Elvis Costello gets arrested for busking
Melody Maker, 1977-08-01
- Allan Jones
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Picturedt: the Stiff staff with Jake Riviera (third left). |
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A Day In The Life Of A Bunch Of Stiffs
Allan Jones
Pictures: Barry Plummer
Allan Jones spends a day with Stiff Records and sees label boss
Jake Riviera make a racial slur, Elvis Costello arrested, and the Feelgoods
discuss the sex life of jellyfish
JAKE RIVIERA reminds me of a hip Hitler. Jake, of course, hasn't Adolf's
toothbrush stubble moustache lingering beneath his nose like a malevolent
caterpillar; neither does he have that lank comma of hair slicked rakishly
over one eye like a Brylcreemed bat's wing. Nor is it likely that he
shares any of the late dictator's more unpleasant psychopathic tendencies.
And it would be difficult to imagine the Fuhrer prancing about Nuremburg
in winkle-picker cowboy shoes, Levis and a cowboy shirt, singing the
praises of the likes of Rat Scabies or Captain Sensible or Nick Lowe.
But there is about Jake that sense of manic urgency, the controlled
hysteria and ruthless insistence on achievement that one remembers from
those films salvaged from the ruined archives of the Third Reich.
It's 10.30 on an overcast Tuesday morning and Jake is cartwheeling
furiously about Stiff Records' command centre in West London. The Damned
have been successfully despatched to Southampton to record a television
show with Mike Mansfield.
He's now dealing with the first wave of incoming telephone calls and
simultaneously arranging a multitude of freewheeling deals, negotiating
forthcoming Stiff projects and contracts and organising the advertising
campaign for Elvis Costello.
Meanwhile, an American journalist is attempting to interview him on
the subject of Stiff's plans.
"Is Elvis Costello going to be Stiff's biggest star?" she asks seriously.
Jake can't resist the temptation to scream with laughter. "I don't
f- know. I just put out the records."
His attention is diverted (fortunately, perhaps) by another telephone
call. The American lady consoles herself by taking a series of candid
photographs: she seems, for some unlikely reason, infatuated with his
feet and snaps a series of shots of his ankles.
Jake stares at her in mild disbelief and takes another call. He verbals
at a speed so relentless that it leaves friction burns on the brain.
"Yeah, Stiff Records. Bonjour. That's French for bonjour. Ah, it's
you. Right. I want full-page ads on Elvis. Spot colour. Somewhere near
the front of the papers. Got it? No excuses. I don't want to find them
stuck right up the back. Good. Get on the case, then. Let's start shaking.
Groovy."
He slams down the, telephone. "Cynthia. A letter. Quick. Shake it,
Cynthia. Time is money and we're late. With an overdraft."
The American journalist surrenders in the face of this early morning
frenzy. She has to leave now, but could Jake possibly put her name down
on the guest list for Elvis Costello's London debut that evening at
Dingwall's?
Jake looks at her. He notes that she `is obviously of Oriental extraction.
"Sure," he replies. "What was the name again? Pearl Harbour? Cynthia,
put Pearl's name on the list. Let's get shaking."
THE history of Stiff Record since its inception last August has been
a saga of intrepid adventure and individual enterprise.
Succinctly: Stiff was conceived by Jake Riviera as a challenge to the
superiority of the major record companies. The idea of Stiff as a renegade
independent company, operating almost as a kind of guerilla force within
the music business, first suggested itself when he was skating across
the wastelands of North America as tour manager for Dr Feelgood.
"We were travelling through Louisiana," he remembers, "in and out of
all these one-eyed towns and even there you could find all these thrift
shops stocked with all these singles on obscure labels. There's always
been that kind of tradition in America. There have been some attempts
to do it here, but none of them realIy worked. I just thought it would
be a real gas to start a label.
"We were just sitting in this station wagon. And there isn't really
a lot to occupy your mind after you've seen the first mile of swamps
and you've seen your first three alligators. By the time we finished
the tour I'd thought of the name, designed the logo. Everything."
Jake had previously managed the delightfully eccentric Chilli Willi
- who had been signed to Mooncrest, a subsidiary of Charisma - and had
endured what he believed to be a bureaucratic mentality.
"I presented them with all kinds of wild schemes," he recalls, "but
no one had the imagination to suss what we could do. The whole thing
was a lot more off-the-wall with the Willis, though. I mean, if you're
a band with a name like Chilli Willi and the Red Hot Peppers and you
release an album called `Bongoes Over Balham', it's going to strike
a few people as eccentric. It's not exactly `Frampton Comes Alive',
is it?
"But, at the same time, there were people we could have got that record
to, people that would've been interested and would have enjoyed it.
We didn't have a chance, though, because no one would take the kind
of risk involved."
The Chillis were one of the last bands to represent the ill-fated pub
rock movement that blossomed in London between 1973 and 1975. To promote
that band, and their contemporaries, Dr Feelgood and Kokomo, Jake devised
the Naughty Rhythms Tour.
The idea was ingeniously simple. The three bands would form a package
tour, sharing expenses and alternating as headliners. Ticket prices
would be low. The tour broke the Feelgoods as a commercial property,
but precipitated the split of the Chillis (much to Jake's regret).
It had been, however, a courageous manoeuvre; a vivid expression of
the dissatisfaction with the existing principles of the rockbiz empires
that Jake and his immediate accomplices were determined to undermine.
I recall interviewing Jake at that time. I was impressed by his impatience
with the lumbering mechanics of the music industry. He criticised eloquently
the superstar elite and their lack of concern for young bands (Pete
Townsend he congratulated for the studio time he offered at the Who's
Ramport Studio, however), thus anticipating by three years the belligerence
of the new wave.
He was determined to divorce himself, and by implication those bands
with whom he wouId be subsequently involved, from what he then described
as "the Punch and Judy Syndrome of groups who spend most of what they
earn on platform boots and leather coats, trying to maintain the illusion
of being stars. They don't understand that the kids will eventually
see through all that."
Three years later, with Stiff now a thriving commercial venture (its
success with singles by Nick Lowe, the Damned and their album was catalogued
in detail in the July 9 edition of MM), Jake's opinions on the Industry
Of Human Happiness have hardly mellowed.
"I spent years shouting at people over desks in record company offices.
They turned down virtually every idea I offered them. I decided I could
do it without them.
"Kids are hipper and brighter than most record companies think. Stiff
is interesting in reaching those kids, right. I'm not interested in
handing out stacks of free records and tee shirts and free lunches to
journalists and dealers. I'm interested in the kids who buy the records,
not the music business. And I want to offer those kids a good deal.
"Like, we've had ONE reception since we started Stiff, when we had
champers and strawberries at the end of the T. Rex tour. That was EMI's
idea. We agreed `cos we thought the Damned might enjoy it."
Jake is very much the public face of Stiff, though it should not be
implied that the company is a solo operation: his partner is Dave Robinson,
with whom he has also formed Advancedale Management. This handles the
careers of Graham Parker and the Rumour, Elvis Costello, Clover, Nick
Lowe and the Damned.
Still, it is Jake's personal philosophy and maverick character that
the label reflects. The marketing and promotional tactics and the often
whacky schemes and advertising ploys synonymous with the label are invariably
the product of Jake's fertile imagination.
The catalogue signatures of Stiff's releases are BUY and SEEZ, for
singles and albums respectively; and the labels bear such delightful
qualifications as "Proper Stereo" (Plummet Airlines' "Silver Shirt"),
"Would-Have-Been Stereo" (Costello's "Welcome To The Working Week"),
"Reasonable Stereo" (the same artist's "Less Than Zero").
"It's just a way to remind people in the industry that music is fun,"
he says, explaining these idiosyncrasies - for example, Stiff gave away
singles to celebrate the first anniversary of the Damned, and there
is a current "Help Us Hype Elvis" free album offer.
"I can't understand why people are so suspicious of things like that.
The industry thinks we're a joke, that we're not interested in selling
records. Of course we want to sell records! It's just that we're trying
to offer some bonus to the people who buy them.
"People are beginning to appreciate what we're doing and there have
been some direct lifts of Stiff`s marketing approach. Limited edition
12-inch singles in picture bags ... all that. But most of the lifts
have been uninspired.
"I feel sorry for a11 these overweight executives trying to come to
terms with what's going on. They take an idea and sterilise it out of
existence."
Stiff's success, he adds has coincided with the re-assessment of established
values forced by the emergence of the new wave in rock, and the label's
commercial prosperity (only Max Wall's "England's Glory" 45 failed to
recoup recording costs) has, he feels encouraged the growth of other
independent concerns.
"John Otway and Willy Barrett came in, right. And they had their album
recorded, they had the sleeve designed and printed and they wanted Stiff
to put it out. I said, `You're nearly there. Do it yourself.' They did.
And it sold and then Polydor signed them. That's gratifying. We proved
to people that you could do it without the help of EMI or CBS or Decca.
Things are changing. Slowly perhaps, but they are changing.
"People are beginning to realise that it no longer has to take three
albums, two years and 200 gigs a yeat to break a band. Like, the Damned
have been with us a year and they've a Top 30 album. And we're committed
to them. Like we are to Nick Lowe and Elvis. We'll stay with as long
as they want to be with us.
"We're not interested signing an act to a seven-year five-album deal
and then dumping them after two albums if they're not cutting it commercially.
You've got to stick with people you believe in.
"That's why we only sign people who've got a clear sense of direction,
people who're bright. People who've got a grip on it. I'm not interested
in signing any old drongo that comes in off the street. We'd only have
the Wombles and the Muppets on Stiff if we were."
STIFF'S office is presently located in Alexander Street, tucked away
anonymously behind Porchester Road and Westbourne Grove. They rent the
ground floor (two rooms cluttered with Stiff paraphernalia), and basement
(two more rooms, less chaotically furnished), of a building owned by
Blackhill, whose own offices occupies the first floor. B. P. Fallon
lives somewhere on the premises, merely to enhance the fairly lunatic
atmosphere of the joint, I imagine.
There is at Stiff a permanent staff of six: two secretaries, Suzanne
Spiro and Cynthia Lole; Barney Bubbles, the art director; general manager
Paul Conroy; Dave Robinson; and, of course, Adolf Riviera.
This morning, after the despatch of the American journalist he'd rechristened
Pearl
Harbour, Jake has copped a sympathetic ear to the tapes of a forthcoming.
one-off project and offered a contract to the parties involved - "the
standard Stiff rip-off contract" ---organised the details of another
deal, blistered the ears of an endless number of callers, dictated a
volume of letters, and more pressingly, finalised the organisation of
the Week's Silly Stunt.
This is it: CBS are holding their annual blow-out convention at London's
Hilton. The entire upper echelon of the CBS empire is in town, accompanied
by the label's more prestigious artists, some of whom will be performing
for the exclusive pleasure of the executives gathered there.
Jake has a little extra entertainment planned for them. Elvis Costello
will perform an unscheduled set on the street outside the Hilton as
the CBS folk leave at lunchtime.
Two of the floating cast of assorted nutters that gravitate around
the Stiff office that's Kosmo and Alphonse, GP & the Rumour roadies
- are already outside the Hilton with placards and sandwich boards advertising
Elvis' gig at Dingwalls and welcoming CBS to England, The Home Of Stiff
Records.
Back at Stiff, meanwhile, the joint is jumping: "Get some cabs,
Cynthia. We need wheels. Now, Jump. Right, where's Elvis? Who's here
and who's coming with us?"
The Stiff Shock Squadron assembles: Elvis has arrived looking very
dapper in two-tone shoes, sports jacket and checked trousers (with a
crease you could cut your throat on). The Attractions, Elvis' spanking
new band, are here.
Roadies dash about. Jake is still screaming for cabs. Telephones are
ringing like alarm bells announcing Armageddon. "I can't answer
it now," Jake shouts. "Tell him I'm just off with Elvis to
scare the hell out of CBS."
The cabs arrive. Jake grabs a bottle of cider. He orders everyone out
on to the street. "Let's get shaking.''
We pile out of the office. Jake bundles people into cars, shouting
directions. The transit with the band and reinforcements for Kosmo and
Alphonse drives off: Elvis nonchalantly to his car. Several other individuals
leap in beside him.
Jake is still running about calling people out of the pub, leaving
instructions for Cynthia. Elvis' car drives off with its boot flapping
open. Jake races after it and slams it. Five of us are crammed in a
second car. The driver looks bewildered.
"It's like the Keystone Cops," Paul Conroy mumbles laconically.
"Take it away, Jake."
KOSMO and Alphonse are parading along the facade of the Hilton when
we arrive. The Hilton's elaborately attired commissionaires follow them
with belligerent stares. "See Elvis on your doorstep. See Elvis
at Dingwall's tonight. Roll up for Elvis," Kosmo announces,. like
a demented streetcorner newspaper seller.
Elvis, with the Vox practice amp that Jake has bought him strapped
over his shoulder, strolls casually to the front of the hotel and plugs
in his Fender Jazzmaster. "Go to it, Elvis boy.," Jake barks,
between fits of laughter. Paul Conroy and El's PR, Glen Colson, look
apprehensive.
Elvis suddenly locks into "Welcome To The Working Week" and
we're away. "Look at him go," enthuses Jake. "See that
glint in his eye? He's well off now."
Elvis hollers the lyric with unrestrained passion, knocking out chords
on the Fender with relentless venom. The commissionaires back away,
pretending indifference but throwing bewildered backward glances at
this curious spectacle.
A group of Jap tourists waddle by armed with stacks of souvenirs and
cameras: the scene before them seems to reinforce their secret conviction
that the English are all crazy. Elvis is now playing "Waiting For
The End Of The World".
A group of refugees from the CBS bash wander out of the Hilton grasping
little paper tuck bags bearing the legend: A Big Fat Thank You From
Ted Nugent. They gape at Elvis. He's now singing "Less Than Zero".
He ignores them.
Jake is swigging cider and cackling gleefully as the crowd outside
the Hilton begins to swell with tourists and CBS representatives. Kosmo
and Alphonse are still strolling the length of the hotel front with
their placards and boards. "Do you know any Neil Diamond songs?"
asks an emphatically smarmy cityslicker in blue mohair.
"Listen, mate," Paul Conroy intervenes, "Nell Diamond
doesn't do any of Elvis' songs, so Elvis isn't going to do any of his.
Hop it."
"All right. Who's in charge here?" It's the security officer
from the Hilton. He looks like an extra from the Sweeney, with close-cropped
hair and an unpleasantly aggressive air about him.
"Who's in charge? Who's in CHARGE?" Jake shouts. "NO
ONE'S in charge. It's a free country and we're all free individuals
expressing ourselves. We can do what we like. Who are you, anyway? From
the hotel, are you? Must be American. Did you know that some parts of
America date back to 1934? Well? Are you from America? Are you American?
Uh?"
The fellow reels back in utter confusion: "I'm not Arnerican,"
he splutters. "I'm from Hampshire." He attempts to compose
himself before Jake launches another verbal onslaught. "Anyway,
this is a caution. Move on. You look suspicious." This announcement
coincides with the arrival of a group of Arabs and their womenfolk.
The ladies, of course, have their faces covered with yashmaks. Jakes
takes one look at them.
If you think WE look suspicious, what about all these f- people wandering
about with masks on?"
BY THE -time Elvis starts "Mystery Dance" it seems that at least half
of the CBS convention is on the street outside the Hilton; Matthew Kaufman,
Jonathan Richman's manager, is there. So is Herbie Cohen. Even Walter
Yetnikoff, president of CBS Records In ternational, has been drawn into
the action. Everyone, it seems, is clapping and singing along with Elvis.
Then the Law arrives.
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Elvis at Dingwalls. |
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A young constable, clearly embarrassed, has been summoned by our friend
from Hampshire. He has a dekko at Elvis and a word with Jake. "He's
NOT busking man!" "He's just SINGING IN THE STREET! You can't stop people
SINGING IN THE STREET!"
The confused P.C. has every intention of trying just that.
"GET DOWN, ELVIS!" Kaufman bellows, enjoying himself enormously,
it seems,
The constable gets out his radio: he's got six punk rockers and a crowd
of 50 people causing a disturbance outside the Hilton, he informs headquarters.
Three squad cars and a police van are on the scene within minutes. The
Old Bill pile out, anticipating a riot by the look of them.
Jake argues with an inspector. "These people are ENJOYING themselves,
man! Look at them! They're clapping and singing!" The inspector is clearly
appalled. Elvis is still singing his heart out.
"Oh God," mutters Paul Conroy as the police inspector advances
threateningly on Elvis.
"Move on, son," he tells El.
Elvis takes one stride to his left and continues singing.
"Right," says the inspector. "You're nicked."
He arrests Elvis.
"Colson," snaps Jake as the crowd boos the police, "follow
them. Vine Street station. Get on the case. I want Elvis sprung. Can't
have him in the nick all night. He's got a soundcheck at Dingwall's
at four. Spring him."
Colson dashes off. He's followed by Paul Conroy. A sound tactic, this;
Colson has a finely-honed sense of the absurd, as Conroy well knows.
The thought of Colson at large on his own in a police station could
provoke disaster (the old Bill not having much sense of humour, as we
know).
Indeed, we learn later that Conroy reached the station to find Colson
wandering down a line of constables greeting them individually with
a cheery, "Evening all!"
"Five more minutes of that," Conroy reflected, later, "and
we'd all have been sent down for life."
JAKE, meanwhile, has raced back to Alexander Street. He tumbles into
the office. "Cynthia! David Gentle (Stiff's lawyer) on the 'phone.
They've nicked Elvis and I want him out. Jesus."
Colson is on the other telephone. Jake conducts both conversations
at once, receiving information on the arrest from Colson and relating
it to Gentle. "They've booked him for unlawful obstruction. You
spring him. Great. Gentle thinks we'll get him off with a fine. They
can't keep him in overnight. I need A DRINK."
So did I.
Lee Brilleaux, Sparko and John Mayo of the Feelgoods are already in
the boozer with Nick Lowe, who's producing their new album. Lee and
Kosmo (who neatly escaped the clutches of the law outside the Hilton)
are deep in conversation about the delights of Canvey Island as a holiday
resort.
Kosmo used to enjoy vacations there as a kid: spent most of his time
murdering hordes of crabs on the beaches there. Used to rip off their
legs and stick needles in their eyes. That kind of thing.
"'Ere, Lee," Kosmo says, "I wish crabs 'ad ears."
"Why's that?" asks Lee. "'Cos you could tear 'em off,"
laughs Kosmo, who, steers the conversation towards the sex life of jellyfish.
"No, jellyfish don't f-," Lee informs Kosmo, who's been wondering
how the species multiplies. "They sort of split up. Like worms.
"I 'ate jellyfish as it 'appens. No time for 'em. Vicious fings.
Like adders. If they bite you it's not certain death, but they'll make
you ill."
Lee sinks another pint. I wondered how the Feelgoods were getting on
with Nick Lowe. "He's a bastard," says Lee. "Stickler
for time, old Basher. Doesn't understand complications of British licensing
laws. The pubs close at three. He wants us in the studio at two. I'll
just have a swift 'arf."
Lee's had a swift 'arf before him on the bar for over an hour. Everytime
Lowe asks him when he's going to leave, Lee says, "Just finish
this 'arf, Bash, and we'll be off." He's actually downing brandies
by the bucket-load.
"I can't get them out of the pub," Lowe complains later to
Jake. "They just won't move." Jake sympathises. He'd been
out boozing with Lee the previous night.
"Annuver one, Lee?" asks Kosmo.
"Just a swift 'arf. Must dash," Lee replies, knocking back
a brandy.
THE FEELGOODS are finally dragged out of the pub and despatched to
the studio with Nick Lowe, and the mood at Stiff relaxes for the first
time.
Ian Dury wanders in, looking like some bedraggled tinker. He has a
single out soon on Stiff called "Sex & Drugs & Rock &
Roll" (classic Dury opus, this); he's also been producing Wreckless
Eric, whose "Go The Whole Wide World" was one of the standout
attractions of the "Bunch Of Stiffs" compilation (which is
to be followed by "Hits Greatest Stiffs," which will include
most of the early Stiffs 45s, incidentally).
He wanders down to see Barney Bubbles, and B.P. FatIon wanders in to
be insulted. How are you, Beep. "I'm effervescent, man," he
smiles, adjusting his jockey cap. Archie Leggett, who's been recording
with Wings' Jimmy McCulloch, nods his head around the door. "I'm
shattered," he moans, and vanishes.
The telephones continue to ring, and Jake verbals merrily: "Are
you asking me for money. Is that it? Yes, that is a mistake . . . Yes.
I'll put you on the guest list if you bring along your cheque book and
spend lets of money on me . . . Of course I'm out of my crust. That's
why I'm so talented and make so much money . . Groovy. Advice is free.
Consultation costs money. Stop wasting - my time . . ."
Elvis arrives. He has to appear in court the next morning. He expects
a £5 fine. The police were courteous, he says. He'd like a copy
of his album sent around to Vine Street. Paul Conroy announces over
the intercom system that he's got a chart position for "My Aim
Is True."
"Please God, I don't believe you're there, but make it good,"
Jake prays.
The album, we learn, has already sold 11,000 copies. It's only been
on sale for three days.
"Not bad," says Elvis with immense calm. "Now let's
get Dingwall's over and done."
TUESDAY night at Dingwall's: the joint is so packed, you couldn't squeeze
in a greased monkey after 10.00 p.m. The sense of anticipation is choking.
The only person in the place whose nerves have survived the day intact
is Elvis.
Indeed, throughout the day he's displayed the utmost cool. Even his
arrest, on the very day of his official London debut with the Attractions,
seemed to affect him not at all.
One gets the impression of an artist whose self-confidence is unassailable.
The unanimous critical praise with which his music has recently been
received he accepts modestly. But he knew it was due, and expected it,
I'm sure.
The Attractions pick their way through the glare behind him. Pete Thomas,
the former rhythm merchant with Chilli Will! (returned to these shores
after a spell in America) settles in behind the traps, Bruce Thomas
(ex-Quiver and composer of odes to Queen's Park Rangers) eases in on
bass and Steven Young sneaks in behind the keyboards. Elvis straps on
his Fender and the action starts with "Welcome To The Working Week".
They then play the most startling set I've experienced since Television
pinned me to the deck in Glasgow. This combo is so damned hot they could
reduce the Post Office Tower to a mess of molten metal in 60 seconds
flat.
The sound is naked and aggressive - only "Alison" offers
a respite from the intensity - dominated by El's wonderfully spare guitar
style (it's somewhere between the effect Lennon achieved on "I
Found Out" and Neil Young's classic apocalyptic raunch).
Young's keyboards sparkle between the spaces with a sinister shine,
while Thomas and Thomas punch out the rhythm with emphatic panache.
The familiar brilliance of the songs from "Aim" were whacked
out with an extraordinary force, fierce expressions of frustration,
rage and revenge: "End Of The World" was alarmingly violent
climaxing with a chilling scream of "Dear LORD . . ." and
trailing into silence. "Red Shoes", "Miracle Man,"
."Zero" (with audience participation), "Mystery Dance"
and "Blame It On Cain" were all despatched with stunning clarity.
Then Elvis moved in for the kill with a batch of new songs that emphasised
beyond argument his individual and remarkable talent: there was "Night
Rally", built around Pete Thomas' military percussion attack, the
epic "The Beat", a fearsome, haunting nightmare parade of
fears repressed and finally confronted, and the utterly vindictive essays,
"Lipstick Vogue" and "Lip Service, That's. All You'll
Get From Me".
And then (as if a boy could stand anymore!!) there was a song called
"Watching The Detectives": simply the best new song I've heard
this year. Set against a spastic reggae backdrop, Elvis intones this
really scary narrative about a guy and his girl watching some hack U.S.
cop opera. She becomes sexually aroused by the violence on the screen
. . .
"They beat him up until the teardrops start, but he can't be wounded
'cos he's got no heart," he sings . . . and suddenly the narrator
realises that he and his girl are part of the drama: "They call
it instant justice but it's past the legal limit / Someone scratching
at the window, I wonder 'Who is it?"' It's the Detectives creeping
through the dark, natch.
The song ends with the singer wasting his girl. "It only took
my little finger to BLOW YOU AWAY . . . "
I saw Elvis and the boys the following night at the Hope & Anchor.
I'm still shaking.
Elvis vanished after the gig, less than enamoured of Dingwall's general
vibe, apparently.
The rest of us finished off the day in style. I don't recall the actual
details (conveniently, perhaps), but Jake Riviera was on the, receiving
end of "someone's" fist and got himself flattened. Matthew
Kaufman was ejected for diverting attention from the ensuing bout of
fisticuffs by, uh, urinating in public. The rest of us just got absolutely
legless.
"The perfect end to a perfect day at Stiff Records," smiled
a tired and emotional Paul Conroy as we stumbled into the moonlight,
conveniently providing me with a final quote.