Chapter 6

"We've been invited to her home!" an excited Andrea announced after she and Crystal emerged from the hotel lobby's public phone booth.

"Whose home?" I wondered, not really having paid much attention.

I was sitting splayed across one of the Crown Hotel's most threadbare red velour sofas. We were now on the latest stop of our trans-American tour and in the city of Providence, the capital of the tiny Ocean State of Rhode Island. I'd been browsing statistics about the state in a tourist brochure the hotel handed out to its guests and, compared with most states of America, they were on a reassuringly modest, even homely, scale. Rhode Island had a smaller total population than most English counties and was almost as small in area. I'd also been taking advantage of the fact that I was just out of the receptionist's line of sight and had surreptitiously rolled a joint. I was in desperate need of narcotic recreation after the drive from Boston. At least we were scheduled to stop for three or four days this time. An opportunity at last to relax.

"Veronica Wilson," said Andrea.

"Sorry, who?"

"Veronica Wilson," Andrea repeated. "You must have heard of her. Singer-Songwriter from the seventies. She used to perform with the likes of James Taylor and Carole King. She made a name for herself at the Newport Folk Festival in its heyday and she's a regular now it's been revived."

"So, she's a folkie," I said dismissively.

"She's very good," said Crystal who ambled towards us. "Your sister's got good taste, Pebbles. I've always been a fan. We've been invited to visit her at her home in Newport. On Bellevue Avenue Would you like to come along?"

"Shouldn't we be preparing for the gig?" I said, even though I'd have much rather lit up my joint than rehearse.

"That's not till tomorrow night," said Andrea.

"Judy and Olivia are already practising at Thorn's with Tomiko, Bertha and Jenny," said Crystal referring to the venue where we were due to appear. "I have absolute faith in their ability to rehearse without us. There wasn't anything else you were planning to do, were you, Pebbles?"

"No, not really." Although Jane, Jacquie and I had discussed getting out to investigate Providence's night clubs, nothing had been decided. "Will we be going in the Chevrolet?"

Crystal nodded. "There's no other way to get there."

"And you want me to do the driving?"

"It'd be good if you could, Pebbles. As you know, neither your sister nor I know how to drive."

And so it was that rather than smoke a spliff, I volunteered to drive Andrea and Crystal in the back of the car, who brought along their instruments with them: namely, a violin and an acoustic guitar. The two chatted enthusiastically about the life and discography of Veronica Wilson while the more I overheard the less engaged I felt in the conversation. I'd never had much interest in Andrea's collection of LPs by the likes of Joan Baez, Pentangle, Bert Jansch, Al Stewart or even Bob Dylan. And the more my sister enthused about Veronica Wilson and her falsetto voice and her idiosyncratic blues-influenced plucking style on the six-string guitar the more I regretted not having brought along a Techno cassette to listen to in the car.

Crystal and Andrea had always been fans of folk music and singer-songwriters. In fact, Crystal's first album, Triad, featured nothing more than Crystal's voice, Crystal's guitar-playing and occasionally Crystal on piano. There were no overdubs and hardly any post-production. It was Crystal Passion as naked as she could be (and in her case literally as well as metaphorically). It wasn't my favourite Crystal Passion album, but then it was also the only album I hadn't played on. On the other hand, it was the music from that album that had enticed me in the first place and, even unplugged, her songs were more than good enough for me to enjoy without having to imagine how much better they'd be with a kick-drum, a bass line or extra colour. Although the music on Triad was simpler in terms of arrangement or instrumentation than it was on later albums, the songs were no less daring in lyrics, rhythm and structure.

There was a certain relatively naïve romanticism in some of her songs. The one Polly Tarantella likes most, Rambling Woman, has the sort of verse you'd imagine a Romantic poet like William Wordsworth might have penned given all its references to valleys, mountains and glades grazed on by sheep, rabbit and deer. It reminds me of the American folk song The Wayfaring Stranger, which Polly also mentions although I guess the version she's most familiar with is the one by Jack White rather than, say, Johnny Cash or Emmylou Harris. Then there's Mercy Mistress which is now best known from the Disclosure mix, though I personally prefer the one by Floating Points. It lends itself to a House or even Trance mix with its slow build-up to a swooping chorus, even though its lyrics are a down-to-earth confession of personal failure and frustrated ambition. The song that's most controversial is All On My Own which Polly's interpreted as a plea for help and understanding and which others have interpreted as a bold statement of Crystal's spiritual beliefs. I'm not sure it's either of those things, but it's the song on which Crystal is at her most anguished. This is especially so in the lines where she sings: "Strip off my clothes and throw them away. / Put a conical cap on my head and turn me to the wall. / Tie me up and pull me down. / Take away my soul. Leave nothing at all." There's been a lot of speculation as to who she was supposed to be addressing, but all she ever told me was that it was an allegory on self-reliance.

I don't know whether Veronica Wilson had ever heard of Crystal Passion before. It's possible I suppose. Andrea had heard of Crystal through her folk music friends, so she must have had some small degree of fame in that scene. Maybe it was the association with John River that piqued the interest of this moderately famous American singer-songwriter. But however little or well Veronica Wilson knew about Crystal Passion, we were greeted like long-lost relatives when we turned up at her door.

In so many ways, Veronica was exactly what you'd expect an American singer-songwriter from the 1970s to be like. She was a woman in her mid-forties with long straight hair that she almost certainly continued to dye blonde. She had a good figure for a woman of her age, though she was no longer as slim as she once must have been. Her bosom was full and almost matronly, her thighs were squeezed into tight denim from the crotch to the knees, and her well-scrubbed face was no longer left to only nature's whims. She wore a baggy orange sweater and designer jeans, but no shoes or socks.

I'd expected a grander home for such a relatively successful musician. Although Bellevue Avenue was one of Newport's more expensive streets, with many relatively old New England houses, her home was relatively modest compared with, say, Professor Simon's. Nonetheless, it was detached, had a large garden and boasted more space than one woman would need just for herself, even though, according to Andrea, there was no husband, partner or child currently sharing her life.

I parked the Chevrolet on the driveway while Veronica ushered Andrea and Crystal into her house, both clutching their instruments. I deliberately took my time till I followed them in as I had my joint to smoke which I did in her front garden behind a tree that hid me from the gaze of the street. I'd been promising myself a toke ever since we arrived at the Crown Hotel and I could now take the opportunity to gather my thoughts together. I discreetly stubbed the roach out on a tree trunk and tore it apart before scattering it to the wind. And then I walked into Veronica's house.

I had no difficulty in finding where Veronica, my lover and my sister were gathered. The sound of guitar, violin and piano led me down a long narrow hallway past closed doors to Veronica's living room. This was an impressive space with a sturdy wooden floor, like the rest of the house, dominated by what in those days was a very large television, many times deeper than wide, and a Sohmer mini-grand piano. And sitting on the piano stool was Veronica who was singing as I entered.

I'd stumbled on an impromptu concert recital and one where I was not at all at ease. I plumped down on the leather sofa with an apologetic smile, while Veronica, Andrea and Crystal performed songs which as far as I knew might have been traditional American folk songs, contemporary folk-rock classics or the Veronica Wilson songbook. I could tell that it was being performed exceptionally well, that the songs had catchy melodies and that the lyrics were possibly profound, but I didn't share my sister's ear for acoustic music in those days. I'd probably appreciate it much more nowadays. I've since bought records by Veronica Wilson and other singer-songwriters I never thought I could enjoy, but I'll never be as much an enthusiast as Andrea.

My pleasure in watching the performance was less from listening to the music than from just admiring the trio. Veronica was a handsome woman, however much at that time of my life I couldn't ignore the gnarly veins on the back of her hands, the creases around her eyes or the glimpse of grey at the roots of her hair. These days, in my own early middle age, I'd consider myself lucky to be half as well preserved as she was. Andrea was pretty as always. Her bushy hair made her look like a romantic heroine while her checked shirt and jeans made her seem almost more American than British. She handled the violin as if it was an extension of herself. It seemed to grow out of her chin while, as she sang, her mouth moved with the same sweep and flourish as her bow. But as always it was Crystal who was the centre of my attention. My eyes rested on Veronica and Andrea for only brief moments before once again settling on my closest friend and most favourite lover.

It's probably because I knew Crystal so intimately and seen her naked so often that it only belatedly became apparent to me that although Andrea and Veronica were dressed just as they were when we arrived, Crystal had once again removed all her clothes. She was wearing nothing, not even shoes, as she plucked her guitar and joined in the chorus when Veronica prompted her. How had this woman whom we'd never met before not only accepted Crystal and my sister as accompanists at such short notice, but showed no sign of embarrassment when Crystal took off her clothes? This is the kind of incident that I find most miraculous about Crystal, rather than the many apocryphal stories that so excite Polly Tarantella.

Between each song Veronica would glance at Crystal and Andrea in turn, a broad grin on her face, and suggest another song. She might say for instance: "I Carry the Victory" or "The Face of My Love" or "Strange Fruit" and either Crystal or Andrea would nod and with only a couple of notes on the piano as a cue, they'd launch into a new song. Or she might say: "Banks are Made of Marble" or "This Land is Your Land" or "Dark Night Blues" and there was a general incomprehension followed by a few bars of rehearsal and Crystal and Andrea would then be playing along to a song that neither had ever heard before.

After I'd sat through nearly an hour of what was almost entirely unfamiliar music to me, instead of suggesting another song, Veronica said: "Hey guys. How long you planning on staying in the Ocean State?"

"Another three or four days," said Andrea.

"We've got a residency at Thorn's Folk and Blues Club," Crystal elaborated. "We're there for three evenings in a row."

"So where you guys staying?"

"The Crown Hotel," Crystal said.

"Never heard of it."

"It's a dump," said Andrea.

"That doesn't sound good," said Veronica. "You're not gonna perform your best at Thorn's without a good night's sleep. You wanna stop over here at my place? I've got plenty of room for you guys."

"As long as it's no trouble..." said Crystal.

"Not only is it no trouble, but I absolutely insist."

"What about our luggage?" said Andrea, who was never content unless everything was properly organised.

"I can go back and fetch all that," I volunteered.

"If you could?" Crystal pleaded in a way that left me no space to change my mind.

It took me less than an hour to drive back from Newport to Providence and as always I was grateful for America's wide roads and relatively good drivers. As a Brit, I was often bemused by signs that directed me to ostensibly homely destinations like Warwick, Coventry and Greenwich. If it weren't for the fire hydrants on the roadside and the fact that I was driving on the right, I could almost believe I was driving through the West Midlands. I parked the car just outside the Crown Hotel and rushed through the lobby and up to the bedrooms where Crystal, Andrea and I'd been booked to collect the bags. Although I was pleased at the prospect of staying at a grand historic house in Newport rather than yet another crappy non-descript American hotel, I still felt that I'd be very much the odd one out in a company of folkies. I'd almost prefer to stay with Jane and Jacquie, even if the beds were rather too small and lumpy to be truly comfortable.

I was just about to stumble downstairs to the lobby loaded down with luggage when I heard the high-pitched sound of a clarinet coming from one of the other bedrooms that we'd been allocated to. It could only be Thelma. I knocked on the door and was let in by Olivia who wore only a pair of denim shorts and plastic bangles on her wrists. Thelma was wearing a large baggy tee-shirt under which there might have been a pair of knickers.

She laid down the clarinet and asked straight away: "Have you seen the paper?"

"Newspaper? Which one?" I asked as I sat next to Olivia on the edge of the bed.

"This one," said Olivia who passed me a copy of the New York Post that was open somewhere in the middle.

I could see a picture of Crystal Passion and Judy Dildo that had been taken at the concert in Philadelphia just before they'd been told to put more clothes on and in which crudely painted black bars both highlighted and obscured the otherwise bare nipples and crotch.