Je Suis Passée

The Batcave, and a tribute to an Enigmatic Chanteuse

Yesterday, I rediscovered a track from the 1980’s that I hadn’t heard in a very long time, and it took me right back to the day I was given an advance copy of the 12" single by my friend Regine, the vocalist of a band called Hard Corps.

Regine and I initially met in 1983, at London’s legendary Batcave club in Leicester Square. This always took place on a Wednesday night, and made a pleasant break from my moonlighting job, photographing celebrities and clientele in West End restaurants and nightclubs, as well as my daytime job in a small advertising agency in Surrey. I would usually accompany my colleague Gail Everett, her brother Paul and her flatmate Jonny, who was a part of the Batcave’s resident band Specimen. Gail had a sideline supplying innovative fashion designs for BOY, in King’s Road, London.

Apart from photos of a few Batcave regulars, I’ve often had a gnawing regret for not taking a camera inside the club itself, because it was always ‘happening’, and full of the most amazing people. It was essentially the crossroads at the end of the New Romantic period and the beginning of Goth subculture, and I wish I’d documented it more fully. The reason I didn’t was because it was my one night off in the week, and cameras were kind of bulky to be lugging around back then, especially with my Metz flash unit.

Gail Everett (right) outside BOY - King’s Road, London, 1982. Below: Signs of the times.

The Batcave was often frequented by a Banshee or two, Nick Cave and Robert Smith had also visited, and it seemed strange to find yourself on the dance floor with Soft Cell’s Marc Almond, who somehow managed to stomp on my foot on two separate occasions. There were regular guest appearances from the likes of Alien Sex Fiend, Danielle Dax, and one particularly bizarre performance by Michael Fagan and The Bollock Brothers, doing their rendition of God Save the Queen. Fagan was the intruder who’d infamously broken into Buckingham Palace and sat on the Queen’s bed, much to her chagrin. I don’t remember it being a particularly memorable performance, but Danielle Dax burst out of a giant cake, spitting fake blood at everyone on the club’s second birthday, and I won’t forget that!

Regine was there every Wednesday. She always oozed an enigmatic coolness, and there was absolutely no doubt that she was French. Somehow we hit it off, and one night she suggested we meet up on a Sunday and stroll around Camden Market, which we did that following weekend. She had a style, all her own, and a pretty unique hairstyle. The attraction was purely platonic but I found her fascinating.

After this little excursion she said I was always welcome to drop by her place in Brixton on the way home from my moonlighting job; being a bit of a night owl she was always up until the early hours. This I did on several occasions, though I’d always call her on the landline first. Brixton in those times had a bit of an edge to it, and was really badly lit, especially in her road. I remember being shocked the first time I visited, because there was a bloody great hole in the wall of the main room, like it had been smashed through with a sledge hammer, exposing all of the bricks. I’m pretty sure she told me it was a squat. It certainly looked like one, and squatting was a bit of a necessity in Maggie Thatcher’s England.

We usually hung out in the kitchen, and one night I asked her about the wig that was hanging on a hook on the door. She told me that she wore it for her job, dancing in a peep show in Soho. She had no reservations about it at all, and said it was a way to support herself as a musician, for which I admired her frankness. I was keen to know the kind of music she was involved in, but I didn’t get to hear it for a while. She did have a strange fascination for the intro to Michael Jackson’s Beat it though, which she played on repeat a fair few times.

One weekend Regine called me at home, and asked if I wanted to go and see a film with her at the Brixton Roxy. This was a small independent Cinema not far from her house, so I drove to her place and we walked over together. The film was French with subtitles she told me, and it was nothing I’d actually heard of, but I’ve always liked French filmmaking, so I was keen to see it, whatever it was.

We sat in the stalls near the front, and the film started. I think I was probably a bit stoned because Regine was never far away from rolling the next joint; and then a little way into the story it suddenly dawned on me that I was watching some kind of blatantly erotic lesbian scene. I turned to ask her what this film was actually all about, and to my amusement discovered she was having an incredibly intense snogging session with the girl in the next seat. I can’t remember how the evening panned out, but it was certainly educational.

Regine was brilliant to hang out with, she really was. Another night she suggested we go clubbing together. If my memory serves me, it was a later incarnation of the Batcave in Fouberts Place, just off Carnaby Street. It was winter, and when I picked her up from her place she got into my car with a big fur coat and the most humongous looking joint. She proceeded to light up and offer me some, but there was no way I was going to attempt driving after a puff of that thing. What freaked me out the most, was that the car was filling up with smoke and the most telling aroma. I was convinced that opening the windows would get us both arrested, as the smoke billowed out. It felt all too familiar, like a Cheech and Chong movie!

That wasn’t the end of her laissez-faire behavior that night. On arrival at the club we made our way to the cloakroom to check our coats in, and as we waited in line, Regine nonchalantly took off her fur coat to reveal a completely naked upper torso except for a couple of small chains criss-crossing her breasts. I was utterly speechless, but completely in awe of her calm demeanor.

I recently discovered an article on Dazed magazine’s website documenting the fearlessness of 80s London youth, and a photograph of Regine taken by Derek Ridgers at the Batcave that very same night. (article here).

The reason I’m writing about this is because I discovered it wasn’t unusual behavior according to some of the accounts I’ve been reading online, and this pre-gig agreement, which apparently she’d completely ignored attests to the fact that she really didn’t compromise her art.

From the Hard Corps Facebook page.

A simple search on Google recently revealed an impressive amount of blog posts and articles singing the band’s praises and paying particular reverence to their chanteuse, Regine Fetet and her audacious stage presence. The tragic irony of this belated fame and adoration is that Regine died of cancer in 2003.

I hadn’t discovered this until a couple of years afterwards. I’d lost touch with her a long time before. Back in those days of no fixed abode, a distinct absence of cellphones and a thing called the internet, it was very easy to lose touch with people, and life often goes in different directions.

As the internet became more populated with information and social spaces like MySpace and Facebook, I figured I might be able to find her, but discovering her obituary instead was pretty devastating.

Focusing on the positives, I remember how pleased she was when she told me that the legendary Martin Rushent, producer of The Human League was going to produce the next Hard Corps release, Je Suis Passée.

I also remember seeing her immortalized by her performance alongside Hugh Ashton, Robert Doran and Clive Pierce on Channel 4’s The Tube.

Regine was really special, and I’m glad to have known her.

“The flame that burns Twice as bright burns half as long.” said Lao Tzu, but a look around the internet shows that flame is still burning.

RIP Regine 2003.

Je Suis Pasée insert photo and Regine’s publicity postcard.