Nobody Knows Anything

Well the lady don’t mind
No no no the lady don’t mind
She just turns her head and disappears
I kinda like that style

Ed examines the leaflet. It has been cheaply produced, printed on what feels like thin slippery toilet paper, but it announces news of an underground rock concert. Tonight, Andy Warhol presents the Velvet Underground on what is their only English date. ‘One night only’ proclaims the leaflet, a message that is re-emphasised when Ed arrives at the venue that evening, a surprisingly spacious cellar off Oxford Street, where he sees the only announcement of the concert on a poster over the door: ‘One Night Only’. “Great name for a group,” Ed overhears a kid dressed in Mod gear say as Ed descends into The Cellar, which soon fills up, soon heats up from the warmth of human bodies and from the cigarettes which hang disjointedly from everyone’s mouth. Ed scans the crowd for The Girl until the lights go down, the group come on, and a wail of feedback announces the Velvet Underground. The music is loud and tight, the vocals harsh, shrill, and the light show is something special. Lots of many coloured slides dance across the stage, behind which clips from Warhol movies are projected. Edie Sedgwick crosses and recrosses her legs in the Kitchen and a man and a woman kiss and kiss and kiss and a building dominates the frame until Sylvia Miles and The Chelsea Girls flit across and a man and a woman kiss and kiss and Edie Sedgwick crosses and recrosses her legs in the Kitchen and in front of the band on stage a hooded figure carries out a strange sado-masochistic ritual, brandishing a whip at the audience. And the band played on…

Then Ed saw Her sitting at the bar at the back sipping a drink through a straw. While Ed stares at Her, he fails to notice the movement of Her hands. As people pass Her, they extend their left hands as if in greeting and close them around Her left hand, only for a moment, but that is enough. A tall coloured man in a beret standing next to Ed presses a note into his left hand but Ed doesn’t notice, his eyes focused on the beautiful simplicity of The Girl’s face as coloured liquid flows up the straw and vanishes into Her mouth. After a time, The Girl notices him and stares back at him just as intently. Ed doesn’t notice, continues to watch Her, until The Girl nods imperceptibly and a crowd comes between them, appearing from nowhere, bustling, chatting, fashionably dressed. The crowd soon disperses, and The Girl has gone. Ed slowly realises this. His left hand seems to be holding a piece of paper, which he examines. ‘Blow-Up isn’t the only film being shot in London at the moment. Meet me on the set of Repulsion tomorrow at…’ and a time and an address of a location where Catherine Deneuve is accosted by a group of workmen on the way home from the hairdressing salon where she works.

Ed looks towards the camera, panning across the London street scene. A funny enthusiastic little man is the director. ‘Polanski’ it says, on the clapperboard. When Ed sees The Girl arriving and watches Her as She gets out of a car, approaches Polanski, hands him a small something, then She crosses over to Ed, stands square in front of him, raises Her left hand, puts up Her index finger and beckons. Once. Ed follows Her as if She were leading him by means of a chain attached to a collar round his neck. She holds open the passenger door of Her car, Ed gets in, sits down and the car drives off, The Girl’s eyes fixed firmly ahead, Ed’s head turned towards her, watching, waiting, willing her to speak, wanting her to say something.

The world was moving she was right there with it
And she was

The car arrives at a junkyard on the Isle of Dogs, where yet another film is being shot. A long, railway-like, camera track snakes through the middle of the wreckage. Tall coloured men wander around, one reading aloud from a Marxist text book, another shouting Black Power slogans, and a group of Black Men arranged in a firing squad calmly ‘shooting’ young girls dressed in white, while the camera glides slowly along the track. “Jean-Luc Godard is making a film about the Rolling Stones called ‘Sympathy For The Devil’” says The Girl, bringing the car to a halt in front of the camera. She rises from Her seat and walks away. Ed self-consciously follows, looking back into the camera lens. The Girl leads him deeper into The Junkyard. They pass beneath cars piled overhead and down the sides to create a passageway which stretches out over a considerable distance, twisting and turning here and there. Ed is all the more surprised then when they emerge into a weird grove, a clearing surrounded on all sides by crushed cars piled forty feet high. One car squats in the middle of the grove, its wheels removed. The interior has been pulled out and replaced with a table and four chairs. The Girl indicates where Ed is to sit by opening one of the rear doors. She Herself gets in the front and sits down. They face each other.

“I believe you wanted to talk to me,” she says.

“I-we, I mean, my boss needs a replacement presenter for ‘Ready Steady Go’ and he sent me to London to find one this weekend because London’s the centre of the universe and what a story it would make: Girl Plucked From Obscurity etc etc and so I wandered around and I saw You on Friday night and You’re perfect. You’re The One.”

“No.”

Ed is thrown completely by this. Was The Girl crazy? No to what? Why? “Why?” he says.

The Girl pauses, considers, weighs Her response, and then reaches for a metal toolbox lying on the floor. When She opens it, it blossoms into separate tiers of hollow sections. As she speaks, the index finger of Her left hand points to a different section of the toolkit with each item. “Marijuana, hashish, cannabis, several varieties, cocaine from all over the world, a good spread of heroin, LSD, and the current number one, PCP, angel dust. These are just the popular ones. I have an extensive supply of pills and powders from the States, all available on prescription, all as potent as the strongest drug here. If I haven’t got whatever you may require, I can get it for you within the hour. You see, I cannot possibly accept your offer. Please leave me now.” Ed rises from the chair. “No luck?” says Mike as Ed sits down in the chair in Mike’s office on Monday morning.

“No luck,” replies Ed.

“Then the weekend stops here.”

Well we know where we’re goin’
But we don’t know where we’ve been
And we know what we’re knowin’
But we can’t say what we’ve seen
And we’re not little children
And we know what we want
And the future is certain
Give us time to work it out

(Lyrics extracted from the Talking Heads LP ‘Little Creatures’, in order of appearance: Perfect World, And She Was, The Lady Don’t Mind, And She Was, Road To Nowhere.)

Un Story De Robert Sharp

Copyright 1986 Robert Sharp

The world was moving she was floating above it
And she was

But She has vanished so Ed spends the next four hours at The Experience searching for Her, wandering here, looking there, becoming slow, becoming stale, becoming tired, until it occurs to him to ask The Clone at the entrance.

“Have you seen A Girl?” “I’ve seen A Girl.” “I’m talking about A Girl In Green PVC, you can’t miss Her.” “I’ve seen A Girl In Green, she was…” “Yes, what was she?” “…different to the others, She was dressed in green, and She was…” “Where can I find Her?” “…going to the ‘Blow-Up’ shoot in the morning but it’s morning already, at ten o’clock sharp…” “Where is this shoot?” “It’s a film and it’s at…” and The Clone finally gives Ed an address, and because Ed feels tired now, he seeks and finds a back room full of sleeping corpses and squeezes into a corner and sleeps in the morning a hand shaking his shoulder a voice calling his name: “Ed! Wake up, Ed!” Ed comes round for a moment and it’s Her! The Girl! She has eyes and a nose and a smile and her lips are moving and Ed falls asleep again

and wakes again in the morning it’s nine o’clock and he only has an hour to get to the film location. The Room that was full last night is empty now, but when Ed leaves The Room through the only door he is back on the front steps of a house. Ed looks behind him and sees one room with no other exit, yet he has no memory of walking outside and this house looks familiar and this street looks familiar and this taxi driver looks familiar when Ed hails a cab and mumbles the location address.

Ed leans back and watches the early morning river, sunlight reflecting and refracting the gentle motion of the water, as the taxi passes along The Bridge. Gulls wheel overhead and a pleasure-boat glides beneath, the still water barely stirring in its wake. On the other side of the river girls in the latest Mary Quant mini skirts mix with businessmen in bowler hats; men with hair down to their shoulders stroll alongside unhappy old age pensioners, pointing out the signs of the permissive society. The taxi arrives at the location and Ed leaves The Taxi Driver grumbling at the size of Ed’s “keep the change”.

While Ed watches out for The Girl, the action of the scene being shot becomes apparent. A car driven by David Hemmings as The Photographer draws up outside a flat, David presses the horn, and Jane Birkin as The Model leaves the front door of the building, gets in the car, and David drives off. At the time Ed arrived, they were onto the nineteenth take of this scene. Ed approaches a man lingering near the camera and asks, “Who’s the director?” “Some Italian.” “Are you with this film?” “Only as photographic adviser.” “Adviser, eh? What’s the film about?” “I dunno, I haven’t read the script, but it’s all to do with photography.” “How do you know that?” “It’s called ‘Blow-Up’. And I presume it’s why I’m here.” “Have you seen A Girl In Green PVC?” “Oh, I know Her.” “Really,” says Ed, trying not to give anything away. “I’m shooting Her this afternoon.” “I beg your pardon.” The Photographer raises his hands in front of his face and mimes the operation of a camera. “Click,” he says. “Click-click-click,” as he moves ‘the camera’ around an imaginary model. “You’re a photographer then,” (The Photographer nods rather obviously), “could I meet Her? It’s really important.” “How important?” “Very.” “Come here at two. I’m needed now.” The Photographer leaves, handing Ed a business card: ‘Bailey – Photographer’ and an address and a phone number. “In fact,” calls David Bailey, “there She is now.” Ed follows the direction of David’s outstretched left arm and his eyes alight on a MG pulling away from the kerb. The Girl is driving, David Hemmings sits beside Her, and as the car disappears down the road, Ed thinks he sees them exchange something, but he can’t be sure. However, Ed is certain of one thing: he will have to wait for afternoon to arrive before he can meet The Girl.

Ed passes the intervening time by heading for Carnaby Street and strolling round the boutiques. The clothes use less and less material and become more and more expensive. Then, in one shop, whose main trade is in currently out of fashion leather goods, Ed overhears a couple of girls chatting. “And at Apple they’re giving stuff away today – for free.” “What? Free? For nothing?” “Yes. Today only.” “Only today?” “Well, and tomorrow, and the day after.”

Ed walks to the Apple boutique – everyone seems to know where it is – but he is unable to enter because of the crowd thronging the only entrance. People are shouting and shoving, forcing their way inside, where, apparently, you can just take clothes off the rack and leave, if you can get out again. Ed glances at his watch. Damn! Half two! And there are no taxis to be seen. Ed asks a passer-by which underground station the studio is near but he only finds out after spending ten minutes deciphering the man’s truly incoherent accent. Ed rushes to the underground station speeds down the stairs, buys his ticket after a queue at the ticket office stamping his feet in impatience, glaring back at the faces of Julie Christie and Twiggy staring from magazine covers at a newsagent’s, flies down an escalator and onto the platform just slipping into the train before the doors shunt shut. And it’s the wrong train. Ed leaves at the next station and runs round a maze of stairs and escalators to the other side of the platform, stares at the opposite wall in silence with its posters advertising Jane Fonda in Barbarella, catches another train time now approaching three o’clock, Ed’s left foot taps out an irregular rhythm on the black rubber floor as the train draws ever nearer to the station and he only has the incomprehensible word of a stranger that it is the correct station for the studio. The train arrives Ed leaves the train sprints up stairs and asks again at the top for the address is directed there by an Australian and arrives knocks and enters silent into silence, broken only by the faint click of a closing shutter and the quiet words of The Photographer.

Ed rounds a corner and sees a girl being photographed by Someone hidden behind the bright dazzle of artificial light. A voice directs poses from the dark beyond and other figures lurk in the background, nodding their heads in approval. The Model is wearing a sharply-cut wig, so Ed cannot see if it is Her. As The Model changes position at the request of The Voice, Ed circles (“Sultry”) round slowly behind (“More”) the camera, the girl’s (“Provocative”) face remains hidden (“More”) from view as Ed moves (“More”) to the front and sees (“Perfect”) that it isn’t Her. (“Languid”) Ed approaches one of David’s aides (“Back”) and asks where The Girl In Green PVC is (“Relax”) and The Black Man says, “Oh, She finished (“Sexy”) half an hour ago, said She was going to some exhibition in the East End (“Vulnerable”) at…” and the aide gives Ed an address (“Innocent”) and Ed leaves through the door

and walks in through The Door of an East End art gallery, which is holding a Warhol exhibition. Ed wanders the galleries, looking for The Girl, admiring the soup cans and the Marilyn screenprints, until he sees Her at the information desk by the entrance being handed a leaflet and leaving and he’s unable to get to Her because he discovers he’s watching Her through a glass window and he tries to attract Her attention but She’s already left.

Ed approaches the desk and asks who The Girl was. “What Girl?” is the reply. “The Girl you just gave a leaflet to.” “What leaflet?” says the woman behind the desk, holding a number of leaflets in her left hand. Another Head, thinks Ed, that’s all I need, so he removes a leaflet from the woman’s left hand and leaves the gallery. Of course, The Girl is nowhere in sight. Back in the gallery a tall coloured man in a beret approaches The Receptionist and asks a question. “What man?” is the reply.

END OF PART TWO

Copyright 1986 Robert Sharp

Well I know what it is
But I don’t know where it is
Where it is
Well I know where it is
But I don’t know what it looks like
What it looks like
Well I know what it looks like
But I don’t know where she comes from
Well I know where she comes from
But I don’t know what’s her name

The Man carefully replaces the receiver. He has a serious problem. After some years, Cathy McGowan has finally decided to leave ‘Ready Steady Go’. The Man is The Producer of The Show and the index finger of his left hand casually reaches out and presses a button on the intercom, the fourth button from the left. “This is Mike here,” he announces, “send Someone in.” There is a short pause during which Mike sets off his Newton’s Cradle, the ticking as regular as the beating of his heart. The Door opens, The Cradle stops, and Someone walks in. He is wearing tight black trousers and a white polo neck, just like David McCallum in ‘The Man From UNCLE’, but unlike David, Ed does not possess blonde hair. “I’ve got a problem,” says Mike. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?” is the reply. “Cathy’s leaving The Show, and we need a replacement. Fast. I want you to deal with this. Your train leaves for London in half an hour. Your ticket is with my secretary.” “What do I do?” “It is perfectly simple,” underlines Mike, “it’s summer 196—, London is the centre of the universe. It shouldn’t be difficult to find some pretty girl on the streets just dying to become presenter of The Show on television. Today is Friday. The time is four in the afternoon. You have until nine Monday morning. The weekend starts here.” Ed turns to go, then instinctively pauses, awaiting the final words of his boss. “And good luck.” Ed opens The Door, his left hand curling around the aluminium handle and pulling. The Door closes. “You’ll need it,” Mike says to himself. His left hand restarts The Cradle and reaches down to open a desk drawer and withdraw a small bottle of multicoloured pills. “How happy do I want to feel?” he muses, prior to his selection.

A Man sits on a train. Distant landscape flies by the window. England. Summer. Lots of green and brilliant blue speeding past. Ed glances at his wristwatch. Good. He will be in London before nightfall. The Door to the compartment slides open and a bearded, coloured man in a combat jacket walks in, wearing a black beret with a single gold star. “Is that seat taken?” booms his voice, deep and American. “No.” Ed’s reply is short and sweet, resentful of the unnecessary aggression. “Do you want to buy one of these?” Ed glances up. The Black Man is holding a bundle of newspapers which he seems to have magicked out of thin air. Ed nods. “Two shillings.” Ed scrabbles in his pocket, finds two coins and hands them over. The Black Man leaves, and Ed spends his the rest of his journey leafing through ‘The International Times’ with its fervent relation of underground happenings. One advert in particular catches his eye.

It is the first time Ed has seen the new-look Railway Station. He passes through the ticket barrier, handing his ticket to an unhappy inspector, and he leaves The Station through doors which slip apart at his approach. Curiously, Ed still feels like he is inside. Evening is drawing on as Ed hails a taxi, which pulls up behind a red bus, and says one word in reply to the driver’s “Where to, guv’nor?”: “Sensetaria.”

This word appears as the centrepiece of a Peter Blake designed advert in ‘The International Times’ for what is billed as ‘the psychedelic experience’. The venue is somewhere near the Hammersmith Odeon, but the actual location is not indicated. Prospective members of the audience are advised to open their eyes, follow their ears and kiss their minds goodbye.

The Taxi Driver tries to engage Ed in some sparkling conversation concerning “those bloody long-haired, foul-mouthed hippies, I’d shoot the bleedin’ lot o’them,” but Ed refuses to be drawn on the subject, leaving The Taxi Driver mumbling “bleedin’ lib’rals.” Ed remains silent, collecting his thoughts in preparation for the promised mind-blowing experience. The Taxi Driver grumbles at the size of Ed’s “keep the change” and vanishes into the night, leaving Ed standing alone on the road outside the vast façade of the Hammersmith Odeon. ‘ALL THIS WEEK: THE WHO’ proclaim posters. Another message pasted across these posters reads ‘SOLD OUT’. From inside there is the distant sound of arms cartwheeling in dry ice, expensive equipment exploding as it’s hurled across the stage and rampant feedback as another guitar neck vanishes into the audience.

As Ed moves away, the night becomes almost perfectly still. Then dustbins sitting on pavements rattle as an underground train rumbles underneath. Steam flies up from an open manhole cover, the red-striped sides of a workmen’s temporary hut flap in the slight breeze drifting down from The North, and yellow warning lights blink like feline eyes in the jungle night. Ed looks out into the darkness, strains his ears to hear, prepares his mind to expand, and then hurls himself towards the pavement as a MG speeds by. Two girls stand upright in the back, long hair streaming behind them, dressed alternately in black and white. One wears white pullover, black skirt and white tights, the other black tights, white skirt, black pullover. The car’s red lights recede into the distance, brakes squeal, and then the red sports car swings to the right and is gone. Silence again. Ed picks himself up and follows.

When Ed rounds the corner, he sees the parked vehicles of the rich and famous lining the street which must mean that The Experience is near now. One Rolls Royce resembles the proverbial explosion in a psychedelic paint factory. The street itself seems quite ordinary; two rows of suburban houses whose front doors are reached up a flight of stone steps. Ed slowly walks down the street, then, behind him, a door flies open, light shafts out, and a figure is propelled out of the light, into the night, and down the steps into the dustbins. Ed moves to help, but The Head just smiles at him and waves him away. “This is the place,” Ed says to himself, climbing the steps. Ed knocks on The Door—wood painted on metal—and The Door is opened by A Jean Shrimpton Clone with large eyes too much makeup perfect hair and a pure white pure wool all-in-one figure-hugging dress who without further ado raises the index finger of her left hand in front of Ed’s face waves it to and fro a couple of times then draws it back with Ed following until the finger points up the flight of stairs rising up out of the carpet four yards from the door and as Ed climbs up coming closer to the repetitive thudding from above he passes a couple of Heads dressed military fashion like the Beatles on the Sgt Pepper cover sharing a crooked cigarette which smells “so sweet” one of them says to the other and Ed reaches the top of the stairs turns left down a corridor pushes open double doors at the end and he’s there: Sensetaria. Multicoloured lights flash fast then slow then faster, amoeba film slithers across the walls, fast music like the Rolling Stones at 78 threatens the audience with submission from six foot square speakers placed quadraphonically but the audience fights back shrieking shaking convulsing hair flying clothes jumbled together in insane colours and the smoke in the air not produced by any machine, and as Ed struggles down the stairs to the dance floor, a girl swathed in green PVC standing on a trapeze descends towards him her mouth opening and closing one word “Welcome” never ceasing, and as the trapeze reaches Ed she steps off and vanishes into the crowd and then the strobe is switched on and the music slows down, the motions of the crowd slow down and Ed attempts to track The Girl In Green PVC because She’s The Girl he’s looking for, She’s The One who’ll be presenting ‘Ready Steady Go’ next Friday because She is The One.

END OF PART ONE

Warhol’s unmistakable image of Marilyn – screen-printed in countless variations as a consumer product, it is a perfect symbol of pop-art styles.
Copyright 1986 Robert Sharp