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Turin The Perspiration Generation by Daniela Soave
Madness in Italy. Daniela Soave follows the nutty boys in their continued quest for absolute world supremacy (this week anyway)
“LOOK AT all those people!” Woody Woodgate whimpered, hiding his head in his wife Jane’s collar. “I want to go home…”
It must have come as quite a shock for Madness. First tour of Italy, where your first album has sold 16,000 copies without anyone knowing much about you, and you peek outside on your opening night to find over 8,000 punters eagerly awaiting your appearance. How would YOU feel?
All of them Italians, too. Passionate and hot blooded. According to the promoter you never know how Italian audiences are going to react. Wherever there’s a concert you also find a plethora of riot police with truncheons and tear gas at the ready.
There’s a feeling of madness about Italy. I might be half Italian and have spent a considerable amount of time in the country, but there are still times when I feel alien to the way of life. Everything about the place is even more exaggerated than the old jokes about crazy drivers and gesticulating madmen, everyone does wave their arms about and, yes, everyone does consume vast amounts of pasta. But when you’re thrust into music biz Italian style, that’s when you feel you’ve just stepped out of Doctor Who’s Tardis and the insanity begins.
To celebrate their appearance in Milan, the Italian record company had organised a press conference for about 30 regional journalists; none of which knew what to make of the seven peculiarly dressed individuals staring down at them from the small rostrum. Why did they all wear their hair so short? And why weren’t they behaving sensibly instead of making tunes by blowing in bottles, throwing peanuts into the audience and giving ludicrous replies? These mad English pop stars, pfff!
So they just sat and stared at Madness instead, most of the so called journalists – clad in Virgin T-shirts, clutching their free EP’s, scoffing the usual free lig food, sipping the free booze – content to sit there in silence with their eyes popping out like organ stops. (Cultural note: it is not rude to stare in Italy and it is done with such a force that you feel as though you possess three heads or something equally absurd).
“Do you think we were nutty enough?” Chas Smash – alias Carl Smith – said to Suggs later, once we were back on the bus, hurtling along narrow backstreets at breakneck speed (donta forgetta we hadda mad driver). “I’m really getting in the mood now.”
It was abundantly apparent. If I hadn’t known Carl and Suggs were seated behind me I would have thought there were several mad Texans, New Yorkers, Yorkshiremen, Jamaicans etc crammed in there instead. When the Coco Brothers switch it on it’s up to full blast. What a pair. A running dialogue of wisecracks and quick wit.
Yet there’s far, far more to Carl than meets the eye, although I barely touched upon it. But I could feel it strongly. When he wasn’t fooling around he was lost either in the cassette player which accompanies him everywhere or deep in thought, so deep you could almost hear him … but not quite. Sometimes he’d catch you looking at him and he’d fix you with this penetrating stare – not a hostile one but unnerving all the same.
Sometimes it was like he was on automatic pilot while his mind was elsewhere, as if he was outside his body observing his reactions to the spectacle around him. Yet when I remarked about the shambles which went under the name of the press conference he said, oh, he didn’t know. It was a good laugh anyway. Which admittedly it was, but the effect was not lost upon him.
Backstage at the sports stadium Madness were waiting for support act The Lambrettas to finish their set. If they were worried about the prospect of 8,000 punters, think about the frightening task the Lambrettas had before them as openers. Italian audiences are pretty good at hurling abuse – and full cans – if they’re not pleased.
Being a sports stadium there wasn’t much in the way of backstage facilities. Carl was sitting in a corner listening to a tape of the soundtrack of ‘A Clockwork Orange’ while practising his trumpet playing (only one of the several instruments he is teaching himself to play). Mike Barson was seated in another corner with his Dutch girlfriend.
Woody was sitting opposite me with his wife Jane, savouring the precious time they had together. They only got married six weeks ago, and then Jane had to go off on a strenuous five week tour of America with her group, the Mo-Dettes. Suggs was complaining about the state in which the drycleaners had returned his suit – indeed, it was a crumpled mess with white blotches marring its navy sheen.
Bedders, Lee and Chrissy Boy wandered in and out, giving reports on the Lambrettas’ progress. They didn’t appear to be going down too badly, it seemed. One by one, Madness got changed as 10:30 neared, and it wasn’t simply sartorial. Bit by bit they became the Nutty Boys as they donned their sharp suits, as the characters became more exaggerated. The change from Carl Smith to Chas Smash in particular was noticeable. Out from its cellophane wrapper came a crisp new white shirt.
“Shit,” he muttered, as he tugged at the too tight collar, “they didn’t have my size so I had to get a smaller one.” He fastened his bowtie to it, then tutted as he tore it off and undid a button. “It’s too tight. I’ll have to do without.” On went the mirror shades, as he smoothed back his hair, as he regarded his reflection in the mirror, as he threw a few shapes. The combination of that jerky waddle, fluid arm movements, the way he stretches and dips, stops and starts, is fascinating, captivating. You can’t believe it’s the same person. I don’t think it is.
Outside, the crowd were clamouring for Madness.
They have a custom in Italy. Because so many riots erupt the minute the lights are turned out, they are kept on during the first half of the show. If the audience behaves like good little boys and girls, then they are switched off for the main group. What stops the riots then, I can’t quite fathom. But it gave me a chance to observe the audience before Madness came out.
They seemed to be everywhere. Lining the aisles, crammed in the seats, squeezed into the standing area and – literally – hanging from the rafters. I could just see it … “Madness fans bring the roof down”. Which they did, if only metaphorically speaking. From the minute Madness launched into ‘Uno Passo Avanti’ (‘One Step In Front’ – there’s no word for ‘beyond’ in Italian) they were bobbing up and down, creating a few nutty dances of their own. One intriguing little number was an adaptation of the old Ring a Ring of Roses game … three girls, hands clasped, hop, skipping and jumping around in a circle.
‘Absolutely’ has just been released in Italy, so the audience wasn’t familiar with the new songs, but they danced along all the same. When they did recognise a tune though, they went completely gaga, leaving no barriers closed. When Chas jumped down into the pits they surged forward.
But no, he emerged on stage, minus his shades, dancing away just as vigorously as before.
“If anyone lifts another pair of my shades there’ll be trouble,” he said later. “That’s the second pair in a few days. I got another pair lifted at a warm up gig we did last weekend. I’d only just got them, too. Cost me 60 or 70 quid they did, specially from America. I’m hoping to get them back, someone’s asking around up there for me.”
On the four hour drive to Turin the next day I found myself next to Jane and Woody again, as the others dozed or were absorbed in their headphones. He asked me what I thought of the previous night’s gig, and I said although it wasn’t without a few fluffs – like not being able to hear Suggs at times – it was real fun, pure unadulterated enjoyment.
“That’s how I felt,” he replied. “It was the best gig we’ve done in a long while. I really enjoyed it.”
“That’s because there was so much adrenalin flowing after the shock you all got from seeing so many people out there,” Jane reasoned. “I could see it give you all a lift.”
“Mmmmm, I don’t know about that,” he contradicted. “If we’d played to that amount of people three weeks ago when we were all feeling low, that big crowd wouldn’t have made one bit of difference. I don’t think that had anything to do with it.”
“Rubbish!” his lady wife retorted. “I could feel it surging through all of you. It gave you a right shock, that did.”
“Well, anyway, it was really good fun. You’ve got to go out there and enjoy yourself, there’s no point in being scared once you’re actually up there so you may as well let rip and not care.” Woody said.
“I had such good fun playing all these characters while I was drumming. Did you see that bit when I pretended I was a crab and looked across at you?” he said to Jane. “I nearly forgot what I was meant to be playing I was laughing so much.”
And there lies the philosophy of Madness as if you didn’t know already. What’s so wrong with having fun? Just because you don’t write music and lyrics which you could enter for a PHD doesn’t mean you think any less. Carl for one is getting sick of being labelled a blockhead just because he has short hair and they play nutty music.
“I think it’s very important that people realise we’re just ordinary people doing a very enjoyable job,” Woody said. “We’re having a good time and that’s what they should know, not our opinions on anything else. They shouldn’t be interested in reading exact quotes either, more in absorbing the atmosphere. That’s what’s important. People with tape recorders seem to be more concerned in getting as many quotes out of us as possible and simply reproducing them in print, rather than describing what we’re all about.
“It’s dance music we play, not anything intellectual. It’s about having fun, enjoying yourself, which is what we do. Like this tour …” he said, gazing dreamily out of the window. “It feels more like a holiday than work.”
It was beautiful that day. Gone was the torrential downpour and cold wind we had had to suffer the day before. Instead, brilliant blue skies, the sun, beautiful scenery with the snow-capped Alps on the horizon.
“Don’t you think our second album’s better than our first?” Suggs asked me.
“Our second’s better than our first but our third will have to be better than our second,” quipped Carl, in true Tweedledum and Tweedledee fashion.
Another stop, another interruption to the fragmented conversations we were having. This time the driver – whom the band referred to as Giuseppe – had managed to find a motorway station which was open. Yup, Italy was having yet another of its infamous general strikes and everything had ground to a standstill. There were even doubts as to whether this evening’s concert would go ahead if there were no boys in blue to police it. (Actually here’s another cultural note – the police in Italy are clad in beige).
But the only thing that was on anyone’s mind at that moment was food, so we all queued up for more plates of – you guessed it – pasta. It was funny, really. Being the perfect mimics they are, Madness had the Italian accent off to a “t”, which had its drawbacks as the locals thought they could understand the lingo and gibbered away to a sea of blank faces.
Outside in the sun, we basked in a children’s playground, Suggs reading a copy of ‘The Prisoner’. I never actually saw the programme so I asked him about it, only to find that he hadn’t see much of it either, which was why he was reading the book. At that point our conversation was interrupted by an old Italian man, who started bellowing at us, waving a paper hankie in his hand. Someone had dropped it, and seeing as we were all young and clad – in his eyes – strangely, it must have been us. You’ve got to be old in Italy before you can be thought respectable. It couldn’t have been the couple who had walked along the path just before us who committed the crime …
Once back on the bus, hurtling uppa the motorway, I was asked to tell old Guiseppe to pull up at the next convenient beauty spot so we could take some snaps. Being the only one who could speak the lingo I’d been elected as tour translator, a job not without problems. Guiseppe had other ideas about stopping. In no uncertain terms he told me he couldn’t stop on the motorway, he wouldn’t drive off the road for a minute and we could take the pictures in Rome in a few days’ time.
It didn’t seem to matter that Jill and I would be back in England by then. So I told him he’d better pull up at the next layby … to which he actually turned round, took his hands off the wheel and started waving his arms at me, letting the bus do a nutty dance across the motorway lanes. Aaargh!
Having managed to scare us out of our wits, Guiseppe sulkily pulled up at the next layby, which fortunately was by a river bed. We scrambled out and took pictures of Madness playing with the toy instruments they’d bought at the motorway station (“Give these boys some toys and they’ll play quietly for hours” – Kellogg, their manager).
Carl decided he was going to have a paddle so we wandered through the undergrowth towards the river. It wasn’t till we were making our way back to the coach that Guiseppe appeared: “Tell everyone they shouldn’t be walking in the undergrowth or paddling in the water because there are plenty of poisonous vipers around.” He’d obviously been hoping one of us would suffer divine retribution for forcing him to stop his beloved bus.
Nothing all that thrilling happened at the soundcheck at the stadium in Turin (half as big again as last night’s gig) so we girls went shopping (not that exciting either as we were in the wrong district for shops) and then we went back to the hotel, where a few radio reporters were hanging around. This time Lee and Chrissy were left to do the honours, and it went better than the previous fiasco. The radio reporters had one woman to ask the questions, this time in English, and at least they followed a successful pattern.
Again I was amazed by Guiseppe’s rudeness. “Look at that one over there,” he said loudly, pointing to a very, very overweight man. “Isn’t he fat!” The reporter must have heard. I ignored him and returned to my conversation with Suggs, who was telling me about the house he’s just bought in Camden.
“It’s really nice,” he said. “On the ground floor there’re two rooms, one of which has been a potter’s studio complete with kiln. I’m tempted to keep it, but on the other hand I’d like to bash down the wall and make a recording studio, or make it into a big room where I could have all my mates round and not have to worry about the mess. Upstairs there’s a separate flat with two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room and bathroom. It’s a bit tatty but I like that, because I can decorate it how I want. It would be horrible if it were so beautifully decorated that there’d be no point in re-doing it. I’d feel like I was living in someone else’s house.”
If we thought last night’s gig was packed to capacity, then tonight held another shock. This time there were well over 11,000 people out front even more enthusiastic than before. And the gig was even more enjoyable as well: the quality of sound was far superior, they played even better and – if it’s possible – were even nuttier. The only damper was at the very end, when riot police cleared everyone out molto subito, so there weren’t as many people clamouring for autographs.
Boys, these police are frightening. Like a menacing Devo, if you know what I mean, with foam packed arms to act as shields.
And finally, on to Studio Due, where we danced the rest of the night away. One of the few things in Italy which are bang up to date are the discos, and this one had lasers, the lot. If the people in the disco wondered who these funny people doing funny dances were they didn’t let on, not even when they played a Madness record. It was fun, continuing the holiday – I’m a tourist-not-a-tourer atmosphere. I wonder if it’ll still exist by the end of the tour, with only a couple of days off in a month.
I got a couple of hours’ sleep before my alarm call at seven am, when I had to catch a train back to Milan. In the antiquated hotel, the telephone bells didn’t ring – they honked, just like the beginning to ‘Night Boat to Cairo’.
What a way to wake up. What a way to go out.
- Contributed by Derek Wilson
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