It was the October 1986 and I was just beginning to feel comfortable in my surroundings. The weather helped; bright clear autumn days, where kicking through musty smelling leaves on the way back from Woolco with the plastic shopping bags making red weals in my fingers reminded me of home. I had gone to do a Psychology degree but had accidentally found myself doing music as well. The music teacher had heard me playing in a practice room and said, "Oh, Psychology, that's an easy degree, you'll have plenty of time for music as well."
It was a small music class. The only other girl was complaining when I arrived.
"I'm not cut out for this weather, look at my hair." None of the boys saw her swish her fine locks over her shoulder. They were too busy laughing at me, as I fell into the room, having tripped up the step.
"See, look at Julia's hair, it looks as though she hasn't even brushed it."
I blushed deeper.
"Oh, I'm sorry dhaaarling, I didn't mean to embarrass you."
We wouldn't have been able to make any kind of useful band; a jazz saxophone player, two guitarists, a trombonist, a cello player and a singer who dabbled with a keyboard and me with my flute. We did get on. Mostly. Even though our backgrounds were as eclectic as our instruments. It was a tough lesson. analysing Mozart's Jupiter Symphony was particularly difficult for the singers and guitarists and brains were exploding all over the room. We tried to support each other.
"This would be quite fun if it wasn't hurting my head so much," said a boy with three mile hair and long fingernails on one hand only,"
"We should go out together," said the trombonist.
"That would be dhaaarling," said Rebecca the jazz saxophonist.
"I'm meeting my brother in Covent Garden on Friday night, why don't you all join me?" said John Smith.
"Great idea," we all agreed.
I liked John Smith. He was in the same Halls as me and had tried to teach me to play Stairway to Heaven on the guitar, while we drank coffee and I teased him about having such a boring name. John was from Northumberland, a place I had never heard of and had a weird posh, Scottish accent.
John and I walked to the train station, where we were meeting the others and he told me more about his upbringing.
"It will be nice to see Pete. I miss him. He's like the only family I've got really."
"Haven't you got a mum and dad?"
"Oh, the parents think I'm a huge disappointment. Papa will never forgive me for choosing this crappy Poly. He thought that once I'd flunked my A levels, I should take up his offer of a Liberal Arts College in the States. Gordonstoun boys become something, you see?"
I didn't.
"What? You've never heard of Gordonstoun? The Royals went there."
"Oh, right."
"Yeah, right. So Papa still can't get his head round the fact that I completely fucked it up. Still, Pete will probably go up to Cambridge, so I could be forgiven, yet."
"What about your Mum?"
"She still sends me one of Polly's cakes every week. I suppose that's maternal love, of sorts."
We walked the rest of the way in silence.
Becki had brought a bottle of wine, which we shared on the train, wiping the top of the bottle on a sleeve before taking a swig. I knew my way around the tubes quite well - the only real advantage of being an Essex girl in the eighties - and so I took charge, guiding the group to Covent Garden tube and persuading them that walking up the stairs really wasn't a good idea. We pushed our way to the bar at the Punch and Judy and out on the balcony several times before Pete and his friend arrived. They were clearly underage but no one seemed to mind about that in the Eighties.
John's face lit up when he saw them. He grabbed his brother and wrestle-hugged him around the bar, annoying several loud men in pink stripped shirts and braces. Pete's friend stood, awkward, not knowing where to look. Matt, the trombonist, rescued him, taking him to the bar for several pints and a gin and tonic. Becki had embraced the lad culture in a way that I had been unable to match.
"Julia, this is my little brother Peter and his friend, oh where's he gone? Joe Jones."
"The bar, with Matt. Joe Jones? My God that's almost as boring as your name. Does he go to that posh school too? What do they do up there, change everyone's name to the dullest thing they can think of?"
Pete and John exchanged looks.
"You're right bruv (it was posh then), she is a hoot."
"You've told your brother about me?"
"Just about how you don't like Bowie."
The others were back from the bar and the conversation became heated.
"I just don't know how you can say you don't like Bowie," said one of the guitarists.
"Yeah, he's an inspiration."
"Pure genius."
"He's changing music forever."
"Legend."
I noticed Joe standing looking at his shoes, twiddling a section of his hair around his thumb. His hair was about the same colour as mine; blond but with the definite hint of a Celtic heritage. I felt encouraged to state my opinion on Bowie again, as I thought Joe wasn't a fan either.
"It's not that I can't see he is inspirational and all that. Definitely an artist but I prefer my musicians to be able to sing in tune."
Joe snorted his beer through his nose.
"You don't think Bowie can sing in tune?" he asked, eyes twinkling.
I had clearly misread that one. Berating myself for being so stupid and thinking that I wasn't the only person on the planet who thought Bowie was God, I ploughed on regardless.
"No. Err. Well. No. Honestly, no I don't think he's in tune. There's always so much music and production on the record and we are completely distracted by his charisma and charm but singing in tune? No. No I don't think so. A woman would never get away with it you know."
We discussed the lack of equality in pop music, how there were never any female drummers and how women only had a choice of whore or lesbian, as an alternative personality.
"If a woman went on stage without make up, we'd all know she was a dyke," Becki informed us.
"David's a stud though. I would. Would you?" she asked.
Everyone agreed they would, except Joe and Pete who both looked a little uncomfortable.
"He's married isn't he?" someone asked
"Divorced, I think."
"Swings both ways."
"In that Rolling Stone article it said that he described himself as a closet heterosexual."
"He's got children, right?" I asked "I feel sorry for them."
"Just one I think, Zowie."
"Ha ha. Zowie Bowie. Why would you do that to a child? I might consider changing my name. Something like John Smith or Joe Jones," I said, digging my elbow into John's rib spilling his beer on a floppy haired man's foot.
We were all quite drunk and giggly.
On the way back from the station John could hardly walk. He threw his arm over my shoulder.
"Shhhh. Can you keep a secret? Shhhhh," he laughed.
"No, John. I'm terrible with secrets.
"Ha ha. I'm going to tell you anyway. Shhhhhhhhhh."
He leant right into my face the beer becoming my breath as well.
"Joe is Zowie Bowie."
"What?" I stood straight up, tipping John off my shoulders. He landed on his bottom on the grass verge and laughed. I had never felt so suddenly sober in my life. "How could you?"
John pulled me down by my scarf and hissed in my face again. "SSSS a secret. Shhhhh,"
"You. You. Let me. You let me say all that stuff. In fact you started it. I would have never said all that if I had known."
"Was funny."
"It. Was. Not. Funny. I made a fool of myself."
John looked at me, seeing my anger for the first time.
"Oh, Oh, don't be cross with me. I didn't mean it. I was only joking. Let's never talk about it again."
And we didn't. And we never went out as a group again.
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