#12 “Pop Goes The Pop Star.”

  

                                             Quantum Anonymous Blog #12

“Pop Goes The Pop Star.”

1966 was spent recording– the entire year. Which was unheard of, those days. A fully bloody year in BBC studios for some pop record? Never been done before. Highly controversial maneuver. London was divided on the issue. Some thought we were bonkers. The rest said we were wankers.

Paid them no bother. Nobody sussed we were playing with Quantum, which was all that mattered. Smitty ran stories about “artistic perfection”, paying flacks to write about The Get Quick like Beethoven and Wagner with electric guitars. Meanwhile, Erik Evol’s plugged into that Quantamp night and day, bending chords and stretching time signatures to hit those phantom notes.

The better he got, the more time he displaced.

Until that night he displaced himself. 

Late ‘66 is when “Where’s Erik?” first happened. I was right there for the initial slip. Happened while we were tracking late at night. Band all out with their birds, or tucked back home with the wife. Military monitor had even kipped in. Just me and Erik Evol, which wasn’t unusual. That lad pressed every session like it was his last. Passed up breakfast, lunch and dinner. Smokes and a pint of bitters last him through the night. He’d chord through those bloody Quantum progressions till you pulled him away.

Was a night like that he first slipped away.

Yours truly was the only witness. Happened round 4 in the morning. By that hour, I had long passed seeing double and was into seeing triple. Head down on the boards. Just about to tap the mic and call a wrap when Erik’s guitar sound dropped. “Ah, there’s some luck,” me thinks. “Lad’s ready to pop off as well.”  I sits up, has a stretch and look through the glass.

Erik Evol was gone.

Plain vanished.

But his guitar is there. Lad never left without that. And his cigarette still smoking there in the tray.

I figure that’s odd, but not real odd, considering the hour and occupation. Reckon he’s in the wash room. Head back that way to splash some water on me face.

No Erik.

Which is where I gets jittery. No way out of that studio ‘cepting past me. Sure, I was knackered, but I hadn’t nodded off. Would have seen him creeping past. So I was gobsmacked. Where is this lad? Rang the lobby. No one about. That sets me wandering the BBC, calling out the name of Britain’s most famous pop star. Didn’t get a word back. Says to myself: ‘Right, I’m not the geezer going down for this.” Hit the lights and quit 3C.

Turning a bit British, I was, regarding my job. My prime concern in this highly irrational event was rationalizing my responsibilities. “Get paid to record the bloke,” says I. “Not nail him to the floor. That’s some other buggers job” And so on, all the way down the lane. There’s my taxi and goodnight.

Well it was a different story next morning. Up in a cold sweat I was. Practically heard the press headlines screaming. “Britain’s favorite pop star disappears!” And who’s the tosser on the clock when it happened? Ol’ qTom. Time to face the music, I reckoned. So off I go, real shook and nervy, back to the BBC. Sorted my story on the way, right and ready for all them press and police and record people surely waiting for me at studio 3C.

But it was just him.

Erik Evol.

Sitting where I left him last, plain as rain, sipping tea. That shook me worse than his vanishing act, really. Lad being back like that, all natural. Didn’t say a word about the night prior so neither did I. Just juiced up the gear, twirled me knobs and poured some tea. Fabian whisked in soon enough with the new arrangements, and away we went.

Away Erik went, as well.

Not right then. And never someplace people saw him vanish. The lad just started the habit of being someplace… then not being in that someplace.

Happened to Joy next, out by the King’s Road. Brilliant sunny day, break in the recording for a bit of shopping. Back from the tailor they hailed a cab. Erik Evol piled right in. Joy follows straightaway and finds the taxi empty.

Erik wasn’t in it.

So Joy pops out, thinking “Maybe Erik caught sight of some bird.”  Looks about, doesn’t see Erik Evol t’all. Mind you, this is middle of the day. And Mitchell wasn’t the type to let a mate up and vanish.

So next you have the drummer from The Get Quick running round Carnaby, shouting after Erik Evol. Worked himself up into blind panic. Bustling in and out of record shops, art studios, sandwich shops and pubs. Caused quite a stir with the hip set. Run right into Marianne Faithful and knocked her flat. She filed suit straightaway: Bruised wrist and broken candles, mustard stains on her silk shirt from Karnataka... Smitty crunched that one. Had his hands full keeping the whole business from landing in the funny papers. 

When Mitchell finally got knackered enough and had himself a pint to level off, he calls in the studio. Who picks up the phone? Erik Evol. Just popped in that very moment. Well that spooked out Mitchell, it did. Never said a word, but from then on, never went shopping with Erik Evol again.

Strange as it sounds, things got better the more Erik disappeared. Says lots about The Sixties, that does. The more people had their “Where’s Erik?” moment, the less it really mattered. Strangest things can become quite normal, given the right circumstances. You’d be surprised. Even Joy got to laughing it off. There’s his mate pulling a Quantum runner, and Mitchell’s telling jokes about who has to pay the taxi.

Erik himself really couldn’t be bothered. Lad just picked up where he appeared and carried on. That’s why the Air Force was brilliant in choosing rock stars. Past birds and footie, they don’t  have much to say. Getting ten words from these lads was like finding diamonds. Which is why Fabian’s knack for chatting them up was genius. And Lord Kevorkian had a different take on our disappearing guitarist. That man was perturbed. Not about the physics or the perils involved. Fabian was taking it more like personal offence that a bloody pop star would have the cheek to up and vanish on him. Got all wound up till the military stepped in.

Brass had mostly checked out after we were rolling. Quantum was a large field at play. Most of the big guns were firing down at Cern. After registering our first anomalies, we were mostly left alone. Later I’d learn that “time slips” were happening lots of places, through lots of different gear. We were just the odd birds doing it with guitars. Real minor players. Didn’t mean we were off their map, though. Some real coin had been spent backing our productions. Military didn’t want to hear about problems. Especially with their lead Sound Lad. Played it by the book, all the way.

Right, who can prove something? Got your photos, do you? Where’s the evidence? Maybe you dropped off sleeping. Were you looking the other way? Of course, we didn’t. There weren’t any CCTV those days. When it comes to proof, we didn’t have anything but stories. Air Force binned the lot of us. Just like we did with them early guitarists: Music types, half daft and filled with pills.

Next some general comes round: “Where’s this pop star? Run some tests. How’s the lad?”

“Charts came back fine, sir,” says the doctors. “Fit as a fiddle.”

“Bring him my way. Right, son. You’re the one disappearing. What have you to say?”

“I just want to play my guitar, sir.”

“Good on you, lad. Off you go. Rock and roll now.” 

So there it was. Your basic disappearing pop star and what’s the bother? Got to being like circuits overheating. Just something to sort out. When it happened we’d all head down the pub. Have a round, throw some darts. Erik always turned up somewhere and we got back to recording. Mental business, really, when you think about it.

But the real mental business was his music. Erik played that Quantamp and produced sounds the world had never heard. This music changed people. Not a soul who heard it ever felt the same. And you can bet the world was ready to hear more Get Quick. Been a year since Pop. Public practically stormed the BBC for more. Quantamp testing and Air Force experiments kept them waiting. Meanwhile, Smitty’s spinning stories about “artistic process”, while our bloody guitarist is disappearing into the ether. Press said we were finished. Fast follow ups and touring is how you handled a hit like Pop. Not burying your lads in studio sessions for a bloody year. The lot of them wrote us off.

Things played out opposite with fans.

Nobody forgot the lads. Just wanted them more. Thought our year in studio was brilliant. Made this whole rock and roll thing something serious. Artistic, even. When concert dates were floated, tickets disappeared faster than Erik himself. Lads had their songs and wanted to hear ‘em live. Military wanted to test Quantamps in audience situations. That right there is where things got tricky.

First were your hypotheticals. Quantamps hadn’t been tested proper outside the studio. Anything might happen. Some suggested the worst. One of these Air Force scientists got to waving papers in our faces. Calculated equations that strongly suggested audience energy would “vastly amplify the anomalies.” Going on about Armageddon, he was. Said the British Isles would disappear. Had all sorts of numbers and theories to prove it.

“Right,” we says. “Well Erik disappeared last night and here he is playing snooker today. What’s the bloody problem?”

Brass stamped our passage and we were ready to rock and roll.

Which led to logistical problems.

Namely, moving that beast of an amplifier.

Been working on those schematics since we first plugged in. Knew someday we’d hit the road. But this was delicate machinery, highly unstable and quite heavy. My reckoning was that moving it would be a real production. Tubes from Cern were right touchy. Transporting them required deep freeze. Plus we had the Russians to worry about now, didn’t we? Can’t have ol’ Ivan sussing our Quantum out. Very grand transportation I was imagining. Modified Range Rovers, freezer flatbeds, helicopters and such.

Fabian had other ideas.

Gave me an ice cream truck.

“You must be joking,” says I when I seen it. “You buggers know how heavy that Quantamp is? You have any idea the strain it will put on this?”

“No,” says Fabian. “But I’m sure you do, so get to it.”

“Right, well I’m not wearing the bloody hat,” says I in a huff.

And there I am, tuning an ice cream truck for transporting the most significant piece of military machinery since the Atomic Bomb.

This one was a 1967 Austin Mini, converted to sell ice cream. Seen that lots around England, those days. What they did was drop the gear right on top the roof, weld it tight. 1000cc engine pulled it fine. Only body modification for our purposes was an extra compressor that kept the double fridge in real deep freeze. Then I expanded that freezer to fit the Quantamp. Just tucked in, with the tubes held tight in freezer two. Both used ice cream to cushion the jolts and offer a bit of a ruse. Shallow pans holding vanilla swirl and whatnot on top. Not bad, says I.

But that engine will never pull the weight. 

MGB geared up with a V8 would have been the business. But Minis are a nightmare to swap so I did me modifications. Performance air filter, intake manifold, replaced the cylinder head and changed that camshaft. Ran right nicely on the open road, but low power gears were shite for town. City traffic with all that stop and start was a bloody nightmare.

Learned that on the hottest day of 1968. And wasn’t ol qTom cursing and shouting his way through it. There I am, Summer of Love in Swinging London, stalling out at every light in an ice cream truck modified for transporting Quantum gear from bloody Cern.

Every West End ponce is yelling from his Jaguar while I’m blocking lanes. Still can hear them horns blasting. Meanwhile, little nippers are swarming me for popsicles! I’m yelling at those buggers while jumping the clutch and all of London was having a laugh. Mind you, I’m a vital player in “Aviation’s Greatest Achievement.” Biggest pop stars in Britain are me mates! Nobody sees that. Just some knob selling ice cream without a clue. Took all day– a bloody, blasted hot one– till I managed them low power shifts. Along the way, learned lots about Quantum.

Was there lots of money? Pots of the stuff. Were tremendous forces at work? Yes there were. But getting at that money and tremendous force depended on your standing in the operation. High end types like Lord Kevorkian had “the touch” as we said. Lived the high life on Quantum budgets. Past that lavish lifestyle, Fabian really chiseled his dimes. Put more money in his pocket that way. Put me in his pocket, that way. Remember now, ol’ QTom’s off the books and in the shadows. What could I really ever say except yes sir? And never a word about Quantum shared with civilian types, neither. Had me feeling real separate from the human family, it did. Figured regular blokes punching clocks had it better.

But there was no clock to punch in my world. And no way to punch out. Quantum was all in, or not at all. When you’re logging temporal anomalies on gear got from CERN, not much chance to pull a runner.

Well, all that hit me like bricks while driving that ice cream truck. 

Don’t know how I missed it before.

Back at the garage, thought of pulling that runner anyway. Pictured grabbing some bird and hiding out like, maybe Spain. Then I re-bored the engine. Grabbed me an extra gear box for the road. Went down the pub. Played snooker and thought on things.

Woke up next morning and let it all go. Them musings and whatnot.

What’s done is done, says I. You’re Quantum now.

Let’s hit the road.

So we did.

Did we ever.

 

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