Can there be no more bizarre a memory of a two-year spell in a town near Stuttgart, nearly half a century ago, than translating the lyrics of a Madness song into German. Especially given I only mastered 100 words or so of the language. 45 years ago last month, Madness released their first single, ‘The Prince’. The song is a tribute to Jamaica’s ska-star, Cecil Bustamente Campbell, known to history as Prince Buster.
After the angst of punk rock and the overplayed manic depressive sounds of the seventies, to listen to Madness was to break the surface of the slough of despond. The band made people laugh and listed as one of their major influences, Buster Keaton.
Back in the Bundesrepublik my brother sent out a recording of Madness in session on the John Peel Show. A barman kindly agreed to play the whole thing over the pub PA. It was good of Helmut, for this was a different kind of music to what his habitual bikers and tanzkinder listened to. The local rock station played stilted prog-rock and was called Stuttgart 3 – Stuttgart Dry, in the vernacular. Never was a station more aptly named.
Much to our surprise the music went down well. One evening when the bar was empty I asked Helmut if he’d play the tape again. With a shrug he slammed home the cassette and off we went – ‘Bed and Breakfast Man.’ Appropriate really as I was renting a room above the bar by this time. Then the landlady turned up – a widow name Muller. An attractive woman, she’d lost her husband in the war. Frau Muller never remarried and took life quite seriously. She’d dropped in to discuss the roster with Helmut. Tapping a paper pad she looked up at the roof and cocked her head.
‘What is this?’
Helmut nodded to where I sat on the end of the bar. ‘Eine Britische tanzband.’
She stood up. Frau Muller was well aware of the all night parties that had raged upstairs where myself, another Brit and three American servicemen rented rooms. Any more craziness, she’d told Helmut and we’d have to leave. We certainly tried.
I thought Frau Muller was going to come out with the German equivalent of, ‘Turn that awful racket down…’ Obvious, as Suggs sang in anticipation, ‘Some of his ways he just can’t mend.’
Nowadays youngsters overlook how deep the the generation gap was back then. In Britain a whole youth culture of pop music broke through. We believed music was healing. Pirate radio, all night dancing, discos and movies like Easy Rider and Soldier Blue, together with free and easy romance, bloomed under the icy disapproval of our elders. In Germany the gap was even more pronounced. The war and the horrific dictatorship which crippled country for 12 years meant trust between generations was at an all time low. This disgust took violent form. Motor cycle gangs plagued the autobahnen. The Baader-Meinhoff gang took it further killing and maiming.
On one construction site I worked with a man who, it turned out, had been a gunner in an SS tank regiment. Half his left hand had been shot off. Badly-stitched war wounds laced his face. One day the subject of the war came up. Another British carpenter and I had been sent over to help him. Herr Nagel, we called him. Mr Nail.
‘British?’ He looked grim. ‘Yes,’ we said.
Herr Nagel pulled up his shirt to reveal a mass of scar tissue. It looked like he’d been boiled in oil.
‘We were lost on this heath,’ he said. ‘The officer told us to pull up. We’d make breakfast, he said, and try and sleep for an hour or so. I opened the top of the tank. The idea of acorn coffee and the remains of the black bread was all too appealing that morning. I looked round, with careless haste, and climbed half way out. This British sniper fired off – must have been 1,000 metres away.’ Apparently Nagel’s officer saved the day. Realising they were surrounded he poked out a white flag. Their next meal and bed was courtesy of the British Army…… The carpenter seemed completely unconcerned about our nationality. ‘Excellent shot that Englander, whoever he was,’ and he grinned.
I somehow doubted Frau Muller would be quite so forgiving of her bar being saturated by a North London band, imitating Jamaican reggae. I stood up preparing to beat a retreat. I reflected she wouldn’t be the first woman in my life deemed impossible to argue with. Come to that she wasn’t the last. Helmut turned back to the paperwork. By this time Suggs in London was singing ‘The Prince.’ I was not in the mood to dance, no way.
Then Frau Muller surprised me.
‘This music, this is quite good. Who are these people?’
‘Madness,’ I said.
‘Auf Deutsch bitte.’
I had to look the word up in German and it’s stuck with me ever since.
‘Verrücktheit….They’re called Verrücktheit….’
‘Ach Ja,’ she nodded and smiled once more. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ She said.