History, bands, piers

History – magnets and bulletproof vests

I've just finished American Smoke, Iain Sinclair's (supposed) look at the Beat Generation writers. It's as much about America as about here. Most of the writers he's concerned with spent time here, or settled here for serious lengths of time, or in the case of Lowry, came to live in Rye, and Ripe, and die here. History, a sense of place, place in time, sticks to Sinclair. It adheres. It's there on every page.

Towards the end of the book he writes about the history of Hastings. He may have a flat in St Leonards, but he lives, and has lived for most of his adult life, in Hackney. Yet he's absorbed, he's somehow taken on the local history of Hastings.

Sinclair absorbs. Something he probably can't help doing. Probably isn't aware he's doing. I must have a non-absorbent exoskeleton. I could live somewhere for years and still not have a clue about the recent, middle, or ancient history of the area. I struggle, generally, to separate history (which, to avoid repeating mistakes, you need to learn from), and baggage (which is entirely undesirable).

Being Teflon-impervious to history does not rule out having an instinct for place. A feeling that being somewhere causes. I knew, somehow, as soon as the family moved to Sutton, that I was bored. Just a few miles north, Mitcham and Tooting were infinitely more interesting. It was only on reading Michael Moorcock's hugely under rated Mother London (it should be on the GCSE English Lit list, definitely on the A level syllabus) that what was instinctively interesting took more shape. Lavender Avenue, where the Kings College playing fields were, before they were sold off and built on, was named for the lavender fields, cultivated by the Romany population. Rocky on the Phipps Bridge estate, where the Bath Tavern became a no-go area in the nineties. While managing betting shops in the area in the late seventies and early eighties, I got a call to take over the South Wimbledon branch in the early afternoon. The regular manager had had to dash off when he received reports that his horse had escaped from its enclosure. Years later the council tried their best. They installed receptions on the ground floor of the high rise blocks. Some had a concierge employed to keep an eye on things. Attending a shut in lift call, we were going up to the top floor motor room, and called the other, working, lift. When it arrived, a man came out. “Hello fellahs” he said, leading away his pony.

Stop off along the south coast, and Brighton is what you'd expect: a city now. Expensive, busy, buzzy, plenty going on. Sussex Cricket in the summer, the Albion in the winter, the new Amex (Tampax) stadium as you head in from the northeast. Restaurants aplenty – good value food at a premium, unless you do some research or just hit lucky. Then some sleepy places, some with a bit of hidden edge. Peacehaven (post-war, peacetime development), Newhaven, (same) Seaford at the top of the Downs, then Eastbourne. Conservative. Of the old, for the old. Bexhill. Spike Milligan's “God's waiting room”, with the De la Warr Pavillion making a comeback as a local music and comedy venue. Someone has decided strip away the staid and conservative approach. The building is post-modern, iconic, and deserves the new and edgy rather than the old and the stodgy. Ladysmith Black Mambazo were fantastic, as were The Decemberists, a band with a number one album in America playing Bexhill. Unbelievable. My Morning Jacket were a noisy blast of fresh air. Lau were just beautiful, and no doubt grateful to Laurent Koscielny for saving his accordion factory. The fact that Elvis Costello (legend – we are not worthy) stopped off at the De la Warr this February says it all. Marcus Brigstocke was hilarious. Local lad Eddie Izzard, a long time ago, was whimsical, beautiful, funnier than he's any right to be.

Hastings Pier once was a venue to reckon with. The Who. Jimi Hendrix. Others. Do the google thing. I have: The kinks, The Small Faces, Pink Floyd. Genesis (that would've been with Peter Gabriel), Hawkwind, Curved Air (You Tube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUnjMI81vAA how has the keyboard line from this not been endlessly sampled?), Status Quo (the only band that still smokes Player's No 6 and saves the coupons) Geno Washington Band (oh-oh-oh Geno), yet now there's the White Rock, specialising in the Bootleg Beatles and Roll-Right Stones, Big Zeppelin and Fat Lizzy.

Hastings Pier's gone, as, sadly, are most.

American Smoke, after three hundred odd pages of Sinclair prose, and each paragraph weighs a ton, arrives back at the seafront, Hastings, and a 4,000 strong protest march, fifes and drums, ending in a dance and feast, under banners refuting recognition of the ruling government and royal family. Rebellion. Hastings. Just down the coast from conformity.