favorite drinking haunt of the substance-abusing Beast. I would saddle up for a pint and a shot or two after I find this damned Atlantis. I check the street one block up. 5 minutes. Another block up. 10 minutes.
I walk down the other side and return to Tottenham court corner. 15 minutes. Recalculating my directions leads to the same results, but I crossed the street to look over there, anyway. This walk becomes a tremendously unpleasant I-know-this-is-the-wrong-way-so-why-am-I-still-continuing walk. 25 minutes. Back at Tottenham (again) I consider a different quadrant grid-search, but, feeling a time crunch, I go back to the Museum. Maybe I'm on the wrong side of the museum. I begin exploring this option 45 minutes but it, too, is obviously wrong. Deciding to locate the Plough Tavern, I find it and decide to, after 55 wasted minutes, explore this (hmmm...) unnamed bookstore which, as I can read from the shelves, specializes in occult literature.
The lady behind the counter was friendly and answered some relatively exact questions I had. There was so much to read in such a small place, I spent about 20 minutes on my first bookcase, and I hadn't even gotten to any text past the table of contents & photographs yet. After skimming volume after volume, I ended up engrossed in an illustrated guide to uncatagorized sexual perversions.
By now it was 2:00 and I really had to get to the Tower of London before it closed - 5:PM suddenly seemed so early. But first I had to make a stop at the Virgin Megastore right by the tube stop. I usually don't have much interest in chain stores while travelling, unless they have particularly expansive book, magazine, or video selections. I was banking on Virgin to have the latter. On the bottom floor I found the videos, and after locating the music section - I saw it ... The latest from full-throttle stallion Don Letts' who shares the title Fifth Member of the Clash with scores of other happenstance geezers. As the lore I've been privy to tells it, the Westway was not so much the name of the motorway so much as it was the ultra-thick, solid concrete dividing line between Us and what them Yanks refer to as The Wrong Side of the Fence, i.e those we keep so poor they may conceivably attack our unattended children. During the further economic splinter of the Thatcher Years the words THE CLASH were spray-painted across. This was read and appreciated by some musician squatters who decided it was an apt title for the wired class-conscious bursts of music they were beginning to write and play.
A youth in similar boots who opted for a camera instead of guitar, Letts, applied timely Dread theory to the new rebel growth which the BBC christened "punk". The documentary he made of one of the band's short European tours in 1978 along with the not-even-a-year stretch of the London club the Roxy has the best timing I've ever seen - the Slit's war-pounding drummer, the Clash pouring out sweat and guts, then the shimmers of Augustus Pablo reflecting off a passing car.
So here, in my hands, is a copy of this new documentary, with footage from their entire (well, 7 or 10 years depending on who you ask) career, the first time many of them are even talking about it. Sounds almost cliché, huh? Well, I'm hooked. But here's the catch - being only distributed in PAL format, and not in VHS/NTSC, this here video is not available in the U.S. or Canada. I picked up the box, never having seen a PAL tape before, gauging if I could somehow cram it into my V.C.R. back in the States. The PAL cassettes are thinner and more square shaped. Taking the tape with me, I asked an employee if they carried or could order a copy of this in VHS? "No." Damn!
Getting to the Tower was a straight-forward affair, seeing as it's Top 3 Tourist Destinations. As soon as you step off the tube at Tower Hill station, you can easily follow the tourist trail to the Tower without having to consult a map. The entrance is on the far side, which opportunes a good overview of the whole set-up. The surrounding moat has been drained (following a series of nasty cholera epidemics) and is now a distinctly flat/level band of green, green grass, including a tennis court.
It was after 3:00 by the time I got in line for admission. A family of tourists, noticing at completely independent intervals that we closed at 5:00, began bickering for consensus. Realizing that by the time they arrived at a decision it would definitely be too late, I scooted underneath & past them, swung the student fare with a flash of my Alma Matter, and took off.
Real Haunting
In the 1980s, one warder saw two fully-dressed Yeoman (aka Beefeaters, just like you picture them) standing by a fireplace chatting & smoking their pipes. They stopped talking, turned to stare at the warder, then disappeared. Walking Haunted London tells the story of a guard who sat on a bench to remove a pebble from his boot. He felt a cool hand through the breeze land on his shoulder while a voice told him "Now it's just you and I" to which the scared-shitless guard replied "Just let me get this bloody boot on and it'll be just you, mate!"
I had 4 or 5 must-sees on my list, so when the guide of the day's last tour announced we wouldn't be led through the whole deal, I ditched and guided my damn self. First was the Salt Tower - built to imprison Jesuit priests who stubbornly continued to propagate Catholicism despite the law of King Henry VIII. Jesuit priest Henry Walpole, while waiting for his next stretch on the rack, etched into the stone walls the names of the saints he prayed to for courage. These names are still decipherable today. Much like the bullet-holes chipped out of Bob Marley's assassination attempt in his house/studio/office at 56 Hope Road . Running your fingers along them adds a whole new dimension.
Trying to find the quickest route outside, I passed through the Bloody Tower. The yet-to-be-crowned and his brother (aged 13 & 10) were murdered here - some say by stooges of Richard III; others say it was plotted by Henry VII to clinch his ascent to the throne. Today, it is a replica of Sir Walter Raleigh's "cell" - a tastefully decorated twin-size bed, carpets, paintings, dining table, two large windows, and a nice-sized desk on which he penned his "History of the World, Pt.1". Hey, you can only spend so much time counting push-ups.
I was very excited about my next stop - the Wakesfield Tower. Henry VI was imprisoned here (while still king, no less). His alter faced a beautiful stained glass window. As he knelt there, praying, the Duke of Gloucester (Richard III) stabbed his ass in the back. I took a picture of Henry's last earthly vision.
Outside, in the Tower Green, is the scaffold and headsman's block, which has scraped the chins of: Queen Catherine Howard (5th wife of King Henry VIII), Lady Jane Grey (uncrowned queen of nine days), Anne Boleyn (2nd wife of King Henry VIII - May 19, 1536), and the Earl of Essex, Queen Elizabeth's rejected suitor (coining the cry "I've been chicked!"). A story here begins with Cardinal Pole (France) vilifying Henry VIII's claim as head of the Church of England. Unable to put the squeeze on the Cardinal, Hank got a hold of his mum, Margaret. When told to place her head on the block, the block, she refused. "So shall traitors do, and I am none." The executioner raised his axe and swung, then chased the screaming countess through the courtyard, hacking her to pieces.
You can even see the executions from the holding cell, as many family members of the executed have. One sixteen-year-old was led from the throne straight to the gallows by an overly ambitious father-in-law.
I sat down in the courtyard to record some sounds - children playing, guardsman and horse-shoes marching out called orders. I looked at the holding cell, the chop-block, and imagined the courtyard full of blood-thirsty serfs. Wingless ravens scuttled about, as well. An old prophesy holds that if the ravens leave, the monarchy will fall, The birds are protected by royal decree and the future of the monarchy is insured by the clipping of their wings.
The ravens "guard" the White Tower, the oldest (completed 1097) and largest of all the towers. No longer a royal residence, it houses a church, an arsenal, and a small collection of torture devices. On the first floor, I got stuck in a tour-clog trying to get a peek into the 11th c. chapel of St. John. An unsuccessful arsonist (of the Gunpowder Plot) was tortured beneath the chapel and if you listen closely * you'll hear tourist's bitch & moan how they should have gotten her earlier. The armouries are spread between the first & second floors. On the second floor, I was delighted to find, nest to the flush toilet, a genuine, honest-to-goodness POOP CHUTE! Which reminded me of a joke my old man told me ...
Once I broke free from the tour-crowd, I found immense relief in the loo, and, making my exit, passed the Traitor's Gate . Through this gate passed the boats bringing new inmates. Consequently, this was the inmates' last look at the outside world . And my exit.
On to Shepherd's Bush... why? Because a lot of the Who's history occurred there - practices, locales of management hiring, one or two members of the band have lived there at one point. I also recall a Pete Townsend interview in which he disdainfully refers to their audience as "a bunch of Shepherd's Bush geezers". I also found it a lovely name. Shepherd's Bush. So I hopped on the red line and sought it out.
I was let out onto a really nice park, which I took my time strolling. I didn't really have any fixed notions of what I was seeking or locating. If this was once a mod mecca back in the day, I might be looking for a Face or Number, just to keep that shit alive. It was on this walk that I discovered a wonderful point of comparison of the three cities I have been planning to visit. In America, we have $1 Stores - everything is a buck and it's either candy or low-grade plastic housewares. Well, in Shepherd's Bush, I found a £1 shop. I went in for a look-see and everything in there really was 50% better than an American $tore. Although the sun was still out, clouds gave the impression of rain so I decided on just a leisurely lap around the park.
Then I found it.
On a Marquee, on the opposite side of the tube station, was the first favorite Who song I ever had. In yet-lit dark red cubisms:
SPARKS I couldn't determine what exactly this "Sparks" was; all I know is any live version of Tommy's "Sparks" is a HIGH VOLUME scorcher of crescendo. Watching it on video got me through many a high-school late night and turning it up on my Walkman while I went running got me through college. And "Young Man's Blues" . And "Dreaming from the Waist". Fuck, ANYTHING live.
It was really strange to be wandering with no real intentions and then have a small journey both declared & climaxed so suddenly 3 stories high.
Content, I formulated a plan for dinner. There were so many places I wanted to eat. I eventually decided to follow a friend's advice of Neal's Yard Salad Bar.
After stepping off the tube at Covent Garden, I had to scout a few nook & cranny alleyways to find it. Very co-op-looking, but not quite a soup kitchen, there is no sign reading "Neal's Yard Salad Bar" or "Neal's Yard Bakery". Actually, I had a hard time determining which it was. Once I determined where I could pick up a hot dinner, next came figuring out where to pay for it - no cash register. No cashier's or even employees, either. I knew a good way to change that After picking up the nearest foodstuff, I hastily "browsed" my way towards the exit.
"Oh, hello. Can I help you?"
I ordered a vegan pizza with olives, peppers, (they were out of onions) artichoke heart and corn. A little pricier than my guidebook gave the impression of, but no big deal. The courtyard was full of diners, so I found a streetside bench and decided to chomp.
This became a big culinary lesson to me.
Chef's Tip: Don't ever sprinkle corn on top of anything to be baked.
Inside maybe, but dehydrated corn kernels immediately go to war with your gums, wedging themselves between all the top teeth as you bite in, and the bottom teeth as you chew. Unless you are trying to ToughLove someone into flossing, just leave it alone.By the time I finished, it was getting dark, so I headed back to CamdenTown, picking up some dessert from a bakery and browsing some T-shirts & posters in the shops. Since my morning was starting early tomorrow (5:30) I didn't mind making it an early night.
While reading Let's Go Europe: '99 at Erin's flat, she told me I could tear out the Germany sections I was interested in to take with me. Previously, this had been far too unorthodox for me to consider, but remembering Rick Steves giving the same advice, I tore. Three pages of country info, then the five Hamburg pages, which I began studying immediately.
Erin told me about the Notting Hill Carnival taking place the 27th (two Mondays from now) - a Caribbean Carnivalé of festive street celebrating, loud music, party-goers flooding the streets, and lots of blind eye-turning bobbies. Although this did cut a couple of days out of my Amsterdam visit, I had already afforded myself ten days there, so there was really nothing holding me to those plans.
©2001- Chris Hebbe
About the Author: The Author will provide more infomation when he damned well pleases.
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