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PAUL GARDINER's memorial "Venus In Furs"
single, NUM 1 of Numa Records, made for a rather tenuous start to the label,
both commercially and emotionally.
Like all good epic tales, Numa Records was inaugurated with birth and
death on the same page--a child taking his first wobbly steps into the world
of music publishing but supported by the hands of an unseen ghost. However, in that all too brief a span
of seven formative years preceding Numa Records--in that bildungsroman of Gary's autobiography--his
alliance with Paul Gardiner was punctuated by the passionate intensity of
creation, fame, wealth and power.
Tragically, it concluded, as all epic tales do, in bittersweet loss: the death of one who will never be
forgotten, and the ascendancy of one who must go on and live.
Their first meeting in 1977 was no
less epic in the scale of its inspired collaboration: in the span of just two years, two
young men, each contributing in virtual anonymity to an ambiguously motivated
punk rock band, forging an alliance between them that would suddenly
transition them from performing covers at the local VFW club to writing and
playing their own material, to celebrating a No. 1 chart position that would
make Gary Numan internationally renowned. In fact, of all the artists to appear on the Numa label
between 1984 and 1986, none was as close, as important, and as seminal to the
formation of pop icon Gary Numan as the late Paul Gardiner. Consequently, his preeminence within
the history of Numa--as well as his position in the roster of Numa--trumps
even John Webb, Gary's younger brother.
Ignoring
the realities of small press ads for auditions, notice boards, and the
serendipity of the underground music scene that really bring
bands together, the official press images from that period depict the early
Tubeway Army in the same contrived and fictitious way that other bands of the
period were promoted: as a trio
of longtime friends, school chums who came together to "rebel"
against the orthodoxy of the current music scene and, by default, against the
British school system. The truth
is subtly more interesting: that
Gardiner, a young man seemingly without a family, actually ingratiated
himself into the Webbs' close-knit circle to become an honorary family member. Paul does, in fact, mention his
parents sporadically: Alec and
Doris Gardiner. Perhaps it was the unfortunate fallout of the way that the
press paid closer attention to Gary than to Paul, but there is never any
mention of Paul's family life, whereas by contrast the Webbs (who suffered
their own personal tragedies of family life along the way) always presented
themselves unabashedly to the public as a model of family unity and devotion.
Not that longtime friends weren't important to Gary, either, as evidenced by
his rock-solid friendship with childhood companion Garry Robson (who created
the Numa logo), but already the story of Tubeway Army had become one of a
family run business almost from its inception: with patriarch Tony Webb being the principle backbone of
emotional support and fatherly contributor of practical business acumen; and
extended family member Jess Lidyard (a.k.a., "Uncle Gerald," Beryl
Webb's brother) senioring both Gary and Paul as the band's on-and-off-again
drummer during the early transitional years. John Webb, too, was an integral part of the picture,
playing a fallen cupid decked out in safety pins and leather, under the
pseudonym of "Johnny Silver"; John's novelty act contributed in its
own way to the appeal of Tubeway Army as a dynastic enterprise, Punk's reply
to the Osmonds. But, by
ingratiating himself into the family structure of the band,
Gardiner would add more cohesion to the musical style and mission objective
of the Tubeway Army act. By
pointing this out, I certainly mean no disrespect for the considerable
contributions by Gary, Jess, or even members of Mean Street and The Lasers,
who added their own breath to the winds that eventually bore Tubeway Army
aloft to success. (Mean Street
especially demonstrates that no one is completely
useless: at the very least, they
can be used as a bad example.)
But Gardiner's temperament as the
band's bass musician also made him its base
musician--even a mascot of sorts.
With his consistent excellence on bass guitar, his incorrigibly
high-spirited personality, and his steadfast loyalty to the creative
songwriter, lyricist, and image pioneer that made Gary the troupe's alpha
male, Paul should be regarded as the solid ground on which Tubeway Army
marched to its commercial prosperity.
He brought musical credibility to Gary's songwriting talent. Take, as example, the band's
pre-album single, "Bombers" b/w "O.D. Receiver" and
"Blue Eyes" (BEG 8 July 1978). Seemingly inspired by the band's performances at VFW halls
in previous years, the lyrics of this punk-ish anthem about war-torn
Orwellian dystopia offered the point of view of an ambivalent bomber pilot
and seemed to fill in exactly what was missing from 1977's "V-2
Schneider" on David Bowie's latest album Heroes. The song's vocals lay discordantly,
but appropriately, within the genre of punk. Underscoring them, however (and, indeed, all else in the
song), is Paul Gardiner's exacting bass-line, holding the song together and
giving it its memorable attributes.
Such was the strength of musical character that Gardiner ensured. The emerging sound of Tubeway Army
was owed initially to Paul's guitar, though Gary's later discovery of the
power of the synthesizer keyboard would be the key to the band's commercial
success. Just as he held
together the appeal of that one song, he subsequently defined the appeal of
Tubeway Army and the Gary Numan Band.
 Paul and Gary met in 1977 via The
Lasers, for whom Gary had auditioned as a guitarist in answer to an ad. Paul perhaps shared in Gary's lack of
confidence in his own guitar playing.
(Numan has often credited the value of his gear, not of his ability,
as the reason he was accepted into bands.) The Gardiner/Numan mystique was perhaps always a factor of
their complex compatibility, both as friends and as musicians. "I got on with Paul straight
off," says Numan. "I
picked him up and he took me to where the audition was, and on the way there
we were sort of chatting away.
Smashing bloke--lots of similar interests and things. So, by the time we got to the
audition, he was sort of an ally." Paul and Gary, therefore, established
a loyalty to one another virtually from the start. Furthermore, Paul possessed an unassuming skill to assess
very quickly and honestly the true talents of his bandmembers. He immediately recognized in Gary his
potential as front-man and his goals of commercial success, elements that
were of greater value to them than Gary's musicianship: "Paul was very keen on me being
in [The Lasers]. And,
apparently, Paul said later on, talking to me about the things I wanted, not
things I had, he thought that there was something in it. He didn't want me in the band for my
guitar prowess, which wasn't that good really. He could see something else in me." Thereafter, Gardiner passed the baton
of lead vocals to Gary, who contributed to the group his entire repertoire of
songs rejected by Mean Street (a.k.a. Riot). This would become the arrangement of their professional
relationship for the rest of their time together.
Of course,
it was not really Gary's intention to usurp the other members of The Lasers
and take lead position. With the
injection of new blood and new songwriting, the notion of a new band name
took point; within a short time, Paul and Gary had hit upon the name
"Tubeway Army" (to break from the clichˇ of punk group names
beginning with the definite article "The"). Alas, the same petty jealousies and
power plays as those seen in Mean Street began disrupting the harmony of the
group, at which point Paul and Gary saw the writing on the wall and seceded
from The Lasers, taking both Gary's songs and the new band name with them:
The reason
that they left--or that me and Paul left them--was that,
we had a gig coming up. We were
only doing like one about every fortnight, so, nothing important. We had something coming up, which to
us at the time was quite important.
We had a practice planned.
And one of the lads, who had been in charge of the band before I
traveled along, just canceled it, just like that. So I got a bit annoyed about this, and I said, "You
can't cancel this. It's
important for us. We need the
practice." He said,
"Well, I didn't have any money.
It was two quid and I couldn't afford it." So I said, "You really should
have spoken to us. There are
four of us in it, and it's important for all of us. And if it was only two quid I would have given you two
quid, just so we could have had the practice." Then a few more things were said, and it became obvious
that it was happening again, you know.
Because I had gone to the front then. So I said to Paul, I said, "I've had enough of
this. I'm off." And I was a little bit childish; I
said, "It's my name. I'm
going to take the name with me." [laughter] And Paul
said, "No, I've had enough too, so I'll come with you." Me and Paul, then, were like
inseparable, until he died, really. (Images 1.2)
The marriage of these two minds,
then, would be fortuitous, as the resulting Tubeway Army would begin
showcasing Gardiner's particular style of bass playing and cross over from
the haphazard and simplistic chord progressions of punk to the more
robotically exacting and complex sounds of New Wave rock.
The
transition was not without its silly contrivances. When Bob Simons replaced Uncle Jess as short order
drummer, the band adopted a gothic glam identity, and all three members took
on androgynous space-aged sobriquets:
Scarlett (Paul Gardiner); Rael (Jess Lidyard); and Valerian, a.k.a.
Valerium (Gary Webb). Though
this image did not remain sexy for long, it was enough to demonstrate to
prospective record producers that they were taking the commercial end of the
business seriously and contemplating a marketable image. The strategy wasn't for naught: soon
after, Beggars Banquet took the bait.
In fact, Gardiner is consistently credited, even by Gary himself, as
the one who brought Tubeway Army to Beggars and landed the contract that
would make their fortune.
While
Gary's prolific songwriting kept the group not wanting for fresh material to perform,
his threshold for the pain of label rejection was fairly low. Paul, on the other hand, was rather
implacable about that end of the business and soldiered on to promote several
of the recorded songs to labels until interest was found. That interest eventually came in 1978
when Paul, after hearing word of a new label being started by Beggars Banquet
shop owners Marty Mills and Nick Austin, traveled to their corporate offices
in Earls Court to present them with the Tubeway Army demos. With interest expressed, arrangements
were made to use the rehearsal studio in the basement of Beggars Banquet in
Fullham. In fact, Paul--and
later, Gary--quickly fostered a friendship with Steve Webbon at the Beggars
Banquet store in Ealing, with whom he and Gary would do some extracurricular
brown-nosing, exchanging guitars for saws and hardware to install shelving in
the new shop in Richmond, in hopes it would favor them for a proper signing
later. (Lest ye judge, be mindful
that sycophancy is one of the unofficial rules of the music trade.) Anyone visiting the Beggars Banquet
shop in Richmond today will still be able to inspect Paul and Gary's
handiwork.
Once Beggars Banquet committed to
the release of the "Bombers" single, however, the line-up and
dynamics of the band changed.
Seeking a more guitar-oriented arrangement for the songs, Austin and
Mills persuaded Paul and Gary to bring on another guitarist. Sean Burke was recruited, followed by
his friend, Barry Benn, on drums.
(Jess Lidyard, though still active in the group, was not made an
official member.) Now, Tubeway
Army was once again a four-piece band, and once again the numbers made for a
rather serious split into two camps of musical interest: while Burke and Benn wished to pursue
the raucous "punk" side of Tubeway Army's music, Paul and Gary were
making the move to electronic instruments (after the now-infamous discovery
of the synthesizer during a visit to Spaceward Studios) used in the service
of a more traditional rock sound.
So, rather than shore up a somewhat incomplete band for Tubeway's
first signing, the introduction of new members had a distinctly divisive
effect. Shades of Mean Street
and The Lasers were, again, coloring the mood. And, once again, Gary and Paul packed up their
instruments, their songs, and their band's name and parted company with the
rest of the group.
By now, however, Gary was already
promoting himself as a solo artist, and Paul was assuming the comfortable
role of lead musician in Gary's band, still calling itself "Tubeway
Army." The relationship
that Paul had essentially initiated from their first meeting while still in
The Lasers had now become the permanent commercial and creative arrangement
between these close friends:
Gary (now "Gary Numan") as the primary musical persona of
their act, and Paul as the one who would keep the music anchored to a
recognizable rock sound by way of his virtuoso bass playing. If one were to query Gary and his
family, though, they would no doubt emphasize that Paul did not merely raise
the bar on talent; he raised people's spirits during the most stressful
times. Paul was very, very
funny. And yet, also true of
Paul's personality was that he was ever on the verge of
self-destruction. Wherefore this
paradox?
They say that, physiologically and
emotionally, laughter is an expression that lies midway between a sob and a
scream, suggesting that a comic temperament is more about personal
ambivalence than a "sense of humor". Perhaps this is why tragedy
and comedy are so inextricably bound, for, underscoring the comic impulse is
the defusing of a tragic experience, and beneath the veil of sadness in
classical tragedy is the comic irony and absurdity over one's destiny. The tendency for high jinks often
belies a personal tumult: class
clowns managing a mentally ill parent; pathological pranksters suffering acts
of abuse; professional comedians (i.e., the good ones) continuously flirting
with suicidal acts or nihilistic behaviors. Humor is a catharsis, in other words, for the ongoing
oppression one suffers in a hidden life. This perhaps explains the great divide in Paul's
personality. In the public
arena, on show for his friends and band mates, Paul was the classic imp, but
behind the scenes, when he could not find himself funny anymore, he sought
out the anesthesia of heroin and alcohol. Consequently, Paul's exploits call
for the reader's somewhat jaundiced eye. Honoring the memory of a person by
recalling times of laughter is utterly important and absolutely necessary to
the healing process. (It's no
wonder I've never been much good at healing from loss.) However, as much as I enjoy the
accounts of Paul's exploits during the tours, I'm compelled to regard them as
an outward expression of an inner torment.
The official chronicles of this time
do not make clear when Paul began using heroin, or at what point his use
turned into an abuse. (In fact,
they do not even make mention of Paul's fatherhood during the height of his
career.) The circumstantial
evidence, however, suggests that it became a more common part of his routines
while on tour during 1979 and 1980.
Paul was known to be a formidable drinker, especially before the
performances, to allay his anxiety.
Accounts of his touring antics make no express mention of illicit drug
use. But the conditions for it
were clearly there. The following excerpts of Peter Gilbert's interviews with
Gary Numan for Images 3: A
Recorded Autobiography make a good case for it:
PG: Were there any
notable incidents during any of your tours?
GN: Yeah. Yeah. Paul was the main person that used to cause incidents, in
a nice sort of way. [laughter] There was just something about
him, you know. In America at one
particular time he had some tablets and he--I think he used to like to be
awkward a bit, [laughter] Paul--and at one point he'd run
out of tablets, and he was drunk.
(Which he often was.) And
so he rung up to Reception and he said, "I would like my tablets." And they thought . . . They
misunderstood him. They thought,
it being a band obviously we had real drug addicts, so what they thought he'd
said was, he'd taken an overdose of tablets. So they hit a panic button: Medivac flying, doctors, the whole
bit. And the first the rest of
the band knew about it was, this helicopter suddenly came sweeping into the
car park [laughter] with people dropping off it with, like,
medical bags and running. And
firemen were coming in, and it was just like at the films: with a big ax, just about to ax down
the door. Paul had heard all the
commotions as well, [laughter] and he opened the door, and
there's this helicopter hovering just outside of him, with all the pump
machines on it, and the whole bit, [laughter] and a
fireman standing there with an ax.
And police cars, and everything. [laughter] And he
said--he was there in his underpants--
PG: [laughter]
GN: And he said,
"No, you've got it wrong. |
