“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.

“What’s all this?” I asked.

“It’s another fucking roasting,” said Thelma. “The bastards have really got it in for us here.”

It didn’t take me long to read the whole newspaper story. As in the earlier story in the New York Post more than three-quarters of the allocated space was taken up with the photograph and the headline: English All-Girl Punk Outrage Hits East Coast. A headline like that could just as easily have been praise as censure, but prompted by Thelma it was with a sinking heart that I read the text of the article:

Philly, Boston and now Rhode Island are trembling in the wake of the latest English pop sensation to invade America.

Punk Rocker Crystal and her band the Passions continue to cause shock and outrage at their concerts. It’s not only their music that’s wild and filthy. The girls are too!

Jeff Buckminster (47), owner of Philly Rock Club Merry Jane, was so shocked by the girls’ naked antics that he asked them to cover up right away.

“We don’t run a Strip Joint,” he told our reporter. “We mostly showcase good local boys like Joe Jackson.”

Loyal fan of Joe and his group the Shackabacks, Phil Stewart (18) agrees. “I don’t think Crystal and her group is right for Philly,” he said. “I don’t think they’re right for America.”

Crystal and the Passions have also outraged NY DJ Samuel Hedrick who’s urged his listeners to boycott their concerts. “It’s the worst possible kind of lesbian filth,” he says.

Reverend Bob Farrow was so scandalized by the Punk Rockers that he appeared on The Peter Pilton Daytime Show to warn off impressionable kids. “These English girls are not the example for American schoolgirls that parents want to see!”

Crystal and the Passions have future tour dates in states from Illinois to Virginia. Look out America!

Although it was obvious that this article was by no means four-square behind Crystal Passion, I could see that it was as likely to attract people to our gigs as it was to deter them, and that would mostly be for the prospect of seeing Judy’s dildo or Crystal’s nipples. Since the tour was intended to get the band better known in America and to profit from the proceeds of concert sales, such publicity might actually not be such a bad thing. However, I knew Crystal would get upset and that mostly by how the article had described her. And, as far as I knew, she didn’t even listen to, let alone identify with, punk rock.

“Can I take this to show Crystal?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Thelma. “She’s got to know the worst, hasn’t she? Where is she?”

“She’s with a local singer-songwriter, Veronica Wilson. She and I have been invited to stay at her place in Newport.”

“Veronica Wilson,” said Olivia. “Never heard of her. What’s she like?”

“Er… OK, I guess. It’s not my thing really. But it’s the kind of stuff both Andrea and Crystal are into.”

“You and Crystal aren’t spending much time with the rest of us, are you?” said Thelma, slightly accusingly. “There was that professor in Boston and now this folk singer…”

“Crystal’s got to make new friends and contacts in America,” I said.

“Or go to bed with every last one of them,” sniffed Thelma.

I decided not to defend Crystal’s honour and integrity, about which I felt somewhat guilty as I drove back to Newport with Thelma’s copy of the New York Post. However, as it happened there was nothing that I should have felt guilty about.

After I’d arrived at Veronica’s house and parked the car in the drive, I endured more than ten minutes of angry frustration as I intermittently rang the doorbell and then impatiently waited for an answer. I was absolutely sure that everyone was in the house. Veronica’s station wagon was parked exactly where it had been earlier and I’d been told that no one in America ever walked anywhere unless they had to. I assumed that nobody could hear the doorbell over the din of their music making.

“Hiya!” said an American woman’s voice from behind the gauze screen to the porch. “It’s Pebbles, isn’t it? Have you got all the bags and stuff?”

“Of course,” I said, slightly peeved not to be let straight in. “It’s all here.”

But when I walked onto the porch beside her I could see why Veronica was so reluctant to open the door. And that was because she was totally naked. She had a large pendulous bosom over a slightly more round stomach than she’d had as a younger woman and a thatched mess of pubic hair that was much more common in those days than it is today. I made no remark about her nudity—there could be nothing less cool—but I’d already guessed what was happening.

As usual, Crystal had wasted no time at all in seducing Veronica, although she’d probably done it so subtly that the famous singer-songwriter would think it was she who’d taken the initiative. And when I made my way to the living room, I was no longer witness to a concert recital but to a small-scale single-sex orgy. Crystal and Andrea had their arms around one another and limbs spread out over the couch.

“Make yourself comfortable, honey,” said Veronica who left me in little doubt as to what she really meant.

I hesitated while I considered my options. There was no doubt in my mind that it could be fun and certainly a memory to cherish to make love to Veronica and her impressive and enticing bosom. There was also the opportunity to snuggle up towards, fist, frig, and otherwise make love to Crystal who I adored more than anyone else in the world.

But there was also the troubling presence of my sister.

Amongst the complex weave of possible sexual combinations practised by the members of the Crystal Passion band, what I’d always avoided at all costs was any that involved me being intimate with my sister. Carnal knowledge within the family was something I simply could never contemplate. I’d never discussed it with Andrea, but I’m sure she felt the same way. It puzzled me sometimes that Jane and Jacquie weren’t likewise shy of sibling sex, but I guess the relationship between twins, even if not identical, is of a different order from that between sisters separated by a few years. And although in the orgies and group sex sessions, it is possible that my lips or fingers might have engaged with her crotch—or vice-versa—this had never been intentional.

But despite my reservations, I could see no way out. It was still necessary for me to make every conceivable effort to avoid physical engagement with Andrea however difficult it was to avoid when four women were engaged in passionate embrace on the sofa and thick woollen rugs of Veronica’s massive living room.

Although the pivotal centre of our activity was Veronica whose body had probably not been so lavishly stroked, kissed or violated for many years (judging by her awkwardness and the frightening intensity of her orgasms), for me it was always a case of how to navigate past Veronica and Andrea towards Crystal who, for reasons of fairness with regards to Andrea and of artistic respect towards Veronica was equally as assiduously manoeuvring her attention in the opposite direction. So it was inevitable that of the four of us it was me who was the least satisfied and most eager to continue late into the night.

But this was not to be. It was Crystal and Veronica who nestled together in Veronica’s huge double bed while Andrea and I slept in separate beds in different rooms. This was my first solitary night for quite some time. Normally, I relied on one or both of Jane and Jacquie to keep me company throughout the night. Now it was just me by myself and no other woman’s body against mine.

And, to be honest, I rather enjoyed the novelty of it.

Even if nowadays I’d be rather more grateful for and certainly more appreciative of the attention of as many passionate, frequent and regular sexual partners as I had then.

I almost certainly had a more restful night’s sleep than Crystal. And when the opportunity at last came for me to show her the article embedded somewhere towards the middle of the New York Post, her reaction was much worse than I’d expected. She gripped the newspaper article in her hands as if it might otherwise escape and compulsively read it over and over again.

“Don’t fret, sweetie,” said Veronica as she pulled Crystal’s head down onto her bosom. “You shoulda seen what they said about me when I was dating Tim Buckley. It’s just good that no one ever found out about me and Laura Nyro.”

“I just feel that instead of being treated like a song-writer or a musician, I’m being pilloried as a freak,” Crystal wailed. “It’s as if the American media were stripping me bare, beating me with a whip and holding me up for ridicule.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” I said.

“No?” said Crystal with a look of mock disbelief as a tear trailed down her cheek and onto Veronica’s bosom and across the wide expanse of her areola. “What does it say? ‘Naked antics’. ‘Lesbian filth’. And what about this call to boycott our concerts? What have we ever done to deserve this?”

“Are you sure it’s not because you play this ‘punk rock’ music the kids dig these days?” Veronica remarked.

“There’s no ‘punk’ in our music at all,” said Crystal. “Judy plays a mean rock guitar, but that’s about it. Crystal Passion is more Everything But the Girl than Dead Kennedys. It’s more Portishead than the Damned. There’s absolutely nothing about Crystal Passion for anyone to get upset about.”

“There’s the nudity and the lesbianism,” I pointed out.

“As I said,” Crystal repeated firmly. “There’s absolutely nothing that should upset anyone about Crystal Passion.”

As always, Polly Tarantella has plenty to say about the New York Post article, though I suspect that if she were familiar with UK newspapers like The Sun or The Daily Mail, she might have a different attitude. In her biography, it really does seem as if Crystal were spat at, stripped of all modesty, beaten with a whip, paraded naked down the street and forced to wear a dunce’s cap. The chapter regarding this incident is even entitled America Scourges Crystal Passion and she portrays Samuel Hedrick and Reverend Bob Farrow as party to a grand conspiracy whose objective is to humiliate Crystal and drive her out of America. Much as I’m sure both pundits would have been delighted to see Crystal Passion fly back to London before we’d completed our tour, I doubt that this was the only campaign against the encroaching tide of permissiveness and immorality they were engaged in.

Polly makes a great deal about Veronica’s role in comforting a distressed Crystal, although she discreetly overlooks the fact that they had sex together. However, in Polly’s defence, Veronica wasn’t quite as eager as Crystal was to share her body with more than one other woman. And nowadays this is something I can readily relate to.

Polly also expresses regret that there isn’t a recording of Veronica Wilson and Crystal Passion playing together, but in the days when mobile phones couldn’t even take still pictures let alone films and when cameras were too heavy and clumsy to carry in a pocket, this isn’t surprising. But it’s thanks to Veronica that our gigs at Thorn’s Folk and Blues Club were sold out and attracted a more than usually appreciative audience.

And that’s mostly because she agreed to perform on stage with the band: a decision which led to a frantic last-minute publicity campaign by Barry and Anita Thorn who pasted a sticker on all the concert posters they could find so that it now read: Featuring A Guest Appearance From Veronica Wilson!! And this publicity most definitely attracted a bigger and more enthusiastic audience for Crystal Passion.

There is no sense that Crystal changed our set simply to suit Veronica Wilson. She always adapted the choice of songs and arrangements to fit wherever we were performing. So, in this gig, there were some songs she performed with only Andrea rather than with the whole band. And she was more than content to perform as Veronica Wilson’s accompanist on her Rhode Island lover’s songs. This was probably much like her early days when she played in a duet with John River. But along with songs that appealed to Veronica’s many grateful fans, there were the more upbeat songs in which Judy Dildo took full possession of the stage and where the larger ensemble, including saxophone, clarinet, percussion and, of course, my electronic keyboards, made a clamour which disorientated those in the audience with abundant grey beards, long white hair (if there was any hair at all), chunky jumpers and leather sandals. They must have thought they’d been accidentally transported to a night club, though I doubt whether any of them would appreciate the difference between Michael Jackson and the Jungle Brothers or between the Temptations and Orbital. And, most crucially of all, Crystal performed as she mostly always did: in the nude, unannounced and unabashed. Nobody else, including Judy, exposed more than the usual amount of flesh that a female musician in a hot and sweaty cellar venue might normally display.

Polly’s wrong to say there wasn’t a record of Crystal Passion performing with Veronica Wilson. There were no photographs, film or recording. That’s true enough. But there was a brief review of the concert in The Brown Daily Herald under a picture of Veronica taken some ten years earlier which was captioned as Veronica Wilson Plays with the Crystal Passion Band. This review focused almost entirely on Veronica’s music though it does admit that “the Crystal Passion Band were spirited accompanists” and that “the English all-girl electric folk and blues group acquitted themselves well and much to the appreciation of Providence’s folk fraternity.”

And this was probably the warmest praise Crystal Passion received during the entire duration of our American tour.