The Modfather: My Life with Paul Weller Read online

  All of my school workbooks were instantly recovered with pictures of The Jam which I cut out of Sounds and the NME. My English exercise book had a picture of Paul on the front. In it, he looked pensive and slightly sullen. My geography book had a picture of Paul on it – in it he looked sullen and slightly pensive. General science had a picture of all of The Jam on. In it, they all looked rather moody. The navy blue haversack which I carried them to and from school in became adorned with the spray-painted logo that The Jam used, although I didn’t use an aerosol can like they did, I used a black marker pen and went over and over it till the ink ran out. It looked brilliant. Until it rained, and then it just looked crap, like it was crying.

  Finally things were picking up for me – it felt like me and my three brilliant new friends, Paul, Bruce and Rick, had known each other forever. We were as thick as thieves, we were going to stick together for the rest of our lives. Sure, they were older than me, but that didn’t matter at all. They talked to me in the most honest, open and passionate way, through their songs, through their music and through the interviews and articles which I hunted down each week in Sounds and the NME. I cut out interviews and stuck them to my bedroom wall. Sometimes, I bought two copies – one for my wall and one for my scrapbooks.

  Paul especially knew what it was like to be me, he knew that we were worlds apart from everyone else. We shared the sense that something was not quite right between us and the rest of the world and listening to Paul’s take on this made life in a new school so much easier for me. I wasn’t alone any more. I’d found a new mate for life and it didn’t matter for a single second that he lived inside a piece of black vinyl and that we could only meet up when I put him on the music centre in the middle of the living room.

  When Paul Weller played guitar it was like fresh blood pumping through me and when he opened his mouth and sang it was like he’d been reading my diaries. How could this be only a coincidence? The lyrics were too personal and the music too perfect. I’d found The Jam, they were my band, my secret and they existed for me and me alone – I could not live without them, they were my lifeline out of being Lost in Leeds.

  Night after night I sat at the dining room table with the volume on the stereo turned down, doing my homework whilst listening to The Jam. It was no good, though, The Jam were far from at their best when the volume’s on two – it should have been on twelve. To appreciate them properly, I was going to need a stereo of my own, up in my room. With no birthday on the horizon and Christmas months away, I had to move fast if I was going to get Paul Weller up to my room and all on my own. I decided to embark on a period of being ultra-nice to Mum, Chris and Phil, but it wasn’t too long before Mum twigged that I wanted something in return for being so polite and helping around the house so much more than normal: cleaning out the pond, raking up leaves, that sort of nonsense.

  Mum had become sort of friendly in a know-to-say-hello-to kind of a way with a lady down the road who was an agent for Kay’s catalogue and who’d signed Mum up as a member almost the day after we moved in. I think Mum did it just to get rid of her, but we could now order stuff from the catalogue – plus, it gave her someone to talk to.

  I’d decided which one I wanted – a little Sony diskette which played seven-and twelve-inch records and – get this – you could stack up to ten singles on there at once. When each one finished, the next single dropped down on top and played automatically. It was excellent value at only thirty-four pounds and ninety-five pence. I showed it to Mum and she said that if I really, really wanted it and she got it for me then it’d have to come out of my pocket money. I said that that was fine and she ordered it the next day. Chris got a new Lego set and Phil got a cowboy outfit. I didn’t know then, but thinking about it now perhaps it was her way of making me feel better about being in Leeds and being alone.

  I spent the next few days gazing at it in the catalogue, flicking through the thin pages between the stereo and the lingerie section. I loved poring over the bras and knickers modelled by the lovely girls and I especially liked the ladies’ shoes, all strappy and high with painted toenails peeking through. When the stereo came on the Saturday morning I couldn’t have been more thrilled, because while I watched Dad set it up in my room, Mum came in and gave me my own copy of This Is The Modern World. I was bowled over and felt my bottom lip go – it felt like all of my birthdays had come at once. I had my own personal Paul all to myself.

  My new stereo meant that I could lie on my bed and enjoy the delights of The Jam alone, in the privacy of my own room. I could lie there and read the lyrics from the sleeve and sing along without fear of embarrassment, I could stand in front of the mirror and mime along and pretend to play guitar with Dad’s old wooden tennis racket, just like Paul did. After about a week of blasting out the whole house with my music, I was given another present, this time a pair of headphones. I got the message.

  Recently, Dad had been spending more and more time away from home. He’d been in Germany for weeks on end at some sales conference or something, and when he finally came home he spent two days with us before zooming off to Wales for five days to see some clients. I understood that it was work, but that didn’t stop me missing him all the same.

  Mum had taken Chris and Phil swimming and I was in the house all on my own. I went into Mum and Dad’s bedroom and laid down on their bed on Dad’s side. I didn’t switch on the light, I laid my head on his pillow in the darkness. I could smell his aftershave, I could smell his hair. I buried my face deep in the pillow and breathed in my Dad. ‘I miss you.’ I wished that I had a radio so that I could listen to him, listen to him at work with his customers like I did with the taxis.

  I got up off the bed and opened the wardrobe door. Dad’s suits hung on the rail. There was a black, shiny mohair one, three-buttoned with a narrow lapel and a single vent. Next was a slate grey wool number with a scarlet hanky in the breast pocket. Next to that was his midnight blue three-piece and then a load of shirts in crisp, white cotton, black silk and some pastels with button-down collars. His ties hung on a small brass rail inside the door and his shoes sat on a shelf above the suits.

  I reached inside the wardrobe and gently stroked the shoulder of the black mohair jacket. I’d always loved him in this, it made him shimmer when he walked, made him look like a film star. I slipped the jacket from the hanger, then the trousers and I laid them on the bed. Next out was the white shirt with the double cuff.

  Off came my sweatshirt and down came my jeans. The shirt swallowed me up, the hem hung down below my knobbly knees and the tips of the collar pointed out behind my skinny little shoulders like I’d grown sharp, white wings. I hauled up his trousers and they were so big on me they could have gone round me twice, so I took the cord from his dressing gown and lashed it around my waist. I puffed out the shirt to cover the cord and on went the jacket. It weighed a ton and the sleeves were almost a foot too long for me. I wrapped them around me, right the way round my back and it felt like a pair of long, loving arms giving me a great big hug. I switched on the bedside lamp and chose a tie. There was a thin, jet black silk one amongst the gaudy paisley ones and it was this that I wanted.

  I took it from the rail and then stood on the bed so that I could reach the shoes on the top shelf. I took out Dad’s best pair, the handmade ones which Mum nearly fainted over when she found out how much they cost. I took the black ankle boots and slipped my feet inside my father’s shoes. They were so big on me that I shuffled in them as I walked over to the mirror and tied my tie. I tied it in a nice, neat knot and I stood back and examined my reflection in the mirror. Dad stared right back at me.

  I took a step back, startled. I spat into the palm of my hand and worked it into my hair. I spat again, and smoothed away the side parting I’d always had and spiked up my hair on the crown, a tuft now stuck up on top. I fixed it with a squirt of Mum’s Silvikrin, loosened the knot on my tie and undid the top button on my shirt. I checked the mirror again and this time Dad was not there any mor
e. Now it was Paul Weller who was staring back at me.

  Slowly, I took off the shoes, the black jacket, the trousers, the shirt and the tie. I hung the trousers on the hanger and smoothed down the jacket. I felt something inside one of the pockets and dipped my hand in and pulled out a packet of Gold Leaf. The suit went back in the wardrobe but the smokes stayed with me. I turned out the light, closed the bedroom door and went quietly to my room.

  * * *

  Dad was back from Wales and it was time for my trim. I’d been dreading this for weeks – we all had the same haircuts, the same side partings in the same style just like Dad and Grampa Lines. The five of us all had the same hair. In fact, I’m surprised that Dad didn’t insist on cutting Mum’s the same way, too. We were up in the bathroom, and Phil had just had his done. Chris was playing in the bedroom next door which he shared with Phil. He was after me.

  I sat on the stool and Dad slipped a towel around my shoulders. His cigarette burned in the ashtray on the windowsill, the smoke coiling up through the sunlight, slipping through the dusty blinds and I looked at the leather strap on the back of the bathroom door. I wanted to say something, wanted to ask him a question but when I opened my dry mouth all that came out was a squeak.

  ‘What was that, Davey lad?’

  ‘I want to ask you something.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Dad, do you think that we could try a new style, please?’

  There was silence between us in the bathroom. The dripping tap sounded like sonar and echoed like a gong.

  ‘What kind of a new style? What’s wrong with the way I cut your hair?’ I felt his hands squeeze my shoulders through the towel.

  ‘Nothing, Dad. Nothing wrong at all, just thought I’d try a new look.’

  We caught each other’s gaze in the mirror.

  ‘A new look? What are you, lad, a girl?’

  I could feel the sting of tears coming and I desperately tried to blink them away. ‘No, Dad. I’m not a girl.’

  He smiled a thin smile and told me to bow down my head and to keep very still. I did as I was told, and I knew then that he’d never cut my hair again, not in a million years.

  2

  To Be Someone

  THE THIRD JAM album, All Mod Cons, came out in November 1978. I got it as an early Christmas present and had to ask for another one when Christmas came because I’d worn it out from playing it so much. This album was the turning point for The Jam, and rightly so. It was like a new Jam had been born, and with them the real start of the mod revival. The inner sleeve of the album dripped with mod imagery; scooters, targets, old Motown records, badges, and I found it all as fascinating as the music my three hero friends had made.

  All Mod Cons was the turning point for me as well. It was when I decided to go the whole hog and get ‘the look’. Being a fan of The Jam wasn’t just about the music, it was the clothes, the hair, the shoes, the detail – above all, it was about the detail.

  Paul had inspired me to want to look sharp at all times, and I wasn’t about to go and mess it up by not looking right. At school, there were parkas everywhere. Overnight, the modernist revival had spread north from London and before I knew it, it felt as if half the school were wearing Fred Perry shirts, narrow, straight-legged jeans, parkas and white socks. Of course, that wasn’t the case, it just felt as if they were. I felt invaded, robbed of The Jam now that everyone else had got into them, so now was the time to join the army of mods at school and help reclaim the band as my own. I began with the Kay’s catalogue.

  The first items we ordered constituted my Christmas presents, and I went for two red Fred Perrys, both with blue motif and matching piping on the collar and sleeves as well as a pair of straight-leg Levi’s jeans. I’d only got little legs, and Mum told me when we placed the order that she’d have to take them up for me, but that didn’t matter because she was good with a sewing machine, and she said it wouldn’t take long. I was doing all that I could to get Paul’s look right. At the time, I couldn’t really care less about the mod movement – for me, it was about The Jam and about me connecting with Paul. It was only after I went on to discover how much mod meant to Paul through reading interviews with him that it started to rub off onto me, get under my skin and deep, deep into my soul.

  The success which Paul, Bruce and Rick were having had sparked a frenzy of mod revivalist bandwagon bands, such as The Chords, Secret Affair, Purple Hearts, Squire and The Merton Parkas, although some of these were true mod groups who’d been around as long as The Jam. Squire are still going strong to this day, and I liked their song ‘Walking Down The King’s Road’ as well as Secret Affair’s ‘My World’ and ‘Time For Action’, but none of them ever came close to The Jam for me. There was something special, something which acted as a beacon for me with The Jam, they were my everything and their music helped guide and shape me in those early lost days in Leeds. If I’m honest, it still guides me today. Whenever I’m in doubt or the dark clouds gather I’ll listen to Weller and, soon enough, all will be well again.

  Button badges were essential in creating ‘the look’ and Wide-a-Wake records was the place to get them in Garforth. I remember my first visit. Wide-a-Wake was situated on Main Street, sandwiched between Motor World, with its tiny steering wheels lined up in the window like little leather-covered shirt buttons, and Thurston’s Bakers which had a poster up in its window that read ‘Three Sausage Rolls for 20p’. I opened the door and stepped inside; the pressure mat triggered Gary Glitter singing ‘Hello, hello, it’s good to be back, good to be back.’ I couldn’t believe how small the shop was, almost like a booth, with the back wall entirely covered by an enormous poster of Kate Bush wearing a lilac leotard and staring down at me from behind the counter. She looked lovely, but she also looked like she’d escaped from some sort of secure mental health unit.

  After a minute, a man’s voice came from behind a curtain drawn behind the counter: ‘I’ll be out in a minute. But if you’re here for The Three Degrees you’re out of luck – they’re not coming in till Monday.’ I walked over to the record racks and there, under ‘J’, was All Mod Cons and behind it, In The City and This Is The Modern World. I had to check to make sure that they were there. It’s a comfort thing, and I still do it to this day when I’m in a record store. Paul stared out at me from the sleeve, all moody with a brutal crew cut, shirt buttoned up, as hard and cool and crisp and clean as they come. He looked hard, rock hard, like the sort of friend I could have done with having, living there in Garforth. It was grim up north, grim and hard but not as hard as Paul – he’d look after me. I smiled at him and slipped him back into the rickety rack.

  I spent ages trying to decide which button badges to buy. They cost twenty-five pence each and I’d enough money for two. God, there were so many to choose from and it was a good three-quarters of an hour before I finally made up my mind and plumped for a mod target with an arrow sticking out of the top and one with ‘The Jam’ spray-painted in black onto a white background. I pinned them onto the sleeve of my parka and set off home as proud as punch.

  It wasn’t a fishtail parka. In fact it wasn’t even green. It was a blue snorkel parka from the catalogue and felt like lagging from an industrial boiler unit. If I zipped the thing up I could actually feel myself melting. I made myself a promise to get my wardrobe in order – the mod movement was well under way at school and if I was going to be a proper Jam fan then I needed to look the part – and I’m sorry, but a blue snorkel parka with a couple of button badges just wasn’t going to do it.

  It was half five in the afternoon and Mum was having a Tia Maria whilst trying to muster up enough energy to tackle the pile of ironing on the kitchen table. An almighty heap, shirts and trousers all tangled together – there could have been someone buried in there.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘I need to get some new white socks.’

  ‘White socks?’

  ‘That’s right. I need three pairs of
white towelling socks.’

  She put down her drink and raised an eyebrow. ‘You need white towelling socks? Sports socks?’

  ‘That’s it exactly. Sports socks. But they must be towelling and they must be white.’

  ‘But you don’t do sport. You avoid it like the plague.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Mum. And I also need to get my hands on a boating blazer. It’s a matter of some urgency.’

  ‘A boating blazer? Have you been reading Brideshead Revisited again? And anyway, we just got you the snorkel parka at Christmas.’

  ‘And bowling shoes. I must have some bowling shoes, it’s absolutely essential I get my feet into a pair of bowling shoes. Now, where’s the Kay’s catalogue?’

  In all honesty I don’t know if falling in love with shoes was down to my becoming a mod or down to my father and his love of what he put on his feet. Whatever the cause, shoes were becoming a big part of my relationship with Paul Weller. After bowling shoes came Clark’s desert boots. These were the real starting point.