The night I met Old Dave Young - Steve Moss

Post date: 10-Feb-2021 14:15:36

It had been a night to remember. There had been deep encounters, unlocked secrets, revealed mysteries. And, most of all, it had been the night I first met the legendary Dave Young. 

So now,  under weak winter sun, we'd arrived, substantially mind-blown, at a greasy spoon revered by the cognoscenti of Dave's flat on Alexandra Road. I felt seriously honoured to be there.

 It was at the North end of Hilgrove, just before it flowed into Finchley Road.  You came up a rather steep hill to get to it from the flat.  Nearby, in those days, was one of the several entries to Swiss Cottage Underground.  The blue glass canopy with the familiar Underground logo gave you a sense of place.  It felt like you were somewhere.

I don't now see clearly who else was inside the Cafe with Dave and me, but there were maybe five of us and we were ravenous from the activities of the night.  There was a standard London Cafe menu, where everything came with chips. Then there was breakfast, advertised separately,   treasured by all, and the reason we were there. 

It was a sublime experience involving toast, eggs, fried tomatoes, fried bread and sausages.  It came with a big dirty mug of milky tea that was strong enough, so they said, to support the famed greasy spoon standing up on end.

We fell into that breakfast and devoured it with abandon.  Dave's friendly smile connected with me as I thought back over everything that had happened over the past several hours. I had been both wide awake and half asleep through every amazing minute. My childhood had ended.

It had begun at six or thereabouts, with the BBC show, "Ready Steady Go" which was obligatory viewing on Fridays and touched off the weekend.  Then there was a lonely trek across Hampstead Heath to get to the junction of Belsize Lane and Crescent: the primary and core destination of all those nights. 

As it darkened, activity would ratchet up.  It was the Witches Cauldron coffee-bar and the ritual of clicking into a  suitable identity for the long night ahead had begun.  By eight or nine the place was packed and jumping. There were maybe fifty people inside and another twenty hanging around outside.  

Across the road, a few might already be in the Belsize Arms, which usually became a center of gravity later in the evenings but then closed under licensing laws, just when the evening's prospects were rising.  All London pubs had age limits.  But as the night progressed, and drinking got more serious, nobody would pay much attention to us kids, and there was almost no chance of being kicked out.

By around ten, some groups had drifted off to various close-by houses or flats and several had returned with news. Many new faces had arrived. Intelligence was passed about events and possible gatherings.  A sense  emerged of the night ahead.  Decisions got made, plans were firmed, intentions crystallized. 

A lot depended on who you were and who you knew.   The youngest and newest, had fewer options, but our secrets  weren't disclosed and often didn't matter. If you paid attention, and acted decisively, you might just end up somewhere auspicious anyway.

On this particular night,  I was with two school friends who like me were maybe 14 years old: Olly Woolnough and Alan Green. We were sensing powerful vibes.  Something important was about to happen and we figured that our best fortunes lay together.

Some hours later, past party destinations of little import, we  ended up at Heath Hurst Road, a curving Hampstead street connecting South End Green with the very famous Keats Grove. The place bordered on key entrances to the Heath and it's ponds. 

The street featured the family home of the Blackmans. Olly lived nearby and knew Pete Blackman and some of the people who hung around him. He knocked on house number five.  Pete appeared, greeted Olly briefly, and nodded to Allan and me, as if to say " come in, then, watch  and learn". 

Evidently that night  Chris and Penny were elsewhere while Pete had the house. No parents were around. Perhaps they worked nights, perhaps they had other lives, it was not known, didn't matter and was definitely none of our business.  The Blackmans, in any case, were black.  They were from a different universe.  

The place we had entered had obtained mythical status in those days.  It was known that what went down there transcended Hampstead parties and gatherings.  There was a group of guys, mainly older, who formed a circle of practitioners with secret knowledge way beyond what the rest of us could imagine.  In this place things were done, risks taken and experiences programmed that eclipsed those you heard of anywhere else.  It was a privilege to gain access, a deeper privilege to be even considered a novitiate.  And, for some random set of circumstances, on this particular night... we were in!

The action was in a back room off the kitchen.  I suppose it had been intended as a dining room, but was now filled with couches.  Three bodies were draped over then, two in half reclining states, one completely supine.  They belonged to guys all older than us by several years.  It was as if some overpowering sacrament was taking place.  The power and intensity were palpable. 

Pete himself was a small guy with piercing eyes.  The other guys were bigger. One, in particular, hulking in a corner, seemed to be some kind of physical  giant.  We three sat small and listened, hardly believing our luck.  We fell into a state of absolute awe and paid full attention.

Pete seemed quite approachable.  His small size somehow emphasized a personable nature that breathed acceptance.  He made the three of us easy and relaxed.  The others were a different matter.  But Pete, despite his size, was the leader and the rest somehow showed him deference. Once we'd been anointed by him, the others had to tolerate us.

There was Rob Andrews, hyper-intense and serious; Mick Roach,  forceful and somewhat intimidating and the giant, Tom Shonk, sullen and withdrawn but seemingly capable of grinding us to dust at any moment.

This was to be the first of many nights at Pete's place. Nights of benzedrine, marijuana and earnest discussion on matters seemingly of huge importance.  Much was initiated by Rob Andrews, who had the ability, evidently, to consume vast quantities of drugs.  He was passionate about pharmacology, munitions and matters chemical and metaphysical. He had read widely and eclectically.  He seemed almost desperate to pass on knowledge that had recently come into his possession.   Each of his ideas produced a sympathetic response from the others, a nodding of the head, a tilting of the head, a squinting of the eye.  And these responses in turn unleashed further energy from Rob, his eyes sometimes bulging out of his head as if he just could not quite believe what he had just heard himself say.

On that first night, hours later, past vistas of conspiracy, danger and intensity, it was time to move on. Pete said something like "Tom's gonna blow down Dave's gaff" which meant that the group was about to change location.  Maybe it was time for the parents to reappear.  In any case, it was a  directive to get the hell out of the place.   Within seconds everyone had dispersed. An amazing burst of energy arising from torpor. I ended up outside with Tom. I didn't know what had happened to the others.

"Dave's gaff" was  a flat on Alexandra Road, some three miles distant, crossing the whole of Hampstead, past Swiss Cottage in the direction of Kilburn. There were no cars or busses.  It was by now three or four in the morning, but there was a sense of unfinished business.  The night had opened up propitiously.  But much more was  to come.  The Blackmans had just been a prequel.

I walked for almost an hour trying to keep up with the giant.  Tom talked about his life, which made my mouth open and jaw drop. It involved much violence and gang activity. It was a far cry from my life as a schoolboy from William Ellis Grammar  I felt strangely grateful that he would consider my company remotely appropriate. 

There was a kind of ritual determination about that walk across Hampstead. Like we were preparing ourselves for something of huge import.  Then we abruptly turned into Alexandra Road and down into the side of a house that led to a basement apartment. Tom knocked on the door. Whatever had been fated was about to begin.

A beautiful woman with red hair answered.  Tom greeted her by name.  It sounded like Jeri.  I was blinded by her appearance and wondered quietly what incredible good luck had brought me into the presence of this goddess.  Her face smiled us in.  Evidently Tom was a regular here.  Inside was another back room with couches. There was again that same sense of ritual. Something hugely significant was taking place. Three guys were sprawled over the couches. One was tall and kind looking, seemingly as friendly as Pete had been.  That was Dave.  He and Jeri were evidently the occupants of the flat.  Dave was as tall as Tom or perhaps even a bit taller.  From the first moment one sensed wisdom and experience. I didn't know it then, but this was a first encounter with someone I would  come to treasure for the rest of my life. 

Splayed out next to Dave was a little guy, also smiling, who looked a bit like the famous dormouse from Alice in Wonderland.  They called him Maddox, which seemed a little odd. Most of what he said came out as if everything was some great cosmic joke.

Next to him was a third guy, slightly pudgy with yellow hair.  That was Les, who said little on that night but who, as I later came to realize, was widely literate and hugely intelligent in an effortless kind of way. There was another knock on the door. Gerri went to open it and came back with Rob Andrews.  He had somehow made his own way over and smiled to us all as he entered the room, as if to confirm this new secret meeting.  

I had arrived at the centre of the world at the junction of favorable passages through time and space.  Alexandra was about to give up her secrets. A new universe had been found.  Life was never again going to be the same.