James Freud-Vocals
Gary Numan-Guitar
Paul gardiner-Bass
Jess Lidyard-Drums
Roger Mason-keyboards

Produced by Gary Numan
Engineered by Nick Smith
Recorded at Rock City Studios

Below are some clips from the unleased James Freud/Gary Numan Album 1980

TRACK 1	TRACK 2	TRACK 3	TRACK 4	TRACK 5	TRACK 6	TRACK 7	TRACK 8

We have lift-off
Just before we shot the ‘Modern Girl’ video, we scored the support for the upcoming Gary Numan tour. I was beside myself; he was the new big thing, having just had a worldwide hit with ‘Cars’. We were going to be playing the Palais Theatre in Melbourne and the Capitol in Sydney. Wow! This was going to be the start of a whole new phase in my life.

I'm not gay!
The first show of the Gary Numan tour was pretty uneventful, apart from his bass player getting so drunk that one of the roadies pulled him off the stage and belted him when the lights went out between songs. Suddenly there was no bass player, but no one really noticed. He ended up being found dead under a tree in a London park from alcohol related complications. He didn’t seem too pissed to me at this particular gig, though.

Having shot the ‘Modern Girl’ clip that day, we headed straight to the Palais, still in our gorgeous make-up. Gary was the first person I ran into backstage. He looked me up and down and gave me a nod of approval. That was it, we hit it off from the word go and became good friends. He was a bit of an outcast in England, where the press had labeled him a pretentious tosser. I loved the concept of having a megastar for a friend, so I think I became the Australian version of a tosser; a wanker. The tour was a gas – nice hotels, girls waiting in the foyers, and big audiences. I didn’t want it to end.

Gary started to regard me as his protégé and took to calling me Brian Ferry Jr. While we were in Sydney, he thought it would be a good idea to record a track with him as producer. We went into the EMI studios and came up with a song called ‘Automatic Crazy’. It’s not one of my favourites, but it was during this session that I realized how incredibly English Gary was. All he would eat were ham sandwiches or McDonald’s burgers without the sauce, onions or pickles – just the meat and the bun. This would be washed down with gallons of Coke. The only problem with his diet, apart from being totally bland, was that it gave him shocking, foul-smelling gas, which he was happy to share with anyone in his vicinity. A favourite trick of his was dropping a fart in his car, then locking the electric windows. So much fun.

Gary didn’t drink or smoke or take drugs, so, naturally, I pretended I didn’t. I was an angel, suffering withdrawals from booze, drugs and nicotine. It would be an understatement to say I was a little edgy at the time.

He was going to Japan at the end of the tour to see a girl he had met there a couple of weeks earlier. He asked me to go with him for a bit of moral support, and he was paying. I was expecting business-class tickets, but he decided to cash his in for a couple of economies. I couldn’t really complain.

We took off for Tokyo, the land of fabulous food and toys. Unfortunately Gary still wouldn’t eat anything but Macca’s and ham sangas. What a waste, not even a cup of sake in sight. But why would I want sake when I was such a well-behaved, well-mannered, non-drug taking boy? I still really loved that trip, considering my limited exposure to Japanese culture. But the most positive thing to come out of it all was that Gary agreed to produce my next album in London. From there, the Radio Stars and I would be the support act for his European tour. It was a big break.

I arrived back in Australia on a Sunday in time for that night’s Countdown. ‘Modern Girl’ was starting to chart, so it was an incredibly exciting time. I settled in front of the television to see that Darryl Cotton was hosting the show. It chugged along in it’s predictable way … until – shock, horror – I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Darryl bloody Cotton was saying that I had gone to Japan with Gary Numan … wink, wink. ‘I’m not gay!’ I yelled at the TV.

I have spent most of my life defending my sexuality. People just assume I’m gay. Strangers have had conversations in front of Sally, my wife, not knowing who she was, about gay relationships with me. Once, my flatmate had left me at home in bed with Sally and went to the hairdresser’s. While she sat having her hair cut, the boy apprentice arrived late.
‘Where have you been?’ jibed the hairdresser.
‘I’m sorry I’m late – I’ve been up all night fucking James Freud’ he said with a laugh.
‘Ooh, do tell,’ said the hairdresser.
What a liar! I guess I might have developed ‘gay’ mannerisms when I was young. Most of my mother’s friends were gay or drag performers in Les Girls, and I thought they were totally cool. I wanted to be like them. But when it came to the crunch, I love women and always will. Though, if you ask Sean, he swears that somebody mixed up my sister’s and my hormones, which is nonsense – even if I still can’t resist the odd bit of eyeliner and mascara. Oh, and I do like a tidy house. But I’m not gay!

Here in his car, he feels safest of all

We managed to convince Michael Gudinski that if we recorded with Gary, we could break into the UK. The band were really excited until I told them that only Roger and I would be recording with Gary’s band. The guys would join us later for the tour. They took it pretty well, considering.

I was relieved when we finally touched down in the bleak city. I had told Roger all about the place and wanted to show him everything in one night. I liked London back then, ‘cause I hadn’t been to the US yet. We ended up at the Marquee Club and scored a couple of grams of coke. My old mates from the band Chelsea were sitting in the same place in the bar as last time I was there and Feargal Sharkey’s band, the Undertones, were playing. Roger ended up in six-foot blonde heaven and I finished the night with a good old Aussie scotch and coke and chuck.

The next morning, having woken up with a Charles Bukowski hangover, I waved goodbye to Roger, who was staying in London. I headed off to Berkshire, where Gary lived with his parents, Tony and Beryl. I was expecting a manor of some sort, but was greeted by the sight of a suburban family home – the only thing that gave it an air of rock stardom was the Corvette and Trans Am parked in the driveway.
‘So where do I put my things?’ I asked.
‘Oh, you’re out in the caravan with Gary,’ Beryl said.
The caravan? Yes, it’s true, I traveled across the globe to end up sharing a bloody caravan parked in someone’s backyard in Staines. Where was the English rock star’s mansion? He hadn’t found the one he wanted yet. I opened the door to take my bags out the back and was greeted by two massive Alsations. I think they were called Fritz and Adolph.
‘Oh, look out for the guard dogs,’ called Tony. ‘They bite.’
I slammed the door shut just as they were about to lunge at me.
‘Shit!’
After Gary escorted me to the caravan, he showed me the piano where he wrote all his hits. ‘How old are you?’ he asked me.
‘Twenty,’ I said.
‘What a pity. I was 19 when I wrote my first classic.’
I couldn’t believe he was saying it out loud. Time, critics, and music lovers decide if something has become a classic…
‘And what was that?’ I inquired.
‘’’Down In The Park’’,’ he replied, with a look of contempt. Like I was supposed to have known which one was his ‘classic’.
So after the lecture on my shortcomings as a songwriter, it was time to check out the neighbourhood. We hopped into Gary’s Corvette, a gift from his record company for making them so much money, and drove off on a tour of Berkshire. Gary’s driving was a nightmare. He had this racing car with six million horsepower and a googolplex twin cam overhead chassis in the carbies, or something like that. The biggest drawback from my perspective was that his pride and joy was a left-hand drive, which meant that as we hurtled down country lanes at breakneck speed, he would invariably want to overtake someone. This moment of terror would involve pulling the car out into the oncoming traffic so I could advise gary whether it was safe to continue with the manouvre. So I spent the next hour or so yelling at him, ‘Get in! Get in! There’s a fucking truck coming!’

So relaxing. Naturally, after a country drive one tends to be a bit on the peckish side, though a martini would have gone down nicely. Off we headed to the local fish ’n’ chip shop. On the way there I was horrified to see Gary whistling and oi-ing girls from his car.
‘Could you be a bit cool?’ I asked. I was an artist and artists just didn’t behave like that. As we neared the shop, he casually mentioned that the place was a hangout for the local skinheads. ‘I’ll drive around the block while you get the food,’ he said.
‘You’re kidding. What if they try to kill me?’
‘Run. I’ll pick you up around the corner,’ he said, totally deadpan. ‘Where do you think I came up with the lines, Here in my car/I feel safest of all/I can lock all my doors/in cars…’

We pulled up outside the shop, I took a deep breath and went straight in. I couldn’t believe my luck – no skinheads. ‘Two cod and chips, thanks mate.’
It was a breeze, operation greasy, crappy food was a complete success…until I went to walk out the front door, that is. I cruised straight into the middle of six huge, Nazi-loving skinheads. Wearing a pink top and plenty of mascara, suddenly I felt very conspicuous.
‘What do we ‘ave ‘ere, then?’
How very original. It was like they’d studied the script from every B-grade movie ever made. Did I say study? That would involve a brain.
‘I said, what do we ‘ave ‘ere?’ the guy repeated.
I tried the old ‘I don’t want any trouble, mate’ line. But of course it didn’t work.
‘Well you got trouble sunshine.’
How many more clichés can you fit into a 30-second encounter? There was obviously no point in trying to reason with these knuckle draggers. So I ran. But where was Gary? With the KKK hot on my heels, I was ahead by a good ten feet. I tore around the corner, no Corvette.
‘Shit!’
There was nothing I could do except keep running, but my days of chain smoking and recent complete lack of physical exercise were catching up with me faster than the six gorillas. Just as I was about to give up and take my beating, Gary pulled into the curb, Starsky and Hutch-style. I tore open the door only to see Gary sitting there.
‘Left-hand drive, remember?’ he laughed. I bolted round the car and threw myself onto the passenger seat. Gary dropped the clutch and we fishtailed off, just as the skinheads were about to pounce.
‘Man, that was a fucking gas,’ Gary beamed. ‘Did you get salt and vinegar?’
‘I forgot.’
‘Then you’ll have to go back,’ he replied.
‘You want salt and vinegar? You can go in and I’ll drive the car.’
‘You don’t have a license.
‘Okay, okay, don’t confuse me, I just had a near-death experience,’ I said as I sank back into my seat.
‘I hate salt and vinegar,’ Gary said with a grin.

The next day, Gary and his parents had a family gathering to attend, so I opted to stay behind and work on some songs. After they took off, I played around with a few ideas for about 10 seconds, then got bored. I knew there was a pharmacist about a mile away and my roots were looking very blonde. I went for a walk to the local shops, where I bought some black hair-dye, a sixpack of beer and some cigarettes. I was in heaven. I raced back to the caravan with my booty and settled down for an afternoon of pure self-indulgence. I drank four of the beers and smoked myself stupid, then I was ready to add the final touch. I mixed up the black dye and poured it onto the front of my hair. As I let go of my fringe it fell down onto my face and straight into my eyes. Ahhhh! It was at this point that I realized the only place to wash it out was in the house… with Fritz and Adolph. I had no choice. The dye was burning my blinded eyes and was all over my face. I staggered over to the back door of the house, where I could hear the dogs barking inside. I tore open the door, then ran through the house and up the stairs with the dogs snapping at me. I made it to the bathroom and slammed the door on the wild beasts.

My afternoon was ruined. I couldn’t risk the dash past the dogs again, so I settled in for the long wait for the family to return. When they got back, Gary and co found me with a black-stained face and beer all over the caravan. I had to justify my behaviour, which really sucked because I was almost 21. They made me feel so bloody guilty that I even tried lying for a bit, but I knew I’d been sprung so I surrendered. Beryl was appalled– she and Tony hadn’t been into London for 20 years, she told me, because it was too wild. But now, the devil had come to stay with them.


We’ll fix it in the mix

We recorded the album at Rock City Studios, which was set right in the middle of Shepparton Film Studios. Between recording takes I would walk around the lots for hours, soaking up the atmosphere, wishing I was making a movie there instead of the debacle that was my second album.
I had left my band in Australia under the impression that Gary’s band, which featured Bill Currie from Ultravox, would be playing on the record. Gary had other ideas. Roger Mason would play the keyboards, Gary the guitar, his drunken friend the bass, and his uncle, who played on the Tubeway Army albums, would drum. Somehow this didn’t seem as attractive as the Radio Stars, who were all fantastic players.
The engineer was a guy called Nick Smith, who had recorded the first two Police albums, so that gave me a bit more confidence, The first day was your usual set-up-the-mikes-and-get-drum-sounds day and maybe you would run through a couple of songs. Or so I thought. We ran through a track called ‘Search and Rescue’ a couple of times and put it on tape.
‘Let’s ‘ave a listen back to that,’ said Gary.
We listened. The drumming lacked any hint of soul.
‘Great,’ Gary nodded. Let’s put down another song. We should have all the rhythm tracks done by tomorrow at this rate.’
I was speechless, thinking, ‘Is it just me, or can anybody else hear what I’m hearing?’ But nobody else seemed concerned.
‘How does the drum track sound to you?’ I asked Gary.
‘Fine. Once we get all the other stuff down, it’ll scrub up a treat.’
I’d heard this before and, believe me, it doesn’t work. It’s a fundamental rule in recording. If your rhythm tracks are dodgy, then you’ll be fighting to make the rest of it stand up. I tried to be as diplomatic as I could, after all, the drummer was Gary’s uncle who’d played on ‘Are Friends Electric?’, a number one record (so I kept being reminded). But, I am ashamed to say that I submitted under the pressure.
‘He has had worldwide hits. He should know what he’s doing,’ I told myself.
But the magic kapow, where everything would suddenly gel, never came. God knows, I willed it to happen, but maybe that special ingredient stayed in Melbourne with the rest of the band. You see, it’s all very well being a solo performer, but it’s a lonely existence, where all the blame and acclaim falls on your shoulders. There is no real support because everyone is looking to you for guidance and leadership. There’s nothing worse than being in a group. It’s like football players who finally retire, the one thing they always say they will miss is their mates, not the game. But like any relationship, you don’t appreciate it until it’s gone, and the way this album was shaping up, I really wished my friends were there.
My heart wasn’t in the project at all and with my 21st birthday only a week away, I was sinking into a mire filled with cups of tea and Digestive biscuits.

What a drag it is getting old

I awoke on the morning of 29 June 1980 to the now-familiar odour-de-Gary’s-fart. I ran out of the caravan gasping for air. It was my 21st birthday.
‘Can’t you do that outside?’ I said to him.
‘What, and waste a good fart?’
I shook my head and breathed in the fresh air. Roger, who had also moved into Gary’s caravan for the recording sessions, stumbled out, rubbing his eyes. Let the celebrations begin. We got ready and left for another day of torture in the studio. Though I still had tremendous respect for Gary, the album wasn’t going the way I had envisioned. I was feeling terribly depressed and 21 seemed so old.
Gary was hungry, so we stopped at Kentucky Fried Chicken for some ribs and, of course, I had to run in and get them. The day was shaping up to be a real dud. I got a couple of phone calls from home, then sat around the studio drinking cups of tea while listening to Roger put keyboard overdubs down. There were no clubs in Berkshire, so going out after the session was out of the question. This was going to be as good as it got.
Just after lunch, Andy, the inhouse tech guy, motioned for me to go outside with him. I followed him upstairs, where he pulled out a folded piece of paper and slipped it into my hand.
Happy birthday,’ was all he said, before disappearing back down the stairs. I opened the package and was met by the sight of glistening crystals of cocaine. Things suddenly took a turn for the better. Roger and I spent the afternoon excusing ourselves to go to the bathroom – Gary must have thought we were a couple of freaks. We were feeling pretty content and sat there grinding our teeth. The euphoria was disrupted, though, when Gary turned to me.
‘OK, let’s put down some vocals.’
Vocals? My throat was so tense from all the cocaine that there was no way I could possibly sing. But there was no getting out of it. I had one of my usual brainwaves; ‘If I have a huge line, maybe I’ll really let go of my inhibitions and come up with some magic!’ I raced upstairs and chopped out a mother. ‘Here goes nothing.’
As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, it didn’t go too well. We did take after take and I could barely manage to stay in tune, let alone give a half-decent performance. After a couple of hours, Gary couldn’t take it any longer and stormed out of the studio. He picked up a pool cue as he went past and threw it at the wall, then continued out to his car, ‘where he feels safest of all’, and sped off.
On the bright side, it meant that we could relax. I immediately sent out for a bottle of scotch and bought another gram of coke from Andy. Gary didn’t come back, so Roger and I opted to sleep at the studio. On the other hand, who can sleep with a schnozz full of Okie-Dokie? There was nothing we could do without Gary there, so Nick took an early mark. Roger and I decided to put down a new song with the assistant engineer. We worked all night and ended up with this fantastic track called ‘While We Worship Oxygen’ (remember, it was the 80s). Gary arrived in the morning after listening to Adam Ant’s ‘Goody Two Shoes’ all night, to be greeted by the three of us passed out on the floor. He was apologetic and we played him the track we’d put down. He listened intently then finally spoke.
‘You pricks! That’s the best thing on the fucking album. And I wasn’t even here. It sounds like John Foxx. You bastards!’ He then got up and stormed out of the studio again. Great!
Things were never really the same afterwards. I’d grown tired of pretending to be someone I wasn’t and the album had become a major disappointment, not that I blame Gary entirely for that. The songs weren’t wonderful and my style of overdramatic singing left a lot to be desired.
Gary returned in the afternoon with a song he had gone home and written. He had that I’ll-show-you attitude. Maybe it was from the panning he always took in the press – it can tend to make you a little defensive after a while, no matter how thick-skinned you are. So we recorded the track, which was very Gary Numan. He put down a guide vocal, then made me sing it exactly like him. I knew that if I released it I would be a laughing-stock, well, more than I already was. I was copping so much flak over a Countdown interview I had just done with Cherry Ripe in London. I had the broadest Cockney accent and a Phil Oakey haircut – I’m still trying to live that down.
The album had turned out to be an expensive exercise I had no faith in and I just wanted to finish the thing, move out of the suburbs and go back to London. The Radio Stars had arrived from Australia to start rehearsals for the tour and were staying in Paddington. I wanted to hang out with them. I wanted some fun, goddamnit!
Gary’s announcement came like a bolt of lightning on a clear summer’s day.
‘We’re finished, let’s mix it,’ he said.
‘Are you kidding?’ I thought. It sounded like a demo.
He wasn’t kidding. As far as Gary was concerned the album was ready to be mixed. I could see no point in standing up and crying foul. I had been there the whole time and had stood by as my second LP slipped into the void of mediocrity. All the promises of how great everything would sound when it was mixed never eventuated. After a week of mixing, I packed my suitcase. I lied and told Gary I loved the album, then climbed into the Trans Am for the trip to London with Gary’s Dad. I couldn’t wait.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Needless to say, the Radio Stars never supported Numan on his European tour, although Roger Mason did play keyboards in Numan's band for the tour. The album remains unreleased to this day, although Freud does retain a fully mixed copy from the master tapes. He maintains to this day that it’s ‘terrible’, and that it will never be officially released.

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