#6 “Down London”

 

Quantum Anonymous #6

“Down London”

 

In 1963, I was pleasantly getting nowhere. Growing up I had done quite well at school-- maths especially. Scores on the 11+ exams put me on the path to engineering. I liked things that come together and made sense. Won some wee money in a scholarship of sorts to Manchester University. Made my grades and graduated. Back in those days, we didn’t look for jobs. They looked for you. Some executive types showed up with slideshows for various industrial companies. We all watched then went the way we liked.

I took up with the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. Not because I fancied their slide show. Not for Queen and country or that bother, either. My decision was based on the bus line. Lived in Manchester then, steps away from Parker Street Station and a line that ran straightaway. No bloody transfers, thank you very much. When do I start?

"Right away" was the answer after they saw my test scores. Bit of a prodigy I was, even with all the coal dust behind my ears. Scrubbed that away best I could and spent the next two years stripping down tanks at REME. Specialized in turrets; big bloody things and we had a 20 ton crane for that, we did.

My time on the twenty tonner was never enough. Found a love for heavy machinery, I did. My talents on turret wiring kicked me upstairs, though. Got the attention of some rather drab geezers who were mucking about with early computers. Can't say much about all that, even now. Let's just say I had my hands in the big grey machine when they turned the bloody thing on.

Fascinating business to look back on. At the time it bored me to tears. I rather preferred that 20 ton crane. Once you've hoisted a few tank turrets, paper punch cards don't really appeal. But frankly speaking, the military itself didn't appeal, either. Didn't much fancy the regimentation of it all.

So I did my two and pulled a runner. Dropped out clean, no hard feelings either way. Didn’t mean I left the Royal Military, though. They don't really explain that when you sign your papers. But once you're in, you're in… as many a poor sod learned. These were Cold War years. Russia testing missiles and Germany right there across The Channel. That being the case, British military kept close tabs on their industries. Didn’t bother me the slightest. Wasn’t patriotism. Just pragmatism. I rather liked my freedoms. Which is a right funny thing to say, when you consider I signed them all away to REME.

But I didn't know a toss about all that when I walked. Found a garage not far from my flat in Manchester and got to work repairing lorry engines. Wasn't much to it after stripping tanks and fiddling about on the 20 tonner. But regular pay, regular days. I was pleasantly whiling them away when a song on the radio changed everything.

Most everybody remembers where they were when they heard "Pop".

That was the first we heard of The Get Quick, in the spring of '63.

"Pop" wasn't a popular term at the time. Most of us associated it with tires blowing out. But The Get Quick gave us a new definition. A revelation. Perhaps a new religion. We didn't know all that when we heard "Pop!" on the radio. We didn't have words, really. We just knew that everything was different. And all of us remember where we were when The Get Quick rearranged our lives.

I was fiddling with a diesel engine, whistling away. Music was quite natural to me. I might have learned about tank turrets and computer components courtesy of the Royal Engineers, but my upbringing was Wales. As previously noted, that meant music. But music like Pop! I had never heard, that spring of 1963.

First notes played and everything changed. Dropped me wrench and just froze. Staring at the lorry engine like a trance. Then slowly—very slowly-- all the lads working looked up and around at each other. We had to reckon we weren’t dreaming. What was this sound? Nobody had ever heard anything like it!

Gobsmacked the lot of us, we drifted round the radio like some sort of magnet pulling us in. Nobody knew what it was. Or who was playing. We just loved it, immediately.

Hard to describe how it sounded back then. Mostly I remember thinking that this was broadcast from the future, back towards us, from some place I very, very much wanted to be.

When it ended, we had a name: That was The Get Quick, and this was “Pop!”

Life was never the same.

Quit the garage that very day. Walked about in a bit of a fog and stumbled onto a record shop. Bought "Pop!" and didn’t even have a phonograph! Just stared at the cover, memorizing all the names—the lads, the producers, the arrangers, all of it done down London, there at the BBC. Well that was the place to be. 

Caught the coach for London that very night, I did.

Showed up with just that record in me hand.

Now The BBC in 1963 was hallowed ground. Started with radio in the 1920s, growing into Tele as well. Dr Who was right around the corner from being made. Kennedy was still alive, and all was right with the world.

Right there in the building where I stood, The Get Quick had made “Pop!” From what I read off my record sleeve, the producer was some gent named Fabian Kevorkian.

Imagine thinking the great Fabian Kevorkian was “some gent”! That shows how much I knew about the music industry, those days. And I shan’t say there was much logic in my run on the BBC. What there was of it centered on an absolutely daft strategy cobbled together on the coach:

“Right, I can get to the BBC. If I get in there, I can meet this bloke Kevorkian. Then I'll get closer to this pop business and The Get Quick.”

Had no idea how I'd meet the man. And if I had any notion of who in fact I was trying to meet, I wouldn’t have bloody tried.

At very least I had the good sense to drop my last p on a haircut and shave. This was the BBC, after all.

Walked right to the front desk and said I was an engineer. Didn't say what type of engineer, mind you, but I wasn't trying to pull any business, neither. I just reckoned an outfit this large had a garage and there'd be engines needed sorting.

Had absolutely no idea there were engineers for music. None at all. Well a very pleasant lady at the front desk told me they were right sorted for engineers, but perhaps I might try again when summer ended. Well, that was that, I reckoned. And well it should be, really. What type of fool's errand was this, when you got to thinking about it? Which I hadn't done, at all.

But I did have one last bit of sense as I was turning to leave. I remembered those punch cards back at REME.

“And I know computers,” I told her.

That changed everything.

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