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Thursday 23rd AugustTERRY CARR: Peter arrived not too early the next morning, thank God, along with Susan Wood, who’d been touristing and visiting family in the Isles for six weeks. She was in the process of trying to recover from a flu or something; Peter was battling a siege of bronchitis. I congratulated myself on my own good health, which I'd guarded carefully prior to the trip, remembering all too well a couple of conventions whose delights had been minimized by the illnesses that so often accompany late-night partying with much adrenaline and alcohol in the system. Peter and Susan were in good spirits, though, and we enjoyed the early-afternoon drive through countryside that seemed to me much like California in spring except that the grass looked newly-mown everywhere. (Actually, they keep sheep.) I was briefed on all the latest social notes about people who were so far only names to me, and we chattered a lot about the sort of things that interest people who read etymological dictionaries. I told Peter my fantasy of publishing such a book with the advertising slogan "Betcha Can't Look Up Just One."
PETER NICHOLLS: I drove Terry Carr and Susan Wood down on the Thursday; the one tall, affable and witty, the other, generally speaking, short, affable and witty, but in this instance handicapped by a slight tendency to vomit which had overtaken her a week earlier, and which she imputed to British Rail sandwiches. I dropped them at the hotel, took my car to the car park, spiralled up and down the 14 levels looking for a place, found one behind a wire fence inexplicably empty, drove into it, and then found myself locked in. Half an hour later a police car, attracted by my plaintive whimpers, pulled up outside the bars of what I now realized was a private area, and inside two constables convulsed with laughter. "Looks like a fair cop, Jones." "Yes, Smithers, I've seldom seen such a vicious criminal expression." After my shouting, "Will you cretins go and get the key?" for ten minutes or so, they staggered off, the car weaving from side to side on account of the constabulary's tasteless tendency to giggle helplessly, and I was ultimately released. This was my introduction to Seacon. PETER ROBERTS: Up fairly early for a cooked breakfast – my hands were already shaking so much that I spilled the coffee. Convention well under way, therefore. Fan room full of activity, chatter, clink of glasses, and ring of tills – already felt good in there, so more power to Eve Harvey and her aides. Had a look in the Huckster's Room – vast, on two levels, all full. Hucksters smiling – next time I'll find some stuff to sell too.
TERRY CARR: Once in Brighton, a small seaside city featuring lovely Regency architecture (much of which had decayed beautifully) and sunny but blustering weather, I checked into the Bedford Hotel two blocks from the convention-centre Metropole, then spent an hour or two talking with people in the Metropole's lobby. Fred Pohl introduced me to the Soviet sf critical theorist Kagarlitsky, who seemed a trifle defensive because he didn't actually Write the Stuff, and I ran into people like Bob Tucker and Bob Shaw, each of whom I see about as often as I see the other: though Tucker lives in [the US], on those occasions when we attend the same conventions Tucker always seems to go to parties other than those where I am. Met Dave Piper, who's been a fan long enough to have been a LIGHTHOUSE subscriber but has only recently begun writing for fanzines (like MAYA) himself; he said he loved my best-of-the-year anthologies but thought the latest one was a bit of a drag: "Not a good year?" he asked. Then he got all embarrassed and apologized for making criticisms of my work at first meeting; I explained quickly and truthfully that his criticisms were more than welcome, since by the nature of things the readers who approach me at cons are almost solely those who have nothing but good to say of me - it makes for great egoboo but rather inadequate feedback. We discussed the latest 'Best SF of the Year' and he told me the stories he'd least liked had been precisely those that had most pleased me. Oh dear.
While I was talking with Piper, a young man with a book in his hand came up and stood quietly waiting till we’d finished our conversation. He wants an autograph, I thought, so at the first reasonable pause I turned to him. "Sorry to be standing here so long," he said. "Well, you have to stand somewhere," I said in my most reasonable fashion. He handed me the book he'd been carrying: it was the British SF Book Club Edition of Cirque. "I thought you'd like to have this." Indeed I did want it, especially since I hadn't even known for sure that the book club would reprint it: I'd had a letter from them six months before expressing interest, and had replied tardily; the news that the sale had come to fruition hadn't yet filtered through my British publisher, my British agent and my U.S. ex-agent. The young man's name was Paul Begg, and as we talked I found myself liking him very much; we subsequently spent much time together on various occasions during the convention. Among other things we discussed here and there was a project he was organizing for an original-stories sf anthology; he asked me for tips on how to get top authors to contribute and evidently I told him all I could think of, for every time I saw him thereafter he reported some new success with an author. In the heat of the event-horizon of a convention lobby, though, I neglected to remember what advice I gave, so later on I was constantly asking, "How did you get him?" "Oh, I just did what you suggested...I seduced his wife." "What?!"
The photo below shows the stage (extended for the Fancy Dress later in the con) in relation to the balcony. The section of balcony over the stage was where lots of tech ops was located while the section pictured to the right of it was directly outside the Fan Room, affording the opportunity for those who spent most of the convention in it to occasionally wander out and check what was going on in the main hall. However, the lack of a kick guard would prove to be unfortunate.
PHIL JAMES: I roamed the lobby looking for people I knew, collecting the autographs of famous authors as I went; Brian Aldiss (British Guest of Honour), Alexei Panshin (looking like Mike Moorcock, Economy Size), Bob Silverberg, Joe Nicholas. Joe Nicholas? Well, I mistook him for Chris Priest, shoulder bag and all. I said it was a strange transition! I eventually found some faces I knew in the Fanroom, which was huge, almost an aircraft hangar. Greg Pickersgill, Simone Walsh, Kev Smith and others were in charge of the Amazing Expanding Fanzine Stall and I met John and Eve with Alan Dorey at the BSFA desk.
In addition there were representatives of various groups and con-bidding committees, including a Yugoslavian contingent present. There were exhibits of artwork and photographs of fans in compromising situations. There was even the unprecedented sight of thirsty fans forming an Orderly British Queue to get to the bar: And of course there were the usual games machines (on which a few famous fen met their dooms for want of the tactical skills that can be gleaned from any Perry Rhoden novel). For some obscure, patriotic reason, I attended. the opening ceremony with two American fans; Cathy and Mark Ball who were equally bemused by the proceedings. PETER WESTON: The Opening Ceremony [was] my baby, something I'd fought for at committee meetings, something I was determined to do properly. My belief was that so many conventions fail because they never get properly started. They just sort of creep into life when no-one is looking, never develop a head of steam, that sense of involvement which is so necessary if attendees are going to knit together to make the whole greater than the sum of its fans. The rest of the committee were unenthusiastic, they could see problems. And what exactly did I propose? Music, I suggested. At Discon I'd been very impressed by the colour and spectacle of the Alexandria Pipe Band, which Dick Eney had arranged to march through the convention one evening (though I never found out exactly why). And a bit of comedy would be good. What if I got hold of a fake machine-gun and pretended to mow down the rest of the committee? They looked unimpressed. All right, I said, so what if they were to mow me down? They brightened somewhat at this, but still said no. In the end Kev Williams came to the rescue. He and his wife Sue had already agreed to paint our backdrop for the main hall, a huge thing that would stretch across the width of the room and would necessarily drop through two floor levels, It must have measured something like 30 x 20 foot, in white, with Harry Bell's "fannish lion" symbol, and our slogan, "Britain's fine in '79". "So," said Kev, "what if we hang the backdrop against the wall, but for the opening we have it rolled up against the ceiling so we can project the symbols of previous worldcons onto the wall behind. While we're doing this we can play some music, gradually getting louder, until at the right moment we give 'cm a full blast as our backdrop comes down. A sort of audio-visual build-up, and then Peter can come on and say his bit, and he can have his marching band, too, if he wants it." Well, he sold me, and the rest of the committee too, although Kevin's proposals caused considerable technical difficulties and I never did find out how he managed to transport something so big and heavy, and get it rigged up in the way he wanted. His choice of music was superb, and during rehearsals his slide-show worked wonderfully, as the conventions marched through the years to a stentorian voice-over "1975 - Melbourne; 1976 - Kansas City;" and so on, culminating in the awe-inspiring moment when the voice said "1979 - Brighton" and our backdrop slowly rolled down to the dramatic theme from `Rocky'. It brought tears to my eyes, it really did!
What about the band? Well, since we were in Brighton I thought it would be nice to have the Royal Marines. Of course, we couldn't afford the entire regiment... in fact, it turned, out that we couldn't afford any of them! Apparently this sort of thing is a nice little earner for these well-known regiments, so the best we could get were a half-dozen members of the Caledonian Pipe Band. Still, I thought the bagpipes and the uniforms would make a bit of a splash as they marched into the hall, and the Americans would like it, so we went ahead with the hire. KEV WILLIAMS: The ceremony was designed to wow these world-weary cynical Americans right from the start. To show that we Brits could really organise things efficiently. The second World War was not a flash in the pan you know! However, the best laid plans .... The ceremony was due to begin at 2:15. It was now 2:00. The pipe band (a Pete Weston inspiration - not too popular with others) was stuck in a traffic jam somewhere to the north of the city. "Stall 'til about 2:30, came the instructions from the chairman. Everybody stood by. The sound technician had all the music set up, the gophers stood at their posts, light switches, ropes to raise the Seacon banner at the prime moment. Sue was ready with the spots, Andy Firth had the bathing belles in the bar alongside the main con hall, buying them drinks and keeping them warm. I stood on the balcony ready to cue the slides and give all the signals for the sound, banner, spots, bathing belles and Scots Pipe band - although at that moment no Scots band. The tension on the balcony was palpable. 2:30 came and went. The slow hand clapping began. The music tape was on its third time through. I grabbed the walkie-talkie:
"Pete! Where the hell is this band - let's start without them". I signalled the sound technician and the gopher controlling the lights. The lights went out. A derisive cheer arose from the audience. I awaited the growing volume of the opening anthem to begin the slides. None came. SILENCE. I looked in panic at the sound tech. He was sitting there, quite happily, cans over ears nonchalantly tapping his finders to non-existent music. I tore the earphones from his head.
"Nothing's happening!" I cried in despair. I did not feel well. The walkie-talkie burst into action.
"Martin here, Kev, some fat bastard has pulled all the plugs out of the speakers
down here on the floor." This stirred the tech, into action. He sprinted for the stairs.
RICH COAD: Despite its being six times as large as the previous largest British con, Seacon ran quite steadily amid throngs of tourists, mods and rockers who had descended on Brighton for the Bank Holiday weekend. I wish the same could be said for Anglo-American relations. These got off to a bad start when, at the opening ceremonies, some ignorant self-opinionated sod-minded suet-brained ham-faced mealy-mouthed streptococcus-ridden natural gobdaw from America pulled the jacks on the sound system. His reason? "I was expecting bagpipe music, not this awful rock and disco!" Well you poxy fat moron, whoever you are... I hope next time you're at a con you might consider that some of us like rock and disco whilst loathing bagpipes. At any rate; the jacks being a series, things were considerably delayed while everything was reconnected.
To think you can just cut off the music at an event because you personally don't like it... that's a sense of entitlement that's off the charts! KEV WILLIAMS: I got Peter on the walkie-talkie, explained what had happened. The slow handclapping returned, supplemented by jeers, cat-calls etc. There was a feeling of impending doom. "Pete ..., I think that you're going to have to get up on that stage and explain what has happened!"
The only reply was a low moan. The lights came up, more jeers, and Pete walked onto the stage to be torn to pieces. He tried to explain the status-quo to an increasingly hostile audience. Such are the tribulations of leadership! The sound tech came back at a run. "S'okay now... let’s run!" I signalled frantically to Pete to get off the stage. The lights went out. Another jeer from the mob below. The anthem blared forth from the speakers! The slides worked, the banner worked, the spot light picked out the logo and as the anthem reached a crescendo, a huge cheer arose from the audience, who then frantically applauded. Congratulations at last. SUCCESS - so far! But what of the band, or piper and drummer?
After a couple of heart stopping faulty cues, the awful whining sound which can only come from the birth throes of a Scots Pipe band was heard. The entire band burst into the hall, sporrans askew and kilts a-swinging, playing as if their lives depended on it (which they did and not only theirs either). Everybody clapped along with those good old favourites as they marched up and down the aisle. Playing...... and Playing..... and Playing. Five minutes passed, ten even fifteen and still they played. OH NO!
Christ, I thought, how long has Pete hired them to play for? Kettle and I were making frantic wind-up signals from the balcony. A murmur of rebellion was coming from the audience. Thankfully the band finished and walked out of the hall. Everything and body on the balcony was covered in a fine film of sweat.
Peter Weston returned to the stage at this point and introduced the Guests of Honour.
The introductions went well. Aldiss was as usual to be relied upon and gave a good and brief speech. The bathing belles came on - on cue.
ERIC BENTCLIFFE: After the opening, Norman and I decided to tour the Metropole and try and locate where everything was...that I was still trying to do this on the morning I had to leave for home illustrates how many pleasant diversions I encountered. We did get as far as the Bookroom; met Lynn Hickman, John Millard, Jim Cawthorn, Ina, Ron Bennett, and others, and were still there talking (or so it seemed) when we realised it was time to go watch the STAR WARS presentation at 8 o'clock in the evening. I didn't attend many program items; I was too *busy*, but I was impressed by the sheer amount of programming scheduled for the convention, and by the general organisation of the convention. Oh, I could criticise this, or that, things did go wrong, but they were so minor, relatively speaking, that I've only praise for the committee...and sometimes when they went wrong, it helped. Things went wrong during the STAR WARS Presentation; projector trouble made what would have been, probably, a slick-presentation into quite a fannish affair. Sound synchronisation *didn't* when they tried to show the trailer for "The Empire Strikes Back" the first time, and the projectionist had to do a re-wind. Tension was relieved, however, when Filthy Pierre struck up the Star Wars Theme on his harmonium, falsely alerting the back-room boys to dim the lights just as the projectionist was re-threading... a blue-haze momentarily emitted from the balcony.
Prior to the Star Wars show we had found the Art Rooms, and the Fan Room, and these areas, interconnecting with the Book Rooms, were where I spent my day-time Seacon. The art on display was very impressive, and found myself returning again and again to both the main exhibition, and to the Dragon's Dream display. To one used to the small (*good*, but small) amount of art on show at U.K. conventions the Seacon Displays were almost overwhelming both in variety, and high standard, of work on show. The quite superb artistry and imaginative detail which many of the exhibits displayed deserves high praise. Few artists in the s-f/fantasy field get the recognition they truly deserve, probably because it isn't easy for fans ( or anyone ) to describe their reaction to a work of pictorial art. I know I feel totally inadequate to express the pleasure given to me by artists, known and unknown (to me), at Seacon. The Fan Room...oops, FANDOM ROOM, was less impressive in its displays (and I, for one, would have liked to see the bleeping, beeping video-games elsewhere, for they were a considerable distraction during Fan Room programme items), but no less of interest in that here were to be seen walking, talking, occasionally breathing, exhibits of fandom past and present. At almost any time of day or night there was bound to be at least a dozen people there you wanted to talk with. I met Terry Hughes there for the first time, 'fresh' from flying the Atlantic, and the Maule mobile. Trufan that he is, he made light of these twin hazards and contributed much to the pleasant fannish ambience in which I passed the weekend. PETER NICHOLLS: It seemed to me, it was my job to mingle with the rich and famous, in order to publicize the Encyclopaedia. Granada co-operated in a predictable manner by delaying the binding of said work by ten days, thus ensuring that no copies would be on display. Clearly I couldn't waste time talking to fans and friends; my task, as I saw it, was to approach all 150-odd pros present in an unctuous, cunning and insinuating manner, and they would then tell the world to buy the book. I would speak to Bob Sheckley with levity, and Hal Clement with gravity. (The system had several flaws, one being that most of the pros wanted to read their own entries, and this often resulted in a vindictive refusal to speak to me thereafter, rather than unstinted praise and warm promises of future support. Even such naturally friendly types as Alexei Panshin and A.Bertram Chandler looked at me reproachfully, the former for the use of the phrase 'rather less successful' as applied to all of his books but one, and the latter for my chauvinist omission of all the awards he has won in Japan.)
Suzy Charnas leafed through my [unbound copy], and looked up the entry on Women. She read it carefully through, while I watched nervously. Was this feminist lady going to call me a male cretin? Tonelessly she asked, "Who wrote this?" "I did," I confessed, and waited for the blow to fall. "It's really very good," she said. This compliment pleased me more than any other single event at the convention. TERRY CARR: Came time for dinner, which developed into a bit of disaster. I’d solicited recommendations of restaurants and gotten directions to one a few blocks away, but a block from the hotel a very thorough cloudburst dumped from the sky. If you wear glasses, you know the difficulty of reading street signs in a rainstorm. Naturally we got lost in the streets of Brighton and wandered for fifteen minutes feeling like the Flying Dutchman trying to find his way around Cape Horn. Soaked literally to the skin, we ducked into the first restaurant we found, where the first thing we ordered was a towel. The food (Greek) that followed was pretty good, but I'm sure the downpour hadn't helped Susan Wood's attempted recovery from her flu; she was seen only sporadically for the rest of the convention. The big party that night was in Dave Hartwell's suite, where as usual most everybody in the pro ranks gathered to blow smoke in each other's faces and try to shout above the din created by other shouters. (Dave had already retired to the hall when I arrived.) I talked with Tom Disch, whom I hadn't seen in ages, and with Ted White, Alex Panshin, Norman Spinrad, Ginjer Buchanan, John Silbersack... What? Had I travelled all the way to England to speak with a bunch of Americans? Dave told me he'd invited at least a dozen British writers but not a one had shown up; evidently the fame of Dave's con-parties hadn't yet crossed the Atlantic. ...Well, I did get to meet John Bush, the distinguished editor of Gollancz, whose appearance and demeanour matched his accomplishments. He told me the recession in publishing that's already hitting U.S. publishers hadn't yet struck in England, though the signs were on the wall, particularly in the government's cutting back on funding for libraries. The sf gravy train is slowing drastically, friends: all but the most talented and/or loud among us will have to go without truffles, at least.
I met Colin Murray of Sphere Books, too, though this happened before the party, when I was leaving my hotel after stopping to hang up my soaked jacket to dry: I ran into Ted White, Greg and Joan Benford at the door of the lobby as I was leaving, and Ted introduced me to Colin Murray. I said cannily, "Ah yes; I know you under another name," a remark that didn't bring the response I'd anticipated. I was thinking of Colin Middleton Murry, who writes as "Richard Cowper" (pronounced "Cooper," I'm told). Oh well; uh...so it goes. Perhaps I should interject a note here to explain that I'm likely to forget some names and get some others quite wrong as I write here. It seems to be unavoidable when trying to reconstruct from memory the events of a chaotic convention. Last year, for instance, in my report on the worldcon in Phoenix, I mistakenly reported the presence of Terry Hughes at dinner one evening even though he hadn't attended the convention; noticing my error within a few lines but being in a great rush to get the report finished, I put in the next paragraph the name of Dan Steffan, hoping to make up for having confused him with Hughes. However, the person who’d really been involved in the second anecdote was Brad Balfour. (You may be sure I had a confused letter from Terry Hughes after that convention report appeared.) The Hartwell/Pocket Books party did provide me a chance to talk with Charles Platt, a real live English author even if he did live in New York for a while. I've always liked him, even though deploring some of the things he's done. Speaking of which, I asked him straight out if it had indeed been he who’d taken out a contract to have a pie thrown in Ted White's face a couple of years ago at a Lunacon; he said, "Actually, it wasn't so much a contract as a shareholders' agreement... and I could have sold three times as many shares as I did." "Charles, that was a damned tacky thing to do, you know." "Well, it wasn't as serious as people thought. It was a continuation of a British convention tradition: Harry Harrison and Brian Aldiss, who are good friends, had thrown pies in each other's faces at a couple of conventions." (This was true, as Peter Roberts' article on British conventions in the Programme Book testified.) "It was a rotten thing to do anyway," I said. "Ted's clothes were ruined and he had to send them to the cleaners." Platt nodded. "I wish Ted had sent me the bill; I'd have paid it." PETER NICHOLLS: The first night I met and talked to a man, now rather elderly, who must surely be one of the pleasantest and most knowledgeable in the whole history of genre sf, Jack Williamson. I was ready to be unnerved, because I already knew from photographs that he exactly resembled my own late father. However, I managed to speak to him for fifteen minutes or so without too much in the way of Oedipal references coming out, though my half-memory of saying "Goodnight, Dad" when he left the party is, I hope, a false one.
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