A Multitude of Sins: Golden Brown, The Stranglers and Strange Little Girls - Hugh Cornwell

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If you want to find out about my band Johnny Sox and bank robberies in Sweden then go to ‘Let me tell you about Sweden’. ‘Drugs’ will tell you how I happened to end up in Pentonville for five weeks. ‘Standing Room Only’ tells you what I’ve been up to recently amongst other things. The other chapter titles speak for themselves.

      I’d like to say something about the nature of memory while we’re not on the subject. One of my favourite books is called My Last Breath by the Spanish film-maker Luis Buñuel, which is his attempt at an autobiography. At the beginning, he tells a little story about how his memory plays tricks on him. He recalls finding a photograph from a friend’s wedding in the Twenties, and is surprised to see someone in the picture whom he didn’t expect to have attended the event. He telephones the bridegroom to ask about the presence of the guest, to be told that he himself was the one who didn’t attend the wedding. This amazes him, as he can remember a lot of things about it even though it transpired he wasn’t actually there. He must have heard so many stories from his friends who were there that his mind had appropriated the experience. I looked up the story to refresh my memory of it, only to find it completely different from what I had remembered. I rest my case.

      So you may wonder how much of this is true. Well, as far as my memory serves me, it all is. Looking at it, I realize I couldn’t have made up better fiction if I’d tried. It’s precisely because it’s true that it has been so easy to write, as I haven’t had to scratch my head looking for any plot and character development. But it has been very different from the writing of songs that I’ve been involved in for the last thirty years, and harder too, because when you write a song, you’ve got the music to guide you. But I’ve really enjoyed the experience, even though my brain is now feeling a bit frazzled. I’m sure there’s a lot of things I haven’t been able to remember, but all the meat is here. One thing to bear in mind is that the truth depends upon where you’re standing at the time, and I totally understand it if another person disagrees with anything I’ve written.

      One thing that may come as a surprise is the fact that I’ve been allowed to write this myself, without a ghost writer. Obviously HarperCollins wanted to live dangerously, and I’m very glad they did. Martin Roach has been a fantastic help as an editor, being such a seasoned writer himself. He has guided me through a lot of structural and grammatical errors, and has always been there with enthusiasm and encouragement whenever I’ve needed it. So without his input this book would definitely not have existed. I have to add that David Buckley’s biography of The Stranglers, No Mercy, has been very useful to refer to, as his chronicling is superb, even though my input to that book was very small. I’ve explained how a few key Stranglers’ songs came into existence and what they’re about, but for the full story about every song then I can recommend my previous book, The Stranglers: Song By Song which I put together with my friend Jim Drury.

      I would also like to take this opportunity to express my gratitude to Hans Wärmling, the fifth Strangler. It was he who acted as my mentor when I was in Sweden the second time, and encouraged me to play electric guitar, to sing, and to write songs. I am sure things wouldn’t have turned out quite the same way if I’d never met him. He was a very nice man, and acted as a fine example of hard work and dedication for me in those early days when I wasn’t sure where my destiny lay.

      Hugh Cornwell

       Cádiz, Spain, June 2004.

       CHAPTER ONE Leave me alone

      You can probably guess what questions I get asked most.

      ‘WHY DID YOU LEAVE THE STRANGLERS?’ and:

      ‘WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GET BACK WITH THE GROUP?’

      And whatever answer I give, however lucid it might be, the questioner always looks at me with that ‘there-must-be-more-to-it-than-that’ look. So, I thought it would be a perfect way to start this book by answering these two questions finally, definitively … forever.

       ROOM INTERIOR. SWISS COTTAGE HOLIDAY INN. 11 AUGUST, 1990. 5P.M.

      The Stranglers are headlining a sold-out show at Alexandra Palace in north London, sponsored by Capital Radio. The gig is going to be filmed and we’ve done a lengthy sound-check earlier in the afternoon. I’m watching England bat against India in the second Test Match at Old Trafford on TV. The ninth wicket has gone down and Devon Malcolm, England’s number eleven, strolls out to the wicket. My interest perks up as Malcolm is always good for a laugh to watch, being such a terrible batsman. He takes guard and after a couple of almighty swings, he manages to connect with the ball, which goes sailing out into one of the stands for a six. Malcolm is all smiles and the crowd has woken up to cheer him on. Unexpectedly, I suddenly identify with this character and recognize that the effort being made to fight his way out of the straitjacket situation in which the Indian bowlers have placed him, perfectly mirrors my own current, repressed state within the group. As I watch the ball soar high over the turf, it comes to me in a flash that I should leave The Stranglers, tonight, after the gig.

      Thinking for a while, I realize that the momentous decision I have just made has been staring me in the face for a long time, but I could not accept it any earlier as being the solution. The more I think about it, the more obvious it becomes. I cannot believe how I have managed to avoid considering leaving for so long, and the word

      DENIAL

      pops into my brain. When a moment like this occurs, it feels like the top of your head is going to explode, rather like having a hit of freebase cocaine. I want to share this moment with someone and celebrate the end of an era of uncertainty, but understand there’s no way I can say a word to anyone, just in case I change my mind in a few hours’ time.

      Inevitably, Devon Malcolm gets himself out and his moment passes, but mine continues. The teams traipse off the field for a break between the innings and I’m left to weigh up the consequences of my decision. I feel terribly guilty and start to think I should have seen it all earlier. Therefore I have been deceiving everyone, including myself. But that’s a ridiculous conclusion to come to. I acknowledge this and stop feeling like crap. I remember the last time I felt like this, living in Sweden in 1974, when I handed in my notice to my professor at Lund University and stopped my PhD. That night I went to sleep thinking that I wasn’t going to wake up the next day, or that someone was going to switch off my daylight (see lyrics to ‘Always The Sun’). But the next day did come and to my surprise it was brilliantly sunny. The only difference was I didn’t have to go into the laboratory. That’s the trouble with commitment and loyalty, it brings with it a sense of obligation, accompanied by insecurity and a fear of the unknown, which creeps into the void created when you leave a situation.

       BACK TO THE HOTEL ROOM

      It’s getting to the time to prepare for the gig and I’m not feeling any different. I am convinced that I’ve finally seen the light at the end of the tunnel and I just want to get on with it. I go through all the little rituals I do to prepare for a gig: I have a cat nap for about ten minutes, I have a shit and a shave, I check that my shoelaces are tight but not too tight, and I wait for the call down to the hotel lobby.

      As usual, no one says much during the ride to the venue. John Ellis, ex-Vibrators, is with us on this tour as a second guitarist and he is the most talkative. I promise myself that I will put everything into this concert as it’s going to be my last one as a Strangler. Normally a live set goes quicker than you would expect, but this one just races by. Before I know it, we are on stage doing an encore or two and then it’s all over and we are backstage in a caravan winding down. Someone asks me something about next week and I mutter an incoherent answer over my shoulder as I change my clothes. It’s been a good performance and the last thing I want to do is bring everyone down by announcing my news to the rest of the group. I make some excuses and manage to get away as soon as I can. I pass John Ellis on the way out the door, and I say, ‘Have a nice life’ to him, probably because he’s an outsider and has nothing to do with my decision. I grab one of

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