Suspicion!
Vivian Stanshall tuned to a dead channel
Darren Tofts
In Ian F. Svenonius’ Supernatural Strategies for Making A Rock’N’Roll Group, a wonderful conceit is fine-tuned to perfect pitch. The author’s premise from the outset is that to learn the basics and sure-fired rules for making a successful group, supernatural rather than musicological knowledge and wisdom must be sought. Accordingly each chapter revolves around Svenonius’ courting the spirit of a dead rocker, in the hope of benefitting from their sage, post-mortem wisdom. Apart from being wonderfully rhetorical it is also very funny, as the shades of Brian Jones, Richard Berry and Joni Mitchell among others manifest themselves in oblique and surprising ways. Buddy Holly’s words were written in salt and pepper scattered on the floor. And Willie May “Big Mama” Thornton’s inspired conceit was to speak via trembling silverware and spell out the names of books in the room.
Svenonius’ discussion with the post-mortem trace is particularly suggestive when conversing with the shade of Jimi Hendrix. Hendrix’s presence is manifest as a breeze gently stirring the curtains. Not especially inventive from the wizard of feedback, but Svenonius adds that “he was very loquacious”. This is telling as Hendrix was notoriously very shy and spare in what he had to say. So it is something to savour actually listening to him discourse on the American origins of rock ’n’ roll: “‘Modern art, or the art of abstraction and conceptualism, is a Central/Eastern European invention and pertains specifically to their quasi-oriental sensibility. Oil painting has its Flemish masters, classical music is Teutonic, and opera is an Italian import’”. Ummm, Ok.
While this may seem an oblique and perhaps de trop introduction to a discussion of Victor Anthony Stanshall, it is actually quite apt. So much of what Svenonius’ shades speak of involves origins, as well as the otherworldly strategies required for success. At the time of the earliest roots of what would become rock ’n’ roll, the Victor Talking Machine company was among the world’s first and certainly largest producers of phonographic technology. It fuelled a burgeoning industry and domestic market, making the very first commercial electrical sound recording in 1925. So the chance kismet of an august namesake prompts the shade of Victor Stanshall as an appropriate medium for this post-mortem performance. But rather than the familiar image of the old ginger geezer, he manifests in the spirit of Svenonius as the white noise of a television, tuned to a dead channel. William Gibson would no doubt appreciate the nicked allusion.
*
Stanshall’s interlocutor, from whatever warp in the fabric of time he inhabits, is Bonzo dog himself from the “Doo-Dah Band”. For the sake of identification and rapport, he speaks with the street-tough voice of Terry McCann in Minder. The interview takes place on Stanshall’s houseboat Searchlight, which is moored near Shepperton. Stanshall, in repose on his bed, is surrounded by an eclectic array of objects including a zebra bottom, J. Arthur Rank’s gong, a gorilla suit and numerous books including The Illustrated History of Dentistry and Men I have Killed.
Bonzo: Now Viv I gather you were once a bingo caller. Can you give us a bit of patter?
Stanshall: Well, such an odd way to begin an audience, but if you insist. Sweet 16 and never been kissed, 58 make them wait, 14 maybe on Valentine’s day, 15 only if they are young and keen, 67 stairway to heaven, oooh 30 Dirty Gertie
[Bonzo abruptly interrupts]
Yes we’ll leave it there.
Stanshall: But we haven’t got to 43 down on your knees or 88 two fat ladies…
Bonzo: And we won’t.
Stanshall: 64 red raw…
Bonzo: Shutup! Now let’s start again shall we, in a less heated, more erudite manner.
Stanshall: Well erudition is my forte dearie.
Bonzo: We’ll see. And no more Noël Coward affectations thank you very much. So tell me about your involvement with Mike Oldfield.
Stanshall: Now that is learned. Where to start.
Bonzo: How did you come to work together?
Stanshall: We met at the Manor in 1973. I was at work on Men Opening Umbrellas Ahead and Mike was about to start recording Tubular Bells. He was keen to have me introduce the instruments in the coda to side one, but was very shy about approaching me.
Bonzo: I gather it didn’t go smoothly.
Stanshall: Well that’s very gauche of you to say. If you must know I forgot some of the lines and the points of insertion in the instrumental changes.
Bonzo: That’s a pity, especially for an old stager like yourself. I wonder had you been on the ale or
Stanshall: I’ll cut you off there. Dear Michael was very sweet and wrote out the list of instruments and introductions. After that it went just swimmingly.
Bonzo: I am aware that you suffered panic attacks at such moments of performance.
Stanshall: It is true. The odd vodka helped I have to say.
Bonzo: That is odd. Your imbibing notoriety precedes you and perhaps… betrays you?
Stanshall: (Flustered) I simply don’t know what you mean.
Bonzo: It’s well documented that in those days you would be up first thing in the morning drinking vodka and by midday could barely talk. That’s surely not
Stanshall: (Interjects) Yes well let’s move on shall we.
Bonzo: If we must. I gather you once told Stephen Fry that the “whole of the 1970s disappeared in alcohol and Valium”. Do you remember any of that?
Stanshall: I do remember telling Fry. The rest is well, rum business dear boy. Rum business.
*
Bonzo: For a velvet tongued crooner, it’s hard to believe that you were best mates with Keith Moon. He would seem to be the type of person that I would least expect to be in your august pantheon.
Stanshall: Well beauty is in the eye of the beholder darling, don’t you think?
Bonzo: Beauty is probably the last epithet I would use in describing Keith Moon.
Stanshall: I simply don’t know what you mean. Keith was a joyous, fun loving and very caring fellow, who liked to, well, at times be a little rowdy.
Bonzo: I’m not just thinking of his destruction of drum kits or blowing up hotel toilets. I’m sure you are aware of his train wreck interview with Australia’s Norman Gunston in the 1970s. Moon took an instant dislike to the guileless and bryl-creemed Gunston, then poured a bottle of something over his head, saying he didn’t want anything to do with “Australian faggots”.
Stanshall: That was all a set up and ratings fodder for “The Norman Gunston Show”.
Bonzo: Well I simply disagree.
Stanshall: Then perhaps you should seek out the malevolent ghost of Keith Moon and ask him. Doris Stokes would be able to help you, were she still alive.
Bonzo: Can we not contact her via the astral plane?
Stanshall: That’s enough dearie. Mr Moon’s despatch of that Australian outrage has already been noted thank you.
Bonzo: Not quite. I gather that when you are drunk, which is pretty much all of the time, your speech becomes tongue tied. Is this true?
Stanshall: Yesh my dear. And note how that hushed sibilant “sh” is implicitly part of my name.
Bonzo: How very droll.
Stanshall: Well such drollery doesn’t come near the Olympian heights of Sam Spoons and his capacity for fundamental sounds. He was one of the great trouser tremblers.
Bonzo: What of “Borneo” Fred Munt?
Stanshall: Our illustrious singing roadie… what of him?
Bonzo: Surely you are aware that the word “munt” in Australian vernacular refers to rather violent vomiting after having consumed large amounts of alcohol. So your chums seem to have both channels covered.
Stanshall: I beg you pardon…
Bonzo: Well it’s good to keep the sluices open, as no doubt you would agree.
Stanshall: What!
*
Stanshall: Can we simply finish this my dear. I begin to tire.
Bonzo: You surprise me. I thought you were more substantial.
Stanshall: La la…
Bonzo: Or is it perhaps sub par, under the mark?
Stanshall: (Silence).
Bonzo: Anyway to conclude. In the lyrics of “Suspicion” who is “you”?
Vivian: Well that would be telling ducky.
Bonzo: It is a very anxious song about doubt, of being unsure about someone. You don’t seem confident of anything.
Vivian: Well if you suspect someone surely you feel the ground being pulled from under you.
Bonzo: Meh.
*
Svenonius: And so we meet at last.
Stanshall: Where the bloody hell am I? And who the fuck are you?
[Stanshall does not actually speak, as such. As if an active spectre of Svenonius’ séance, his words are manifest as plumes of smoke. The following text is only an approximation. If a forensic test were to be conducted on the particulate matter of this vaporous discharge, it would reveal trace elements of Woodbines, Punch cigars and hashish].
Svenonius: It’s of no consequence who I am. As to where we are, we are in a room, is it not obvious?
Stanshall: Oh really dearie. May one ask where and when?
Svenonius: Berlin.
Stanshall: What year?
Svenonious: 65.
Stanshall: Oh how simply marvellous. And who the bloody hell are you?
Svenonious: That’s not important.
Stanshall: It certainly is to me. I’m no nonce.
Svenonious: I’m not familiar with that term. What is this nonce of which you speak?
Stanshall: Never mind, I weary of this… this fucking language barrier. I simply can’t begin to explain it to you.
Svenonious: Quelle dommage.
Stanshall: Tosser!
*
Ev’ry time you kiss me
I’m still not certain that you love me
Ev’ry time you hold me
I’m still not certain that you care
Though you keep on saying
You really, really, really love me
Do you speak the same words
To someone else when I’m not there
Suspicion torments my heart
Suspicion keeps us apart
Suspicion why torture me
Ev’ry time you call me
And tell me we should meet tomorrow
I can’t help but think that
You’re meeting someone else tonight
Why should our romance just
Keep on causing me such sorrow?
Why am I so doubtful
Whenever you’re out of sight?
Darling, if you love me
I beg you wait a little longer
Wait until I drive all
These foolish fears out of my mind
How I hope and pray that
Our love will keep on growing stronger
Maybe I’m suspicious
’cause true love is so hard to find.
