SF. Pt. 13c. The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown.

Simon has moved into more spacious accommodation in Ladbroke Grove. He’s still living at floor level like everybody else these days but there’s more of it. The bed-sitter was like a cheap hotel room. The new place is more like a large ash-tray. Arthur comes up to London occasionally and usually ends up spending the night. A typical conversation might go something like this...

‘Nice boots.’ Says Arthur.
‘Thanks. Annello & Davide.’
‘Where’s that? Carnaby Street?’”
Simon snorts. Arthur really doesn’t have a clue. ‘You’re joking Arthur. Carnaby Street is for tourists and proles. I get my gear mostly from Blade’s and Mr. Fish.’

In fact left to his own devices Simon probably wouldn’t bother with his appearance too much. Samantha should get most of the credit for Simon’s current sartorial splendour.

While Arthur has been piddling around with the Mars bars and the Old Holborn, the Crunchies and the Woodbines in his shop, Simon has been busy carving out a niche for himself in the London Pop Music scene. Monty got him to write a few things for Tin Pan Times and one thing lead to another. He now has a weekly column. There’s talk of him becoming an editor. He likes seeing his name in print even if it does get misspelled. The generous check comes in handy too.

Arthur. Such an old-fashioned name. It sounds like a bloke who’s been sweeping a factory floor for fifty years. Got a spare fag Arthur? Good old Arthur. Makes a nice cup of tea does Arthur. I suppose I shouldn’t be so hard on him. He is genuinely confused. He says it’s like being two separate people. And they’re both arguing all the time inside his head. Divorced parents will do that.

‘I just got back from America.’ Says Simon.
‘Oh, how was that?’
‘Bloody amazing. I went with the Stones. It was non-stop craziness. The Americans loved us.’
‘Us?’
‘The tour. The Yanks went crazy. It was as if we’d taken over the whole country.’
This was not strictly true. The tour had been badly organized. Many mistakes had been made. Also, what Simon wasn’t quite ready to talk about, was Altamont. He was still digesting that night of dust and mindless violence. To be only a few feet away while somebody was getting beaten with pool cues had been an unsettling experience.
‘How did you get that job?’
‘Monty. Samantha’s dad. He needed an under-assistant West Coast promotions man.’ The joke, if that’s what it was, went right over Arthur’s head.

California had been crazy all right. No need for hyperbole. All those people driving on freeways, hanging out by swimming pools had struck Simon as quite bizarre. The tired palm trees, the stucco, the smog, the unchanging weather. There they were sitting on the edge of the Western world, with a fault line running through the middle. But in a strange way it worked. And it wasn’t all crass materialism. There was a definite spiritual side to it too. They were searching but for what? And what about that Leary character at Laguna Beach? Mr. Turn on, tune in, drop out. He certainly seemed to know what’s going on…or was he just another salesman?

‘What do you do exactly then?’ Arthur asks in a transparent attempt to keep the dialogue going.
‘I do rock writing.’ Says Simon.
‘What’s that?’
Simon explains. “It’s easy. All you have to do is say how much fun you had at so and so’s concert and what a great band they are.”
‘So what’s the point?’
‘Well the money’s good that’s one thing. And it’s exciting being on the cutting edge. Not to mention the crumpet of course. Lot’s of girls around. It’s not exactly literature but...’
‘I know,’ says Arthur, ‘it’s only rock and roll but you like it.’
‘Hey that’s a good line Arthur. Excuse me a sec…I need to write that down.’
‘I could try my hand at writing I suppose…but what could I write about?’
‘Anything. You hitchhiked to India…write about that. Or why not write about being a tobacconist? You could be the next Harold Pinter. The times they are a changing Arthur. You need to get with it. Loosen up. Have a go. Just jump and the safety net will appear…you might want to think about changing your name to something...er... groovier. Arthur sounds a bit square.’
Arthur looks confused. He’s never liked his name much but he didn’t realize it was square.
‘I’m not really into music.’
‘What about politics? Where do you stand politically?’
‘Well I don’t like fascists. And anarchists scare me. Communists want to own things. I’m somewhere in the middle I suppose.’

‘Look at this.’ Simon produces what looks like a sheet of pink blotting paper. Arthur notices that it has been divided into half-inch squares.
‘LSD’, says Simon, ‘Owsley White Lightning to be precise. Want to try?’
Arthur has heard about this stuff. He’s in two minds. The moment of truth has arrived.

Which connects to this somehow...

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