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  We were happily ensconced in our own building and Gen began putting COUM philosophy into practice. I’ve often been asked what COUM meant – to explain it. The definition of COUM was intentionally elusive. That allowed for total freedom of expression and interpretation (including by the ‘audience’), which was a core value of COUM and created a forum for debate and sometimes brought new members. COUM was not just a ‘group’ but also more of a movement, a collective family of diverse people from all walks of life, each of us exploring and living out our fantasies or obsessions with the aim of achieving creative and self-awareness, and confidence as artists regardless of, and in opposition to, the conventional skill sets and criteria by which ‘artists’ are defined. COUM was about giving free rein to ideas, about not being limited by rules or self-doubt – which lead to some confrontational situations as we challenged and broke established rules and cultural and social conventions.

  As a collective, each person was supported, ideas cross-pollinated and performed, written, played out in public or private, using whatever medium or situation was the most suitable or available at the time. The drive and force of the combined energies of everyone made COUM seem like a constantly evolving, self-perpetuating creative entity. As such, COUM was an egalitarian concept; no one person could lay claim to it or the works collectively created. That was the theory and aim.

  We compiled a list of ‘1001 Ways to COUM’ (a reference in part to the Buddhist idea of ‘one million and one names of God’), one-line slogans that included serious or joke references to social, cultural or personal events, and contradictory definitions of COUM, like ‘Everything About COUM is True’ and, conversely, ‘Everything About COUM is False’. That strategy left things wide open. COUM actions caused reactions that we assimilated into further actions, generating a stream of source material. The intangibility of COUM was a perfect ploy with which to deflect criticism, blame or responsibility – and accept any inadvertent praise along the way.

  Gen was fascinated by Andy Warhol’s Factory and was Warholian in the way he recruited and surrounded himself with talented, wayward characters, some on the criminal fringe, others ‘eccentric’ – all hugely likeable, creative and with exceptional experiences and views on life. Gen was a charismatic prankster with an intellectual bent and a great line in telling people that they needed to access and be their true selves – while not practising what he preached. I don’t think he knew who he was and it took me a while to realise that. He placed himself in a guru-like position, one that was resistant to any questioning of the fact that he (as guru) wasn’t true to ‘himself’. If anyone questioned him on things he said or did that didn’t seem to ring true to what he claimed was COUM ethos, he’d respond with a reason why it was OK for him in that instance, that you had got it wrong, or he’d recite a COUM slogan to counter the criticism – or make up a new one to add to the ever-growing ‘1001 Ways to COUM’ list. He could never be wrong, or maybe he just couldn’t see it.

  Gen had heavily criticised Transmedia, saying they espoused equality whilst effectively operating more as a hierarchy, with Fitz as the ‘leader’ – but it was a system Gen mirrored in COUM, with himself as leader-cum-mentor, but with the addition, over time, of an expanded agenda gleaned from Aleister Crowley’s occultism and a touch of Charles Manson’s cultism. He promoted within COUM the notion that everyone has a ‘genius factor’. Gen’s ‘genius factor’ was not art per se but the art of manipulation, as myself and others came to believe. As COUM member Foxtrot Echo succinctly put it, ‘Oh yes, he was always into the whole concept of cults and manipulating people. That was his genius.’

  Inherent in the COUM core value of freedom is honesty, being true to yourself as part of self-exploration, being true to one another and being selfless – all of which I found to be lacking in Gen, alongside other values related to ‘freedom’: egalitarianism, self-realisation and being and expressing your ‘self’. ‘My Life Is My Art. My Art Is My Life’ is a phrase I’ve adopted to define my work and life, which to a large degree derives from my time in COUM. On paper it sounds simple, but it’s not.

  From 1970, I was a core member of COUM. I was a photographer, I built props, contributed ideas, designed and made costumes and worked full-time jobs to help fund our activities as well as feed us. Spydeee became increasingly uncomfortable with me being the only one working and found himself a job so he could contribute. By late 1970, the core of COUM had shifted to Gen, me and Spydeee, after Tim focused more on his research and John Shapeero went his own way. Other than us three, COUM had a fluctuating line-up depending on each project – including another of Gen’s Solihull friends, Pinglewad (Peter Winstanley), who stayed with us and participated in COUM a few times. The varying public-performance personnel included: me; Gen, usually on violin; Spydeee on sound generators, vocals and other gadgets; Ray Harvey on vocals, tambourine and drums; Les Maull on guitar; Jonji Smith on vocals; Bobo (Rob Eunson, a friend of Les’s) on lead guitar; sixteen-year-old Brook (Tony Menzies) on guitar; and Haydn Nobb (Robb), a university friend of Gen’s, who played bass guitar a few times.

  Where was I in the public’s perception of COUM? I wasn’t on the well-known ‘COUM Are Fab and Kinky’ publicity poster of that time. It only depicted a very young Neil Megson leaning on a tuba, with small photos of six (male) COUM members at his feet, including his ‘Genesis’ adult self. Years later I see the poster less as a good attention-grabbing publicity ploy and more as misrepresentation, and find myself asking why the full-time active members like myself, Les and Ray were excluded when we preceded the three ‘part-time’ COUM members Gen included on the poster. Maybe it was to present a particular image of a music band, but even so it’s a disingenuous representation of the reality of COUM.

  I also understood COUM to be far more than just a band that played ‘music’: it was a concept, a democratic collective and an all-embracing lifestyle. It was the sum of its parts. I doubt I’d misconstrued what COUM was about or my role within it. According to Spydeee, ‘The thing was Cosey intuitively “got it” right from the start – the whole COUM thing … and was completely part of it from the moment I first met her … the 3 of us lived there and “did” COUM stuff, we all contributed in equal ways – it was just that he [Gen] took control of as much as he could.’

  *

  Hippydom had its conventions, even if they didn’t always make much sense. You bucked the system by dropping out, but didn’t see a problem with claiming social security or unemployment benefit from the state. Poverty, hunger and a sense of responsibility to Tremble, Moonshine and Gen forced my hand. If I got a job, Gen was free to do his art and we’d have money for food, rent and art materials. It was a practical solution, seeing as I was quite adept at communicating with ‘straights’. As Spydeee said, ‘There is no doubt that you were the one who made things happen in a practical way. Without you Gen would never have survived in Hull – a statement he’d deny because he just wouldn’t see it.’

  Much to my mum’s (and the dole office’s) delight, I decided to get a job. The notes on my unemployment records make for interesting reading:

  18 February 1970

  Not very enthusiastic about work. Very modern dress – wearing long boots, old fur coat and black velvet & lace creation. Not at all suitable for office work in view of appearance …

  6 May 1970

  Usually attends employment section with boyfriend who dresses most peculiarly. Still seeking clerical work but appearance has deteriorated. Untidy and extremely mod. clothing. Not fit for submission. Would reclassify except for good G.C.E. ‘O’ levels and it would be a waste of a good education if this girl did factory work.

  3 June 1970

  Miss Newby is so changeable in appearance, can look extremely attractive or dirty and shabby. Nice girl to talk to and I think she is under the bad influence of her boyfriend who is a freelance artist. He always attends with her and they both live in a derelict house shared by several hippy type characters.<
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  There were various strategies to ensure you stayed unsuitable for employment: not dressing the part, poor communication, showing false enthusiasm for jobs offered, changing the type of work classification, and so on. Wrong as that may seem, that was what ‘dropouts’ did back then. I attended some job interviews (Woolworths rejected me as overqualified), and I finally plumped for factory work at Humbrol Paints. Not the career Mum or the dole office had wanted, considering my qualifications, but needs must, and at that time factory work paid twice as much as white-collar jobs.

  I started work at Humbrol on 14 September 1970. It wasn’t an easy decision. Hull factory girls were feared. They were hard as nails and verbally brutal and I viewed my new job as akin to entering borstal, where pecking orders were established on entry. I braced myself and entered the factory yard, following the throng of chattering girls, and took my place in the line to clock on. One of the girls kindly showed me to the office. I was introduced to the forewoman, an imposing and very stern middle-aged woman called Nan Miller, who handed me an overall and instructed me in the work I would be doing. Turbaned up, I was all set to enter the factory floor. Nan led the way. As the double doors swung open, the smell of paint and thinners stung my nostrils. Then my ears got a pounding from the noise of the machines, girls shouting over each other and the radio blaring out the current hit songs. A multitude of eyes scanned me from head to foot, trying to get the measure of me. During the first break, and again at lunchtime, I was challenged verbally and physically. I was shoved aside and girls fronted me out, posturing to get a response. I knew if I appeared ‘posh’ they’d assume I thought I was a cut above them. I must have come up OK as I settled in well. I loved their bluntness – saying it as it was, no pretence.

  *

  I needed a break. I went to Hull University to see Snips’s band, Nothineverappens, with my friend Sue and met up with some old friends I hadn’t seen for a while. We split a tab of acid but, as it turned out, my half had the full dose. We caught the bus to the university and were sat chatting away, waiting for the acid to take effect – which it did for me courtesy of the bus conductor making me jump as he came up behind me and asked for my fare. A shot of adrenaline sent the acid rushing through my bloodstream and I was propelled into a dense claustrophobic cocoon of colours and shapes.

  We got into the gig but the acid was strong and sent me reeling into uncharted waters of sensory overload – what I now know was a synaesthetic state. It knocked me for six and I had to sit on the floor. My senses were totally mixed up and I seemed to be dissolving and becoming part of the air around me. As Snips’s band started to play, I began to see giant coloured letters slowly pulsating. The air was alive, thick with vibrant patterns, fractals, microbe-like forms and scrolling trails of indistinguishable cellular structures. I couldn’t see in front of or around me. It was like looking through a microscope – and it was getting more extreme. I felt like I’d totally lose it. In desperation I thought maybe if I danced, I could raise my metabolism and speed up my system’s processing of the acid. I danced until I was exhausted and started to come down to a level I could handle.

  After the gig a crowd of us went back to a friend’s flat, playing music, talking and laughing into the early hours of the morning. Laughing on acid was extraordinary; it felt like bubbles of light bursting and releasing happiness throughout my body, making us all laugh even more.

  For the first time in ages I’d gone out and had a great time on my own with my own friends, and I was glowing with joy when I returned home, eager to tell Gen all about it. I felt so good as I walked into our room. Tremble came rushing up to me but Gen was sat up in bed looking stern and moody.

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, beaming back at him.

  I’d hardly got the word out when he said, flatly, ‘Pack your bags and get out.’

  I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. My skin prickled and I almost threw up. I’d never come down from a trip so fast. I found myself in a position I thought I’d left behind. Was I still not allowed to enjoy myself or come home late? Weren’t we supposed to be living an unconventional life? And why should I have to justify myself when he didn’t? He knew I had nowhere to go. This was my home, my life, and I didn’t want to lose it.

  We talked and I was ‘allowed’ to stay. I’d learned a very hard and painful lesson. Despite what happened I still adored and loved Gen, but those nagging doubts I thought I’d buried were back.

  *

  Our house (now labelled the Alien Brain) was a busy hub for people coming and going, staying over or living with us for a short time. While I was out at work, Spydeee and Gen did a lot of networking, which resulted in gigs and the founding of COUM fan clubs in the UK and USA. Spydeee had made contact with Jo Pemberton, who was at Bradford Art College and was appointed President of Bradford Van Club (COUM fan club). She was our first introduction to the artist, poet and jazz musician Jeff Nuttall, who had affiliations with William Burroughs.

  It was through Jo that we got the ‘Edna and the Great Surfers’ gig, where we supported Hawkwind at a benefit concert for a drug-busted commune. We presented as a rabble of characters amid a mass of drums, with Brook on guitar, Spydeee and Gen on vocals, Jonji Smith on a surfboard, surfing a bucket of water underneath a large beach umbrella, and myself as a schoolgirl throwing and batting COUM penee-inscribed ping-pong balls at the audience. We tossed polystyrene granules about like showers of snow that covered the stage and made their way into Hawkwind’s effects pedals, causing them technical problems. There was a lot of heckling but we were into audience participation and encouraged interaction, sometimes pre-empting the inevitable (and usual) response by leading the audience in chanting ‘Off! Off! Off!’ – as we did that night in Bradford. All credit to Hawkwind, who were very cool about us and just asked us what drugs we were on.

  ‘None.’

  That we were sober and doing what we did seemed to confuse them. We’d part-named the gig in honour of Edna, a lift attendant from Bradford whose lonely-hearts ad we’d used in mail art and had printed up as a postcard.

  Greg Taylor (aka Foxtrot Echo) saw us at the Hawkwind show and was intrigued enough to introduce himself. He was at art college in Bradford studying film, TV and theatre. He asked if we’d be interested in going to the upcoming Bradford Porno Film Festival and said that he could arrange a COUM gig to coincide with our trip: ‘Exorcism of Shit’ at Bradford’s Afro Club. Just me and Gen turned up and did a bizarre, low-key and disjointed improvisation, with Gen on drums and me being ‘the presence’.

  After our trip to Bradford we invited Greg to Hull, and from then on he participated in and contributed a lot to COUM. He shared our interests in music and was coincidentally already working with Cornelius Cardew of AMM when he met us. His visits were always full-on. Meeting Greg sparked off a series of events that subsequently impacted greatly on my future artistic endeavours and even more significantly on my personal life.

  *

  The people at Hull Arts Centre, particularly Mike Walker, were very supportive, giving us access to the telephone – we didn’t have one until 1973 – and other facilities to help us with our projects. We performed one of my most memorable early COUM performances there, ‘The Caves of Montalbaan’. We transformed the whole of the main room of the Arts Centre into a disorientating alien environment, even making the audience enter the space by having to crawl through a tunnel-like mass of polythene. Once inside, the floor, walls and ceiling were strewn with brightly coloured polythene and gold and silver foil, amongst which we’d placed the drum kit, old shop dummies, a watering can, buckets of offal, a beach umbrella, toy instruments and even an old kitchen sink. People would chance upon strange characters performing odd scenarios, like Gen dressed as a baby in a pale-blue Babygro, laid next to a crate of milk, kicking his legs in the air and drinking from a bottle. Other COUM members played acoustic instruments and carried out bizarre enactments. Les had prepared a soundtra
ck, which he played back on his reel-to-reel tape machine, except the machine had a problem that made the sound ‘wow and flutter’ unpredictably – which actually sounded just perfect in that bizarre setting. There was no stage or central focal point, and some of the actions were hidden behind curtains of plastic or secreted away altogether – like the black coffin of new COUM member Fizzy. He had dressed as a mad scientist and got inside a wooden coffin-type box. People suspected it was empty until he leaped out and proceeded to slam animal brains on the lid, smashing them with a hammer and splattering everyone nearby. There was no escape from the hail of dead animal debris as I batted offal across the room. People had crawled into a surreal and disquieting place. Their reaction was to start smashing the place up … Maybe we’d gone too far.

  COUM performed when given almost any opportunity. ‘Disintegration of Fact’ took place in ‘Granny’s Parlour’, a small area set aside for live jazz music in the Royal Oak pub, just round the corner from Prince Street. Local hardman Ray Harvey had started coming to COUM shows and joining in, grabbing the bongos, talking drum or tambourine, singing his bluesy vocals and sometimes smashing up the tambourine as he thrashed out a rhythm. His presence, because of his violent reputation, usually guaranteed a hassle-free event. But I never felt personally threatened by him and didn’t hesitate to let him stay at Prince Street one night, even though I was on my own. He was fine and went merrily on his way the next morning.