Moving Targets on 8th Ave
How much can a person take in? First impressions of America by CHRIS WESTWOOD and Penetration.
They must have eyes that go round corners.
THE BIG Apple beckons......
Out there on the street where hookers, pimps and wimps strut amongst the physically overturned, crumbling garbage bins, where New York buzzes by a thousand elements of Big City life hustling their own thousand separate ways-where every last citizen is a stranger, there is no united, apparent acknowledgement of what's going down. Penetration-two nights completed here, -already -are propping up the new Hurrah Club again, right at the outset of their first ever US tour. The concentrated interest is limited and strictly beneath the diversified "surface" of things. That's New York; it re-groups lives but individuals can't re group it-or its cycles. You don't even begin to break it down.
NY is locked beneath a vile shroud of weather smog cloud as we loom over JFK Airport, seat belted into our Laker DC 10, before landing. We don't crash.
Linda of Virgin Records, and myself are to make for a swift hotel check-in, a spout of rest uppance, then a hi-tail for The Hurrah.
Within five minutes, I note, New York City can be perceived exactly as expected: all these Kojaks, Serpicos, French Connections-they all glamorise and airbrush certain walks of life here, but they all end up reflecting, after all the filtering down, something of the Real McCoy. That whole (I thought) overstated cop-siren, gut-rot burger, pimping, pushing, rushing, honking, bad-mouthed, bad-assed image holds true, coming into gleaming perspective. Only "romance" seems out of place here, though I guess that's dependent on your definition of the word.
The Gramercy Park Hotel is situated on Lexington and 23rd, a hyper-typical American hotel, downbeat, seedy, frayed at the edges, where it takes 30 minutes to locate one's room. In so doing, the Englishman is greeted by black ants on his bathroom floor, tap water with the purity and cleanliness of last week's dishwash sludge water, and a TV which gives you 15 murky visual blurs-one for each channel.
US television is a story in itself: this scrubby mess, this brainwashing, apathy inducing, lard-headed medium, where snatches of "programmes" are pinpointed intermittently, sandwiched between ruthless and random bombardments of ads,ads,ads ... may be detected drawling from each and every room on the premises, 24 hours a day.
It's surreal and plastic; I'm really getting into this transmission of the Cannes Film Festival when the Frog technicians decide to stage a prompt walkout, pulling The Plug into the bargain. By way of compensation, we're dumped in the middle of 'Mission Impossible', a half hour of which seems to have slipped under the bridge, so we've missed all the best bits.
We get a news guy, linking a murder rap with four police identikit spades, explaining away the local Rastafarians as "a race which the police describe as violent, marijuana smoking fanatics who preach hatred for the white race."
Needle? Intimidation? Oppression? So four locals get stitched up in Bedford Hills ... and it's all delivered in flat. unassuming, indifferent tones: it could be a popcorn ad. This presentation is dangerous. The term "murder" is thrown around with studied insouciance ... it's far less disturbing than the gas shortage. There's no element of alarm, shock or concern to be found. It's accepted, delivered and sucked up. New York is dangerous, but dangerously immune to the fact, it seems.
We're placed in this downtown, low-key face of the city, all monotonous brown buildings, neon signs, obligatory steak houses -there's the only action round here. A few blocks away, a huge hunk of masonry - literally the front of a building - simply gives up and collapses onto the pavement. No one is hurt.
The area broods; it's a sickly-exciting, demanding environment, "impressive" by its very reputation. Even in moments of most extreme dormancy, there's this fascinating, inbred, indefinable sense of energy hanging over the place; occasionally this is asserted by the whooping of a cop siren, or the sound of kids on the street.
"It's quite frightening sometimes," says Pauline, relaxed and talkative after the final NY date, sitting amongst the remnants of a steadily emptying Hurrah, "like today we were just walking down 8th Avenue and it's literally full of local prostitutes, pushers, everything. This big black guy kept walking along behind us, like he was following us. I don't know if anyone else knew what was happening, but I said 'Come on, let's go into this shop for a bit'. When we came out he was still there, waiting like. He stopped in the end. . but, well, I don't know why but I really like New York. Nave you seen it? It's a mess - it's all falling to pieces. It's scarey, but I've got this mysterious fascination for it."
I understand her confused, intrigued outlook; it's a natural first impression. The people here appear at once heavily self attuned, grim faced, often alienative and resistive. There are no "rules" apparent; the people make their own. This seems no place for the outsider.
But now here are Penetration, "outsiders" in the fullest sense, five special, determined people with an overriding preoccupation to better and prove themselves, both in their own and the recipient's - eyes.
Pauline continues, always sounding moderately bemused: "It's been amazing, watching the growth of this band. That we should be playing New York, America it's . . ." she breaks off, aptly and expressively. "I mean, if we never did another thing, recorded another record, it wouldn't matter 'cos we've seen a lot of life, had a good time, done a lot of things we'd never thought of. That's what keeps us going in a way; we can never afford to be serious all the time. That'd drive us mad! We find it impossible to sit back and be satisfied, totally satisfied, with something we've done. We have to strive. There's always this thing where we feel the need to just, like, push everything that bit further."
"We're moving, ah ha/ We're moving . .
AND THE movement -3am, NY time - is hardly perceivable in the Hurrah's sweaty aftermath; drummer Gary Smallman looks bleached, and is sprawling, huddled on one of the club's plush sofas.
"Just don't get any sleep," he moans, " 'cos at 7 o'clock prompt, right next the hotel, they start up the construction work
. it sounds like a chainsaw they've got. We've only been here three days and I'm knackered."
He's also knackered because - along with the four other Penetrations - he's just gone out on a sweaty, uncompromising limb in attempting to stimulate/enervate the club's self consciously posey, uninspiring clientele to respond with anything more than studied, ritualised polite applause. Looking around, I decide that Punk is dead after all. Debbie Blondie was here last night: now ain't that exciting!!
The set itself is decidedly fine. We're in this place- which looks like an ex disco 'converted punkwise, flashing lights,comfy chairs and all, a real cushy way to go about flashing your bondage pants and watching Penetration with their sub standard PA, limited light system, is like re capturing the early days, the early buzz, and transporting it directly to a modern setting.
The slips and errors are there, but not so obvious. 'Movement' is blessed by a chord cockup somewhere and is cleverly, stealthily transported through a well ad libbed reggae build up into the full, flashing article that it is.
It's noticeable, when placing this showing against the recent Rainbow, performance that Penetration's strength lies in their ability to adapt; to rise or fall, play up or down to the occasion. To blend and mould an imposed setting.
There's bland applause- which, we're informed represents a hysterical Stateside reaction -and things saunter to a steady close. The dressing room evolves into a cluster of empty, broken bottles and glasses, familiar and unfamiliar faces, a mixture of organisers, .participants, poseurs and liggers. Ian Hunter's there, asserting his own self important views, suggesting the band engage Mike Chapman (of Chinn/Chapman notoriety) as producer, if they really want to make a pile of money and be rich and famous (sic).
There's this girl, swaying about trying town to converse with Pauline, her eyes glazed, her manner dazed and predictable. She's saying "Hey, I jus' thought you were really good tonight. I know that sounds awww, y'know . . .ahhh, but you really were."
The girl's arms are smeared with ugly bruises.
Also hanging around in the background somewhere is Miles Copeland, manager of The Police, headman with Faulty Products, a person whose typically businessman outlook is neatly balanced with an understanding of, and a rooted interest in New British Music . . . and the process of establishing a foot grip for it . .in this thing we call "America".
The Police are a feather in the man's titfer poised at nine in the Rolling Stones album chart as I write and his concern seems to extend to any outfit with similar devices, prospects and potential. He's heavily responsible for these very same Penetration dates, having loaned a van and gear for the duration: brother Ian Copeland is responsible for the promotion. We meet briefly, exchange vague pleasantries, then head our separate ways.
Meanwhile, I find myself introduced to Sue Byrom, ex editor of this self same rag, now Director of Publicity, Stateside, based on NY's Perry Street. She points out that Virgin US are in the final throes before the Big Launch, which ultimately entails the release of some dozen or so albums from the label roster before the year chokes out: 'Moving Targets' will be the first.
The second album, for which most tracks are at the tangible thumb nail sketch stage, will be privileged with roughly simultaneous UK/US release dates, provided all goes to plan, sometime around September. It will be produced by youthful veteran Steve Liliwhite when Penetration return to Blighty in June. The prospect of Virgin's venture is enticing: someone is jostling into the field, the impenetrable parade of market-hogging majors, having a go from the inside . . .
New York never sleeps, but as the trademarks of (1) air travel, and (2) gig-going and playing make themselves felt, the writer, the band and the PR head back for essential kip.
SATURDAY 26th, and the destination is Philadelphia, a mere two-hour drive from the confines of NY, past New Jersey, through green, open territory, down the fast lane, over the New Jersey Turnpike . . ..
Philadelphia feels more relaxed, more accessible than New York. It is bright, fresh, splendid. Streets are lined with quaint, swaying trees, fifties-era telegraph poles, clean houses with sweeping sun-shades outlining the front porches.
We drive through the retrograde end of town - real America - all boarded-up shops, dilapidated ex-burger joints still plastered with tacky red and white "Joe's Hamburgers" signs. Outside, the kids sprawl on stone steps, or stand around in groups on street corners, playing ball.
In the back of the van, Gary Smallman sets a tape rolling - Springsteen's 'Born To Run'. Stunningly, brilliantly, it brings many things into perspective. This America, this music, this street. It all fits, it all sounds so natural, so right. It reflects the mood and atmosphere perfectly. Springsteen is the only thing to listen to here.
And somehow, Penetration have to fit into all this.......
Philadelphia is a warm, welcoming state, the people radically different from New Yorkers (" Hey you're English aintcha? Just think your accent's sooo cute"), accessible, curious, conversationalists.
Philadelphia makes one feel, strangely, a part of it all. Slouching around the hotel, bar, ordering screwdrivers, munching pretzels, absorbing the hum, I speak to Pauline. Reflectively, she discusses the New York Hurrah dates . . .
"The first night I just couldn't believe. I mean, the people there were not doing anything! They were standing, watching, but not showing any interest. They weren't clapping . . . they were just so weird, I felt really angry in the end."
Robert Blamire, Penetration's lanky, friendly bass player, goes through his own impressions of the dates . . .
"It was like going back to the beginning again. All this time we've been moving up, getting used to quality monitors, clean PAs . . . and here we were with this awful sound, these crappy monitors. It's more of a challenge than anything."
And Pauline digresses to talk about the punters: "Sometimes, y'know," she says, "I feel people are after a part of your soul, like they can't accept you for what you are. Last night, like, you got them coming up - there was this guy from Britain who asked if I'd got a badge. I hadn't. Then he said `Give us a kiss Pauline so I can go and tell me friends in London'. But what's the point I'm no-one special; I'm just an ordinary person. Some of 'em don't really care . . . they just want that part of your soul."
In search of food, we opt to purvey the local burger bars, where glib conversation is soothing, like background music: there's these little sugar-substitute sachets which read "Use of this product may prove hazardous to your health. It contains saccharin which has been specially treated to cause cancer in laboratory animals."
That's a very reassuring thing to read once you've humped the thing into your coffee and knocked it back. It's also a profound testament to American Life.
While Penetration swallow hard and drive off for the soundcheck at Philadelphia's Hot Club, I return to the hotel bar for a deeper insight into US culture.
Then the trouble starts up. Pauline returns from the soundcheck with a croaking voice which constantly cuts out on her: before the American tour commenced, guitarist Neale Floyd contracted laryngitis, an event which-one eye on the States lead to the prompt curtailment of the British tour. Now the scrag haired leather clad one runs around, fuller of life than anyone present, while the virus manifests itself in the rest of the entourage.
"Me voice kept giving up on me during the soundtrack," whispers Pauline. "I don't know if it's gonna last tonight; we've got to do two shows. I'll have to get to a hospital tomorrow."
An unfortunate and ironic thorn in the side, this kind of problem is always likely to strike at inopportune junctures. Penetration are expected to play two sets per night for the next three or four dates, and here they are intimidated by weariness and illness.
The Hot Club is a raunchy, apt little fleapit, a venue with character and an enthusiastic clientele. It is smokey, small, very well focused, very well populated an active hive of anticipation. Now this is a proper crowd.
Penetration sit quietly next door in the dressing room, an unfurnished flat; they sprawl on the floorboards, nursing guitars, guitar tuners, bottles of beer. Pauline sits in a corner on a shabby chair, sucking throat sweets and appearing inwardly concerned. "Her voice is gonna go before the end, I know it" smiles Gary Smallman, nervously, and the tension is extremely perceivable, in oneself and throughout the band.
But like any class working unit, Penetration have the ability to thrive on their reservations, to usurp their hang ups seize the situation, and bring the whole thing crashing out forcibly in real living terms, transfusing, moulding, rising to the occasion.
The crowd respond in a jack knife flash: this Yank geezer sporting a football shirt, denim shorts, bullet head and weird, rounded little glasses, leaps up and confronts the punters thus: "Hey get yer asses moving down here, we got a British band gonna tear ya apart. Buy their (expletive deleted) album. PEN E TRAY SHUN!!"
As the introductory chords of 'Nostalgia' sweep the hall, there's a massive rush of straights, punk poseurs, freaks down the front, then up into the air, then splat onto the floor, and so on, a polite, consciousless interpretation of The Famed Pogo.
A real club atmosphere is attacked by a Penetration with grim determination, a Pauline whose overt need to exercise self discipline results in the expulsion of a bottled, intensified passion and urgency. . a performance transmission of tingling discipline and nervous power.
Penetration bring a tingle to the spine, a rush to the neck heckles with an extreme application to music which is romantic, but deceptively non specific. They create a divine aura of sound, a jangling mesh of guitars which colour, pace and stabilise the sound. Fred Purser comes on in leaps and bounds, gradually shrugging off the HM Axe Hero labelling of yore, replacing it with a statement to the effect that his role within the outfit is becoming more and more functional.
Neale Floyd is a visual aid, trading on flash presence but possessing the musical spark to back it up, Gary Smallman, still ludicrously young, remains a sturdy, splendid wielder of the drumsticks, while Robert Blamire's bass playing is insidiously vital to the scheme of things.
The whole operation hinges on tension, a romantic tension which is difficult to define or assess, but all too apparent whowatching and absorbing.
"I hate it," says Neale Floyd at some point during one of our conversations, "when people feel obliged to take us, like an object, and start picking away, dissecting us, cutting us into little pieces and analysing us. We are a unit, they should accept us for what we are . . . the total effect."
Which is how it should be. With Penetration on this form, the first inclination is to recline and accept and enjoy, to forget about the business of being journalistic. Penetration's most extreme facet is their ability to project an air of mysticism, to entice and capture an audience with something which is indefinably beyond: so to start breaking into this area, discovering, uncovering and breaking down, would be somewhat sacrilegious. The process of thought behind the production is essential and special.
Pauline: "It's like when you're writing something, like if you sit down and force yourself, it never happens. Writing songs is like that: an idea will suddenly come when I least expect it, and then it's spontaneous, like, and the words will probably come together in a few minutes. 'Stone Heroes' took about half an hour."
The new songs reflect this spontaneity; 'She Is The Slave' and 'Come Into The Open' (a couplet for the forthcoming single), 'On Reflection' and 'Last Saving Grace' . . . they all float, sway, shudder from start to finish.
Penetration return to the stage at lam, fighting furiously to deliver, tormented by tiredness, fuelled by the need to fulfil. They are a special group of people. And they remain unaffected by the position, which is the most pleasing factor of all.
The evening ends on a scorching high note. Everyone is wrecked. Saturday morning: Pauline is pasty, her voice is breaking up. She sits over a coffee, smiling timidly. There's a lot going down in her head, and she does her best to brush over the fact. AS we return to New York, she is being ferried to a nearby Philadelphia hospital, and she's wishing us a fond farewell. There's Pauline a bold, admirable lady. There's the state of mind that makes Penetration what it is; forward looking, optimistic, inalienably humane.
"Moving, ah ha / We're moving. . .