ZANG TUMMM TUMB ARTICLES “the first draft of history”

Carry on Frankie

What do pop tycoons do on their tax year off?

PED GILL HAS BOUGHT a brand new black Ferrari. But that doesnt mean …

“But that doesnt mean I wanna walk about with fuckin gold, fuckin great medallions and all that. You know, like, people, when they meet you, they stand back. But were not really worth standing back for.”

Stand back. Its the return of Frankie Goes To Hollywood, older, richer, and definitely wiser, though how much wiser depends on how wise you thought they were in the first place.

Theres Paul Rutherford, laid-back, gregarious as ever, and minus one moustache; Theres Holly Johnson, camped out and moderately cagey somewhere near Parsons Green; and theres The Lads: guitarist Brian Nash has just got married at Liverpools church of St Gregory to teenage sweetheart Claire, a nurse, while bassman Mark OToole became engaged at Christmas to Laura, a model from New York; and then theres Ped.

Ped “hasnt got a girlfriend at the moment,” but he has got a brand new black Ferrari, and on the way to Shoreditch to have his picture taken, some bloke shouted out “you poser” because of it. Still, bollocks. He might have a flash Italian motor, but Peds kept his puds on the pavement. Why all the fuss?

“Yer, well, it did sometimes hurt a bit when people said we was just Trevors (Trevor Horns) band. I suppose he either thought ‘yeah, these look alright for a good fuckin go, a six months fuckin blag, cos theyre all fuckin knobheads from Liverpool, or he thought, ‘yeah, these are good songs.”

Ped wrinkles his nose and offers an insolent shrug: “Hes never told us. But it worked, didnt it?”


SOME PEOPLE EMPLOYED in the vicinity of Frankie Goes To Hollywood have a habit of describing Ped as “sweet”. It isnt a practice that should be encouraged. Too often “sweet” is a euphemism for “thick”—and “thick” is often defined by beholders who arent exactly Einstein themselves.

After 15 minutes of conversation before a stark make-up mirror and a row of coffee cups, the much-neglected qualities of Ped start to make themselves known. A defensive dismissiveness conceals his self-effacement. Under all that, hes funny. And indiscreet.

“Now, seriously, we dont give a fuck if its a machine, or even another fella playing on the record, cos now we know how it all works.

(cont.)
But … I dunno … at first you think someones taking your job off you, so youre gonna get booted out, and things like that. But now weve got a bit more confidence, so youre not afraid of saying to the producer ‘I dont like that … then hell say ‘What! and you say ‘oh, I didnt mean it! But the last time youd be scared to even say ‘that little lick theres crap, cos theyd all look round, and, well … youd think, ‘aaahh, Im risking it here, I could get fucked off, cos who were we then? We were no-one.”

But now, even Ped must concede, all that has changed.

For instance: “You can spend a couple of hundred quid in a night, and youd never be able to do that if you were on the dole!”

But the point about Ped, and about Mark, who chips in with moral support on this score, is that they dont want to make a big deal.

“A lot of people say weve got this big … thing around us,” says Mark: “like this phenomenon. But I dont think weve got anything like that around us at all.” Say the magic word ‘Morley, meanwhile, and hark at Ped put his foot down. Nought to meltdown in no seconds at all. “Paul Morley … he had some fucking …” Ped shakes his head and searches for the words. “Im telling you, I dont think even he knows what he fucking wants. I suppose hes into the cultier side of it, the dark side of what we sometimes get up to, the messing about and the telling people to fuck off and all the dodgy bits that get in The Sun and all that … The 16-year-old birds all over the place side of it.”

What, like “when youve slashed fifty people, you get a silver Stanley knife”? (B-side of “Relax”).

Groans!

Ped: “I mean, one minute you can hardly get an interview, then youre getting interviewed by that bastard and hes from your own record label! Youre going ‘hang on a minute … youre a 19-year-old lad and all you wanna do is get up and go ‘fuck off! … FUCK OFF! … and youre a bit stuck for words, cos … some of the questions he asks you.”

Mark: “Like, ‘Why are you alive? And things like that.”

Ped: “But now, I think he knows we would say ‘fuck off. So we get on a bit better now. We understand each other more.”


WHAT EVERYBODY KNOWS about Frankie is that instant glory put money in his pocket and sent him round the world. But theres another story too. Its to do with climbing from the boot of Fames Ferrari and wrestling for the wheel … then steering a course, not for Sunset Strip—where, metaphorically, you already live—but for home, bitter-sweet home.

“Yer, the areas a bit fucked, and, well, its like, fucking on its knees, like,” says Ped. “So our album is, a little bit of it is, giving them a bit of backing up, sort of thing, and its a bit to say to all those people, all the fuckin showbiz fucking ten-million-rings-and-medallion knobheads, to fuck off, cos they all think, ‘yer, theyve come down here, do coke, dope … cos weve got it all. Well, they havent.”

Frankie Goes To Hollywoods next LP is going to be called “Liverpool.”


“WERE VERY EASILY distracted, arent we?” admits Paul Rutherford to Brian Nash as the three of us ponder the menu at a Japanese restaurant, just confetti-throwing distance from The Mall; “very easily distracted.”

It was, for this game, a fairly regular scene: ‘ethnic trimmings, men in business suits pretending to be friends, homosexual barman, air full of Legionaires Disease—and someone else picking up the bill. For one moment of exquisite titillation, Paul thought hed seen Jan Leeming wander in, but, alas, our excitement was misplaced. Only one vital detail disrupted this smooth and pleasant flow of music biz PR.

(cont.)
Nash was on antibiotics, having turned himself to crackling during his Seychelles honeymoon—this meant he was laying off the booze.

“Ginger ale, please,” he asked the waiter, as jaws went slack around the globe. Exaggeration? No. As Nash and Paul were happy to reveal, of the numerous ‘distractions which work had forced Frankie to reluctantly abandon in the previous twelve months, most have lain adjacent to a bar.

In the beginning, there was Ireland. After completing a tour of some 70 dates, taking in Europe, America, Australia and Japan, the pop sensations of 1984 finally touched down to contemplate their infamy, their imminent fortune—despite the relatively disappointing sales of “Welcome To The Pleasuredome” (around 2½ million worldwide) and where they could possibly go from there. The immediate requirement was songs, and the immediate solution came from manager Tony Pope. Ireland: tax and distraction free.

“‘Itll be great lads, he said,” recounts Nash with a laugh; “‘therell be horse riding and everything”. The five Frankies (plus Hollys companion Wolfgang—dont fret, well get back to him) were to be accommodated in a large rural house adjoining a castle near Leinster where, liberated by pastoral seclusion, they could compose the musical components of FGTH Phase II.

Well, it wasnt quite that simple. “It was a village that had a population of about six hundred people,” enthuses Nash, “and it had five pubs! Their idea of a pub is, like, a bar at the end of the counter in a grocers shop, with Guinness, bitter and lager, and that was it! In the corner there was barrels to sit on. It was real culture shock. At half nine in the morning youd go down to buy a loaf, and have a pint!”

During the day Holly (upstairs with Wolfgang) would work on melodies and tunes, while The Lads did their bit downstairs, and Paul “just did a lot more drinking”. Local kids would swarm in and out to ogle and annoy their celebrity guests, while in the evenings, friendly locals would invite variously wasted Frankies round to their homes for what must have been among the Emerald Isles more left field domestic sing-songs of 1985.

The weekends, meanwhile, developed into ritual wassails of steadily increasing intensity. On Thursday nights, Paul and The Lads—these days fondly dubbing themselves ‘The Gentswould leave Wolfgang and Holly and head off to Dublin for four nights of torrid fun-seeking which centred around a club called The Pink Elephant and a variety of wine bars which, thanks to Irelands liberal licensing laws, were able to oblige the Frankies, plus sundry combinations of tax-exiled Spandau Ballet boys and Def Leppards, until 6.00am. Precise details of these excursions remain obscure. But my suspicion is that this is due more to their participants memories being equally fogged than any modesty or embarrassment.

As the end of the six-week County Carlow stint drew near, the strain began to tell: “The last night I set the chimney stack on fire,” recalls Nash, as if discussing a complete stranger, “I threw this wicker basket on the fire—cos, like, you had to chop your own wood—and all the sparks went up the chimney. So we had to get the fire brigade out at one oclock in the morning … and they were all pissed.”

Nashs tale unfolds with a terrible predictability. It involves Ped and Nash on the roof wearing firemens helmets and clutching a hose; it involves the imbibing of an entire bottle of Jamesons; and it concludes with a selection of part-time Irish firefighters who would not be shown the way to go home. “Ive sent them all photos, to the fire station,” says Nash with a glow of pleasure that illuminates the room. “Then we went to Ibiza.”

Ibiza brings us up to October ‘85. The purpose was to visit the Studio Meditteranee and demo the four songs which somehow emerged from Ireland, among them the new single “Rage Hard”.

(cont.)
Then everyone took three weeks holiday because, “well, Ireland put years on some of us,” as Holly put it later on; then everyone went to a studio in Bussum, near Amsterdam, to record with “Pleasuredome” engineer Steve Lipson who, beneath the executive control of Horn, is the producer of “Liverpool”; and then everyone ferried back to the Mersey for Christmas, except Paul, who spent it in New York. And that was 1985; except for one thing. “At this point,” Holly would later recall, “ZTT decided that they didnt like quite a few of the songs that wed written and said ‘You have to go and write more.” Another version of this story, from a source close to ZTT, goes that the material was not just rejected, but projected into a convenient wastebin. Whatever, it was time to pack those bags again. “Jersey was great,” reminisces Nash. Jersey? “Yeah. The bar was open all day, ten bob a pint! Yeah … it was alright, Jersey.”

It also yielded four more songs, and, thus armed, the FGTH posse proceeded directly back to Holland to complete the job. Theyre all pretty confident. But, “If this albums shit, Ill give it three months,” says Nash.


FRUIT CAKE, Wolfgangs choice of snack was, in some ways, a tiny bit unfortunate. Then Holly went on to explain that Wolfgang “takes care of my immediate needs,” without giggling. Nervously, I searched his eyes for a smile, but found none. It was a desperate moment.

Apparently, Holly met Wolfgang—or ‘Wolfie as he refers to him among friends—18 months back, working in an Earls Court sandwich bar, a pursuit which Wolfgang preferred to describe as “catering”. Holly has now enobled him a “personal manager”, though he advises me that he also deals in art. Various tasteful works appear on the walls of their prettily-fitted home, just off the New Kings Road.

Wolfgang pours the coffee, passes the plates, and speaks to me only when hes spoken to. Throughout the interview he remains present, an arrangement which has become regular since the fallout of Hollys first flush of fame. It has to be said that mention of Wolfgang and Holly in the general vicinity of ZTT causes eyes to be raised towards ceilings.

But enough bitchery. The gutter press is where you go for that sort of thing, as Holly himself well knows:

“At no point did the rest of the band come to me and say, ‘We want to throw you out,” he insists in response to certain lurid tabloid tales of the recent past. There was, though, he accepts, something of a rift, and this came about because of the scant attendance at recording sessions of ZTT supremo Trevor Horn. “There was a point where I said, ‘well, Im very pissed off that Trevor Horn isnt here, and I dont know if I want to keep on recording this album, because at this time I was getting rather depressed by our lack of organisation, and the lack of Trevors presence. For some reason everyone overreacted to this statement. And I think thats where it all stemmed from.”

Throughout, our conversation is accompanied by the genteel clink of cutlery on crockery. Wolfgang refills my cup. Holly plainly but politely informs me that theres no truth in the tale that hes bought a chain of fish and chip shops up north, and that he really wouldnt talk to journalists if he didnt have to. And I dont blame him one bit.

Hollys home has an air of emotional sanctuary befitting the Frankie member who professes himself most damaged by what he calls “the whirlwind” surrounding the groups extraordinary rise: “I found myself having to deal every day with the business aspects of being in a band. We had no idea what was going on, apart from we were having hit records, and oh-what-fun-this-is. I think some of the things that happened disturbed me more than the others. I think … I dont know … I think Im a bit more sensitive.”

Where Paul still goes clubbing every night, Holly prefers the security of home. Where The Lads like to celebrate their sudden material wealth, Holly emphasises that he has a 100% mortgage: “I still feel that it could all be pulled from underneath me at any time.”

Also, he explains, he had other ideas for the LP. “I wasnt that interested in making a commercial album this time. I just had this idea about it being sort of dark … having a social comment, but also certain verbal and aesthetic images as well.”

The title “Liverpool” was Paul Morleys idea. Rutherford and The Lads went for it straight off. Holly, while thinking its “an OK title”, had a first choice of his own: “I felt it should be called ‘From The Diamond Mine To The Factory because I thought that described well the transformation from being in Liverpool and being creative, and then becoming absorbed into the mainstream of commercial activity. But no-one else is really that intent about things,” he laughs, lightly. “Thats just me.”


THERE IS A THEORY that its a vital part of Scouse civic solidarity to be scrapping among yourselves. Its an idea that sits comfortably with the citys political bloodbath, the Merseyside cup finals warmth (yes, I got a ticket), an idea that underpins also the pointless religious rivalries poignantly explored in Alan Bleasdales No Surrender. And maybe we can divine it at work in FGTH too.

Even as they seek out properties in the capital and squabble among themselves, they respond to the call of Home. Rutherford has bought a flat close by Fortress Wapping, yet he still curses Mrs T. with a proper Northern spite. Nash, like half the rest of the UK pop biz, lives in Maida Vale. But Claire, I learn, applies a brisk downhome discipline to keep her hubbie in line. As in: “Put that cigarette out, Brian!”

Mark, meanwhile, has as yet no bricks and mortar of his own. He spent Christmas at his mothers along with his four brothers and two sisters (Catholics? Correct!) most of whom still live there. The festive season chez OToole will, its said, be remembered for the impossibility of extracting the Successful Son and his intended from the bathroom. Mark says hed just as soon have written the songs in Liverpool, but adds, sadly, that, for his dole queue generation, the joy of economic power is that it makes it easy to get out.

Ped agrees, and indulges in a moment of dolour. “When you go out up there, everybody says, ‘Oh look, theres that fella that used to be in Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Yer, weve had all that. I dont think anybody gives a fuck about you,” he snorts.


FRANKIE WENT TO HOLLYWOOD, and there can be no escape. But their new single is as imaginatively stylised a rock item as you could wish for, with its impressive sense of drama, and Hollys outstanding vocal performance. Frankie may be about to return with a resonance few of us thought possible. “There are things about being brought up in a Liverpool environment that are uneraseable,” says Holly; “and thats OK with me.” So, go on, get with it, you scally wags. Rage Hard!