Heart of a Punk Soul of a Rasta

Birth of Goth part 2
Goth music was conceived on the 22nd December 1977. On that day the formulators and some of the protagonists of this new musical genre were taken under an all encompassing influence. From day one, at the epicentre of the conception Siouxsie Sioux and Robert Smith had been well and truly snared, now as the after shocks rippled out other victims were claimed.

During the late seventies early eighties one of the favourite spots for rough sleepers in London was hard and fast against the side wall of the National Film Theatre on the South Bank of the Thames. It was a spot where a street sleeper may possibly be left alone by the police for a week or more, so invariably several layers of thick cardboard boxes would be set up against and along the side wall of the theatre, inside the connected tunnel of boxes it was possible to sleep or lie out of the wind, and out of the way.

On a chilly February night in 1978 a man crawled out from inside one of the carefully constructed cardboard tunnels beside the NFT, he first pulled himself up onto his knees, rested a moment and then finally pushed his stiff frame up off the ground and lifted himself onto his feet. As he became upright a long thick grey straggly beard unfurled and descended, terminating on the mid part of his chest. The beard hid every part of his facial features that were not already covered by a dark woollen hat; a hat that had been stretched way beyond its natural size to cover both of his ears and also curl underneath the brow of his forehead. Where the rest of his clothes met the blankets that swaddled him and at what point the blankets met his clothes, it was impossible to tell, in fact his physiognomy was such that it may have been easier to believe he consisted not of flesh and blood at all, but simply of hair and fabric. The only features that could be discerned in the dingy neon orange light to confirm his true nature, were the two small matt coal black eyes set above the ruddy protrudence of a nose. The man, for a man he was, had not been washed up in this place by chance like a rotten smelling piece of flotsam, he had not been deposited here by the tar black Thames on a prevailing tide, he had come under his own volition, he was, simply, waiting.

Hugh Cornwell was walking alone, moving briskly, heading in the direction of the NFT, smoking and thinking. He wasn't late, he was cold, his mouth was dry and foul tasting, and he was in urgent need of a drink. He emerged from the back of the Festival Hall and came into the vision of the swaddled man's gaze. His coal black eyes watched Mr Cornwell close the gap between them. Cornwell was unaware of the eyes upon him, he was looking inward, since leaving Waterloo station his thoughts had returned to the Svengali problem.

Svengali the great manipulator, the grand impresario, the double dealer, the fu**in shyster, Cornwell was determined that Svegali the character from the "Trilby" novel by Gerald Du Maurier, would be the centrepiece for his first solo album. It was early days though, currently it was nothing more than an embryonic concept in his mind, he would need more time than he had at present to develop the idea further. His thoughts returned to a song he was having trouble completing, a song that needed a lyrical conclusion, when suddenly he was forced to stop. He was about to cross the access road just ten yards or so from his destination when a lone car droned past momentarily blinding him with its un-dipped headlights, after passing it skidded to a dead stop, one of the rear doors opened and two women toppled out onto the pavement and made off towards the front of the Theatre. The car pulled away and Cornwell crossed the road; the lighting was not conducive but even so, it was sufficient for Cornwell to catch sight of, and recognise the two women.

He decided to hang back and let them go on. He shuffled about in the same place for a moment or two taking short drags from his cigarette still musing over then unfinished song, then holding it between his thumb and forefinger he finally flicked it hard on to the concrete slabs, and made his way to the Theatre entrance. The matt coal black eyes keenly watched the path of the cigarette as it bounced and tumbled, red sparks scattering from it, the swaddled man still had a few matches left but he knew if he was quick then he would be able to reanimate the glowing ember of the cigarette without having to resort to waste. The cigarette was quickly seized upon the smoke inhaled.

The film over, Cornwell retraced his steps from the NFT to Waterloo Station, the Svengali idea had been expunged from his mind. A new character had taken his place. A new protagonist had been snared.