Street Beats

By Bruce Reynolds

The true story of a young musician's wild and reckless years on the streets of Europe and in the Paris Métro. The story starts as he meets his first big love in London in 1979. They travel together and in Munich the Street Beats are born as three musicians get together and spend an unbelievable summer playing the streets of Germany, France and Switzerland. Follow the adventure through the corridors of the Paris Métro with the infamous Civil Police, sleeping rough in Stuttgart, Munich and Bern, playing in the snow of a German winter and the heat of a French summer. A story of young love pushed to breaking point, of loyalty and betrayal, of the freedom to mess up and experience life without boundaries, of run-ins with the law in three countries, magical street concerts and willing girls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce Reynolds
• Release date: Aug 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463700075

Bruce Reynolds

I was born in Bahrain and spent my first ten years in Doha, (British) Honduras and Barbados, St Lucia and Dominica. I lived in London and moved to Paris when I left home aged 19. I lived in Munich and Bern and am presently based in Malaga. I've been a guitarist, composer and producer all my working life. The Gift is my first book.

Book preview

Prologue

Munich

August 1981

∙ ∙ ∙

Eight up, turn, eight back, turn. I stopped counting the lengths after a hundred and resumed my position on the mattress when my head started spinning. I stared at the green wall, imagining what she was doing, who she was doing it with.

You gave up the most important relationship of your life for this?

I didn’t know how many days had passed since I’d moved in. That whole ‘scratch-out-the-days-on-the-wall’ thing might have been cool in ‘Papillon’ but this wasn’t Hollywood. This was Munich. Stadelheim Prison. Cell Seventy Two. Prisoner Reynolds.

My gaze landed on the pad and pencils on the table.

Might as well. Social calendar is a bit on the quiet side. Let me see. Where should I start?

That time we played in Paris and the police stormed the crowd? Or the time we walked through the centre of Stuttgart naked? No. Let’s start at the beginning. The petrol cocktail. Yes, that’s perfect. Ha ha. What an idiot.

Part One

London 1978

The petrol cocktail

Thick breath clouds mingling with cigarette smoke floated around my head. I took my hands out of my pockets and rubbed an eye-sized circle in the grimy window. I tapped my feet on the stained concrete, more from impatience than the biting cold. Headlights lit up the inside of the phone box, probing spotlights leaving me nowhere to hide. A car pulled up and a figure approached the red metal box. The door swung open.

You’ve got a bloody nerve.

That was an understatement.

∙ ∙ ∙

I’d showed up at her house in Ruislip Manor twenty minutes earlier to pick up my birthday present – the one she bought before I dropped the bombshell. Her dad opened the door, sighed heavily, and without a word disappeared off into the living room. I didn’t raise my eyes from the carpet till Valerie came down the stairs, her usual bounce replaced by a slow, unhappy plod.

Here. This is yours.

She handed me a Russian box camera in a heavy black leather case, one that you peeked down into.

Thank you, Valerie. Twenty quid wasn’t it? There you go.

She took the note and absentmindedly put it in her trouser pocket before fixing me with red-rimmed eyes. She wanted the truth. I’d want the same after seven months. I didn’t enjoy hurting her but I’d fallen in love – a thunderbolt out of the blue.

So. Tell me what happened. I thought …

Thanks again. Sorry again. I gotta go.

Wait! You could at least …

Take care.

A ship in the night I was gone, relieved to have escaped so lightly. I wasn’t very good at this. I was usually the one being dumped.

∙ ∙ ∙

I checked my watch.

She’ll be getting ready to leave soon. I can still taste her, the way she wrapped her arms around my neck, pulled me down to her …

The engine spluttered and died and my fantasising ground to a halt. Cursing my forgetfulness, I started the long push home, a stream of cars cruising past me in the thickening mist. After a hundred metres the red phone box appeared.

Keep walking … have some self-respect … fuck it …

I propped the bike up on its stand and swung the door open. I fumbled for change and put a frozen digit in the dial, a waft of age-old urine rising up from the floor.

Erm, hello, can I speak to Valerie please?

Silence. A muffled voice followed by footsteps.

Yes? What do you want?

I’ve run out of petrol. Could you drive up and let me syphon some off? Please.

You are joking.

Sorry, Valerie. I’m stuck. Please!

The line went dead.

∙ ∙ ∙

Ten minutes later there she stood. I put one end of the plastic tube into her petrol tank and the other between my teeth and sucked. I liked the taste of the fumes – they made me giddy.

Is that the best you can do? she asked.

I sucked harder. The petrol rushed up the tube and into my mouth. I doubled up, retching the viscous juice over my shoes.

Ha ha! Serves you right.

I could murder a fag. Don’t fancy a new career as a fire eater though.

Wiping the tears from my eyes I tried again, this time sucking gently till the petrol reappeared like a snake slithering up a drainpipe – a snake dumping his girlfriend. She started crying, her face strained and pale, blonde hair hurriedly tied-up under a scarf.

You coward. I wouldn’t have known if Tom hadn’t told me.

She wanted to slap me but I knew she wouldn’t. She was too gentle.

I’m sorry, Valerie. I couldn’t help it.

Tom? You bastard!

He must have gone round to see her, to pass on the news. The slime bag probably sniffed some action on the rebound. I could picture it. ‘Poor you! Let’s have a drink and talk about it.’ Honestly, I would have told her but in my own time. And preferably over the phone, me being, as she said, a wimp.

The Germans

Autumn of 1978 arrived after a beautiful summer. I departed Lowlands College in Harrow qualification-light apart from an ‘A’ in Applied Horizontal Biology with a hot student called Linda. We both enjoyed the frisson of danger and led each other on to ever more risky ventures, nearly getting caught on several occasions in flagrante delicto. We were analysing German verbs behind the heavy, black assembly hall curtain when I undid her bra and started playing with her magnificent breasts. Our assistant college principal’s voice suddenly appeared on the other side of the curtain, conducting a guided tour for new students. Shaking with laughter we buttoned ourselves up and tip-toed away.

One sunny afternoon during college exams we were getting to know each other better on a teacher’s desk. An elderly female member of staff walked past the open door, a bunch of papers clutched to her chest. Either visually challenged or in a state of disbelief, she continued on her way, staring straight ahead. We didn’t get caught, even with her hands down my pants throughout double German – Linda that is, not the elderly member of staff.

∙ ∙ ∙

Things got really out of hand when we walked half way up Harrow Hill, stripped off and covered ourselves with our clothes. Rush hour had started and the road below us was solid traffic but we felt invisible under our improvised quilt. We were getting comfortable when something wet and warm licked my ear. Linda was underneath me and unless her tongue had tripled in length it definitely wasn’t hers. I turned and did a double take. A Labrador’s wet nose was inches from my face. Our eyes met and we both jumped back in surprise. He reacted first by taking a mouthful of my jeans and running off. At least, that was the plan. I managed to grab my vanishing jeans by a leg and pulled. The dog flew back and landed on top of us before wriggling away and pulling with all his might. Linda scrambled for our clothes, our improvised bed falling to pieces under our eyes. A whistle sounded and the dog reluctantly let go and ran off up the hill. That night I had nightmares about the Labrador vanishing with my Levis between his teeth.

∙ ∙ ∙

After two years of German I couldn’t string a sentence together ‘auf Deutsch’ but we’d had a good time. That September my German teacher called to see if I’d meet a couple of trainee English teachers over from Germany. Aware of my reputation she suggested a pub or two and, curious to meet people out of my usual circles, I agreed. The four of us stood formally in the middle of her living room and she made the introductions. Samuel was as tall as me with thick, black hair swept back from his face. Ulrich exuded the confidence of a sportsman, like those German footballers you saw on the telly. The ones who always won. The conversation was in English for my benefit. Ulrich asked for help in clearing up a subtle point of English grammar, and much to my embarrassment, in front of my teacher, I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

Out of my depth with these intellectual heavyweights, I wondered if I’d made a mistake showing up. I was used to feeling insecure with clever people. My mum’s uncle’s family had been solicitors in the City for generations. They all carried the same name – John Venn. We had a picture frame on the wall next to the front door with the last five John Venns staring solemnly at the camera. One of the Venn crew invented the Venn diagram. No one leant on me but the hidden message, the words between the lines, suggested it would be the done thing if I were to carry on in this family tradition. My lack of A levels and lack of desire to go to University didn’t fit in the plan.

∙ ∙ ∙

The moment we jumped into Ulrich’s dark green Mercedes the atmosphere changed.

Fucking hell. She’s very nice but that was hard work, Ulrich said, glancing back at me in his rear mirror.

This was going to be fun.

Do you smoke? I asked, offering my Bensons.

Thanks, Samuel, said. He took one and gave me a light. By the way, call me Sam.

Ulrich?

No thanks. I’m much too young.

Left here. Straight down all the way. We’ll try The George first.

First? Maybe just the one tonight, Sam said.

He nursed a pint while Ulrich and I swapped drinking stories, knocking back pints as if on a mission. They were so open and friendly any awkwardness I felt vanished. My ignorance of the English language didn’t stop them asking different uses of syntax – variations so minuscule a mosquito couldn’t have squeezed a fart between them. I rambled beery bollocks back, the language deteriorating into pub banter.

I love English. The way you use the word ‘fuck’. It completely outclasses German. I mean, we can’t say For fuck’s sake, what the fucking fuck are you fucking doing, you fucked-up, fucking fucker, Ulrich opined, grinning at me before taking another massive slug on his pint. A couple sitting at the next table went quiet. We should write a rude English-German dictionary. Whose round is it, anyway?" he said.

These guys didn’t give a shit. God, I wanted to be like that. I was always hyper aware of people’s reactions. Maybe I was being a Brit – on edge till I’d sunk a few then a raving idiot. We exited the pub and jumped into the Mercedes.

Are you not worried about the police? I mean, you’ve had a few.

Not really. I say Es tut mir Leid. Ich verstehe gar nichts, wave my German passport at them. Does the trick. Bloody foreigner, ha ha ha!

∙ ∙ ∙

All went well for three hundred metres before the car stopped moving.

Shit! It’s the clutch again. Verdammt noch mal! Sorry, Ulrich said, with a resigned expression.

Not again, Sam said. I’m fed up of pushing this heap of Scheisse for miles.

Pushing? Did someone say pushing? It must weigh a ton.

You really must do something about it, Ulrich. He sounded like John Cleese, a German John Cleese. Johannes Klees.

Sorry Sam. Old piece of shit.

He kicked it affectionately. We pushed the stricken Mercedes up a long hill and a car passed us at walking pace. A red face leant out the window and shouted something about Germans and efficiency before speeding away, screams of laughter vanishing into the night air. My new friends were unperturbed. They carried on cracking jokes and swearing a lot in which ever language came to hand. I was impressed.

Next time we meet, I want to take you both to the local au pair club, I said. My favourite place on the planet.

∙ ∙ ∙

The International Club took place every Monday night in Pinner Community Centre in a small hall with low lighting. You’d find me sat at a table too insecure to approach the au-pairs who hung out chatting and smoking in small groups. I fantasised how it could be with a sleek, blonde Scandinavian or a curvy French brunette. I longed for Euro-sex but didn’t have a hope. I was so shy I couldn’t meet their eyes – frustrated, throbbing, teenage lust-on-legs, so near but yet so very, very far.

We pushed through the swing doors into the hall and a dozen girls, sat at tables turned to check us out, the only men in the room.

Sam laughed. Let’s go to the pub. I need a drink.

Half an hour later we returned to find the girls dancing and a couple of guys watching them. Sam, dressed from head to toe in black, a cross between a poet and a vampire, strolled through the room and sat down next to a table where three girls sat watching him. He leaned over to them and said something in German. They laughed and he pulled up a chair and joined them. He took his time before zeroing in on the most attractive one – a Swiss au pair called Heidi, funnily enough.

I was in the presence of a consummate professional. If I hung round long enough maybe some of his magic would rub off on me. Ulrich saw the expression on my face and winked.

Here we go again. Fancy another pint?

Everything changes

Sam was determined to work his way through the entire female population of the International Club, who were more than willing to be worked through. He’d disappear for days, reemerging from the swamp to fill me in with explicit details. The latest, an Italian redhead from Turin, sported a tattoo on her thigh saying eat as much as you can.

The only problem is that my English is not improving, he said, on one of his rare nights off. I’m spending all my time with European girls. Apart from when I see you and Ulrich. One thing, my Italian is quite good! he said, grinning the grin that could melt an au pair’s defences at five metres.

Ulrich joined a local handball team, the star import from Germany. After a beery night out he knocked off ten one-arm push-ups in my kitchen. I tried one, collapsing, much to his amusement, in a heap on the floor. He helped me up and took a photo out of his wallet.

This is Gaby. My girlfriend.

I wondered why you didn’t join Sam.

No, that’s not for me. Ha ha.

∙ ∙ ∙

The following Monday night, Mick, the Irish caretaker who ran the International Club, came up to me and dangled a juicy ripe carrot under my nose.

You play in a band, don’t you, Bruce? Do you want to bring them here? I’m sure it‘d be a success. All the girls will be there, he said, his bright red face grinning under a shock of snow white hair.

There was no mention of a fee but I didn’t notice.

Maybe I’d have more luck with the Euro Goddesses hiding behind my guitar.

Bruce? What do you think?

Ok, Mick. I’ll ask them.

That’s great. I’ll see you all alright for a free drink. Let’s make it next Monday.

Could I get in there before Sam struck? I’d have to be quick – or hope he’d already pulled.

∙ ∙ ∙

We played our set under two purple spotlights, the dancers’ silhouettes gyrating on the blue walls. The girls loved our rock and roll and didn’t want the music to stop but Mick pointed at his watch.

Thank you, boys. A big hand for the band, girls.

So this is where you spend your Monday nights, Bruce? Bobby Dazzler asked, watching the au pairs slip into their coats. Lucky boy. He laughed. There he goes. Pulled again. Singers have all the luck.

I turned to see Johnny ‘Rock and Roll’ Wilson talking to a brunette. Johnny looked good in tight pants and brown leather jacket. He seemed to be making progress. They were both smiling and she nodded at least once as he went through his routine.

Get in there quick if I were you, Bobby said, packing his bass away.

I waited till Johnny’d moved on off before I moved on in, indignation lending me courage. No way