ON A MONDAY lunchtime in late October 2009 Edwyn, Will and I are making our way unobtrusively along a red carpet outside the Grosvenor House Hotel in London. The occasion is the Q Awards, an established fixture in London’s crammed ‘celebrity’ calendar of events, hosted by the monthly music magazine of the same name. There was a time when the red carpet only came out for shimmering deities like Laurence Olivier and Vivienne Leigh, Brigitte Bardot and Frank Sinatra. These days it’s rolled out for people from Hollyoaks and TV chefs. And on this afternoon, for rock stars of both the wannabe and established variety. Behind us the assembled hordes of the paparazzi are hyperventilating for Sophie Ellis Bextor who’s with her husband, the little guy from The Feeling (they ask him to duck out of the pictures, which he obligingly does). She’s working it with the calm expertise that comes with great experience. Edwyn, meantime, is allowed to pass unmolested by recognition until just towards the end of the line when a lone voice is heard: ‘That’s Edwyn Collins.’
‘Who?’
Mutter, mutter …
‘Edwyn, Edwyn, this way mate…over here, to your right please Edwyn…’
He is sort of dragged back to the centre. I swear there are about three of them who have heard of him and the rest are just joining in for the hell of it. I stand off to the side taking the mickey. ‘Tell the truth, you have no clue who this is, do you guys?’
We’re at the awards because Q have very kindly decided to confer the honour of ‘Legend’ upon Edwyn. After a lovely dedication from our dear friends Ross and Ryan Jarman from The Cribs, a young and very successful band for whom Edwyn produced an album in 2004, Edwyn takes to the stage to accept his gong with a short, elegant and very warmly received speech. Later he will be congratulated by Robert Plant, who will claim to have bought Orange Juice records back in the eighties, ‘when my career was in the toilet.’ The world’s most self-effacing rock god, a modest and charming gentleman.
Lucky old Edwyn has been getting quite a lot of this kind of thing in recent times. In April 2009 he was given an Ivor Novello award for his ‘inspirational’ contribution to music over the last few decades. I was fit to bust that day, the Ivors being one of the most coveted accolades in music. Chosen by a panel of songwriting peers, they take place in an atmosphere of awe and celebrate the achievements of songwriters and composers.
•
AS I WATCH Edwyn basking in all this glory, I’m swelling with pride, naturally, so I’m surprised to find my mind choosing this moment to inwardly replay daft scenes from our life together. Edwyn and I young again, before William, in a simpler world with no cares or responsibilities.
During a fight we had, twenty years ago in the old flat, Edwyn calmly poured a pan of cold water all down my side of the bed so I would be forced to sleep in the living room and leave him in peace. Then, when that failed to stop me ranting, he got out of bed with a heavy sigh, strode off down the corridor, pursued by me, still ranting, until I was stopped dead in my tracks as he walked straight out of the front door and down the street, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, bare ass blowing in the wind.
In 1990, I was about to give birth to William and was staying with my sister Nan in Glasgow. Due to being a rubbish manager, I had let our funds run perilously low and while we awaited the arrival of a life-saving royalty cheque, Edwyn was left high and dry in London. Some time previously I had collected all the change in our flat into bags, amounting to about two hundred quid (I know, it’s ridiculous, we’re still guilty of this) and told him to haul it to the bank to see him through. It was gathered together in an old handbag of mine, a huge thing you could lose yourself in. At the bank Edwyn was getting a bit hot and flustered as he tried to sort out the denominations (this stuff falls into my department) and the teller suggested he tip the lot into the hole in the counter. So he did as he was bid and looked on in horror as the detritus from the bottom of my bag fell on top of the money. Hair grips, cotton buds, bits of fluff and hundreds and hundreds of little empty yellow capsules, which were part of my asthma drug regimen. I had a bad habit of tossing them into the bottom of my bags after using them.
When he went back with the hefty royalty cheque a few days later, the same girl behind the desk eyed him nervously as he approached. As she was stamping the cheque she said to Edwyn, ‘Mr Collins, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what exactly do you do?’
Another story from that same time. Our friends Roddy and Kathy Frame were getting ready for bed one night, listening in to Robbie Vincent’s late night talk show on Radio London. Suddenly, a familiar voice came on the line, announcing himself as, ‘Norman from Kensal Green, first time caller, Robbie, very nervous.’ It’s Edwyn, of course, home alone and ringing the radio to amuse himself. Norman has a wimpy south-east accent and joins in Robbie’s discussion about the battle of the sexes, putting forward the view of a downtrodden, beaten man. Norman’s girlfriend, a fiend called Grace, beats him up and verbally abuses him on a constant basis. Poor Norman feels very sorry for himself. When Robbie asked why he chooses to stay with this terrible woman, Norman simpers, ‘Because I love her, Robbie. Simple as that.’ Roddy and Kathy had managed to whack a tape in almost as soon as Robbie and Norman’s conversation began and sent it to me in Glasgow, where it almost succeeded in inducing my labour.
Then I’m back once more in Harrow town centre in high summer 2005, toiling along behind a partially functioning wheelchair in search of supper and a couple of hours hospital release. Jiggling around at the top of my bag was an old-fashioned, simple-to-use mobile phone Hazel had given us for Edwyn to practice on in hospital, which was still programmed to ring my brother-in-law Mark at the touch of a button. Unbeknownst to me I had inadvertently gotten through to his voicemail box at work, treating Mark to a slice of our life at that time. When he next checked it he found a good fifteen minute recording of Edwyn and I in conversation. Well, me mostly. By turns, I was gabbling on to Edwyn in the sweetest and most solicitous terms, and cursing the damned useless wheelchair out like a Glaswegian docker. Shocking swearing. Edwyn patiently acknowledging me with one-word responses. A funny little window into our weird hospital life for Mark, I cringe at the thought of how insane I must have sounded.
These fragments of memory, unconnected scenes, race across my brain as I look on at Edwyn amidst his showbiz pals.
•
AFTER THE CEREMONIES, Edwyn is ushered into the media room. In these places the ladies and gentlemen of the press, radio and TV are assembled in a roped-off pen, some sitting furiously bashing on laptops as though they were dispatching up-to-the-minute bulletins from the United Nations. One then runs the gauntlet talking to whoever is interested in you, or whoever has checked to see that you are the most famous person currently available to them. The questions are understandably banal, given the circumstances. At one point Edwyn is asked why he thinks Q have chosen to honour him at this time in his career. Without missing a beat, he replies cheerfully, ‘Because I had a stroke, I suppose.’
The sound in the background is me, spluttering.
An answer like that is pure, unadulterated Edwyn, and it is balm to the soul for me. After thirty years and major brain surgery, he still can’t be a showbiz phony to save his life. He is sharply alive to the absurdities and contradictions of our nutty life; he positively luxuriates in them.
•
THE EVENING BEFORE the awards, we flew down from Scotland, leaving the band behind us to enjoy a day off at the end of the most beautiful tour any of us can remember, where we traveled the length and breadth of the Scottish Highlands and Islands. Bathed almost all the way in glorious autumnal sunshine – which I booked in advance – we took the show to places Edwyn and I had never visited before as well as our familiar haunts, including an unforgettable night in the community centre in Helmsdale, and gasped at the vistas spread before us together with the band, the crew and our friends from The 1990s, with whom we shared the bill. A touring party of fifteen, including a fantastic silver-tongued, red-haired merchandise seller (Will), we all felt that this trip had about it a dream-like quality. We saw landscapes of heart-stopping magnificence (each one, according to bus tradition, given it’s own round of applause), enjoyed fulsome Highland hospitality, ate like kings, laughed like drains. And the shows were perfect too, with wonderful, appreciative audiences. This tour, originally planned for 2005, was a long-fancied notion of Edwyn’s. So once again we had the sensation of taking up where we had left off, of finishing the job.
Since I left off writing the previous chapters of this book, Edwyn has clocked up around forty live shows, his confidence growing alongside his repertoire, and his performances becoming more and more dynamic. We’ve toured, played festivals and he even celebrated his fiftieth birthday back on stage, surrounded by his closest musician friends in the city he was born in, when he played a short residency at the Edinburgh Festival. Even more significantly, there are three new songs currently in the set list.
•
ONE STEP AT a time, that’s how we’ll fix this. That’s what I had told him long ago. But there was one step I was waiting for him to take and it seemed to be a long time coming. Apart from his little ‘Searching for the Truth’ song that suddenly sprung from nowhere on one of our many drives from the hospital to Harrow town centre, there had been no sign of any songwriting at all since his illness. Such a gigantic part of his past consciousness, but in the early days, or years even, his ability to write songs had vanished along with language. As time went on, I was ever more hopeful that it would return. I just wondered when that elusive corner would be turned.
In the middle of a November night in 2008, a few months off the fourth anniversary of his stroke, Edwyn dug me in the ribs to wake me up.
‘Write this down, please.’
I quickly came to, half asleep, half stunned that this longed-for moment had finally come when I was least expecting it, in a burst of words and music.
‘By the time you get this message
I’ll be gone far away
Back to my homeland
Up the north country way
Where my heart is contented
Because I know this is my life
And my heart is an ocean
And I know where I’m going
I’m feeling lucky
I’m feeling good
I know I’m worth it
Perhaps it’s turning round for good.’
The next day I rushed out and bought a little dictation machine, the old-fashioned kind with a mini cassette, easy to use. Edwyn got the hang of it in short order and soon I didn’t have to be disturbed if the muse chose to descend in the middle of the night. Although I must say, I’m yet to be annoyed by this nocturnal activity. It’s too fascinating.
As I write, the tally is around ten new songs in various stages of completion. Some are works of collaboration with an ever-expanding pool of fantastic, empathetic musicians. He is very spoilt, surrounded as he is by musical partners of such brilliance who seem able to channel his ideas effortlessly. But as Seb (who is firing on all cylinders now he has his studio sparring partner back) will attest, and as all agree, it’s Edwyn leading the charge, setting the agenda, correcting the arrangements and directing the sessions.
‘My new style? It’s simple and direct. But I like it. I used to be an intellectual; my words were complicated. Now, I’m straightforward. I have to be.’
This is what he does. If the old way won’t work, then find a new way. It’s not complicated, is it?
And it’s not just Edwyn’s record they are involved with. Two albums for other bands are nearing completion, Edwyn and Seb are a production team once more. Renewing the lease on our studio this year had a special significance, indicating the way forward, renewed purpose.
Oh yes, and coming up on the rails, there is a second songwriter in our midst. Will is up all night ‘raking’ as his Granny Sadie would call it. He seems to do all his best work at three in the morning.
•
IS THIS A cheesy happy ending? It is a bit. Of course, there are still rough days, mainly mine. Edwyn still needs my support in many ways and there is a lot going on, so I’m quite overstretched which can make me very difficult to live with. Shouty McShoutington of Shoutytown puts in a regular appearance and Will and Edwyn can’t bear it. I tell myself off, try to get it under control, but to no avail. You can’t have everything and serenity eludes me, I’m afraid.
But this weekend, I staggered in the front door with piles of Edwyn’s drawings, some framed, some unframed, all out of order from his last exhibition. I have a huge sorting out to do as he has two exhibitions coming up early in the new year, with a possible trip to exhibit in Japan in the wind too. I surveyed the vast, unkempt piles on the living room floor, his drawing table groaning with more disarray and turned to Edwyn.
‘Didn’t you have a big gigantic stroke?’
‘I did!’
‘Then what’s all this about then? Who did this lot?’
‘I did it, didn’t I?’
•
EDWYN AND I are not role models, we have no message, no blueprint, no ‘If we can do it, so can you.’ I deeply understand the uniqueness of the effects longterm illness and trauma can have on each individual and their families.
I’m in regular correspondence with the wife of a fellow Scottish musician who had a terribly serious brain haemorrhage this summer. I wrote this to her:
I know that feeling, that everything you love about your life has been ripped away, how are we ever going to get it back? I’m here to tell you it’s possible. Different, but wonderful. There’s loads of depressing stuff talked about recovery. The doctors, great as they are, it’s not up to them to determine how it will be for you. They don’t know you. It’s best not to listen and to make up your own story.
Which is what we did.
