by Tom Cox
‘I don’t mind. It’s not that. It’s just . . . I was wondering if we could do something that involved something a bit heavier. Something a bit, y’know, punk. Maybe.’
‘Well, I dunno. I don’t have much contact with punk people these days. I’m a bit scared of them, to be honest. I used to be well into the whole scene, though.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.’
‘I’ll have to show you the pictures some time. Or maybe I won’t. It was a weird phase: lots of cut-off golf trousers and friends with names like Zac and Thud. I still have some of the bruises to prove it.’
‘Really?’
‘No. I was bullshitting. Bruises don’t last ten years.’
‘The whole thing’s just kind of hard to imagine.’
‘Why?’
‘I dunno. Just . . . Did you have a band?’
‘Yeah. Of course. I sang . . .’
‘You sang! Ha!’
‘I dunno why it’s so funny. Listen. Tell you what. I’ll tell you a story, then you might understand a bit better. Then you can tell me a story about one of your bands.’
‘Ur. Okay. Go on then.’
‘No. I’m going to write it down.’
‘What, now?’
‘No. I’m driving.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘To get inside this story, you’re going to have to imagine a world with no Slipknot. A world where not every city had a Starbucks on every third street. A world where mobile phones were the size of dictionaries . . .’
‘I think I get the picture.’
‘. . . A world where Kurt Cobain hadn’t shot himself yet.’
‘Cooooool!’
‘I’m going to put it in the present tense.’
‘Why?’
‘So you can imagine you were there more easily.’
‘Oh.’
‘The story starts in a recording studio, where the microphones smell.’
‘I hate the way they do that.’
TOM’S STORY
MATT IS SITTING on the amplifier, reading from a sheet of A4 paper. I’m leaning against the wall, examining my nails for something non-existent, in that way that people do when they’re feeling simultaneously bored and smug. Matt looks up and shakes his head. A smile spreads across his face – a bit like the one you imagine Jagger might have flashed Richards upon receipt of the riff to ‘Satisfaction’. ‘This is it,’ he tells me. ‘This . . . this is the greatest thing you’ve ever written.’
It’s 1993, and Matt and I are the principal songwriters in Rick Argues, the punk band we have formed at FE college. That is to say, I bring four verses and a chorus of preternaturally banal teen angst to the studio, and Matt constructs a three-chord riff around them in the style – we would like to think – of our Californian teen punk heroes, Green Day. Either that or we just cover a Green Day song. Green Day are still in the hardcore punk ghetto at this point, and have yet to be signed to Warner Music. We look at it this way: liking them makes us very obscure and cool, and if, when we finally get around to playing a gig, someone mistakes one of Green Day’s songs for one of ours, we won’t go out of our way to correct them.
Matt listens exclusively to three-chord punk music. I listen exclusively to three-chord punk music and The Smiths. I think The Smiths are brilliant. Matt thinks they are ‘puff music, for puffs’, even though Matt – who, incidentally, won’t be homophobic for ever – has never properly heard The Smiths. Matt and I argue about The Smiths constantly, but try to meet somewhere in the middle (i.e. I am banned from mentioning The Smiths, Morrissey, ambiguous sexuality, or our college friend, Robin Smith). But today, after three months of hard work, Matt is looking at me affectionately, concluding we have made a major breakthrough. This, I can tell he is thinking from the far-off look in his eyes, is the first step on the way to a support tour with our peers, Throaty Toad, a local band with the distinction of ‘once going out for a drink with the Buzzcocks’.
What is the inspiration behind Rick Argues? I don’t think either of us can quite put our finger on it. I would ask John and Joe, the other two members of our band, what they thought, but it would probably be a waste of time. John, who drums, and Joe, who plays bass, are never quick to take advantage of Rick Argues’ democratic forum for free expression.
‘I was thinking of moving the second line of verse one into the third line of verse two. What do you think, John?’ I sometimes ask John.
‘Okay,’ John replies.
‘What do you think of this riff?’ Matt sometimes asks John.
‘S’alright,’ John says.
In an attempt to get John more involved, I write ‘John’s Hair’, a song built around the central refrain ‘Once it was short/Now it is long’, detailing the journey of his lustrous locks from crewcut to pony tail. ‘What do you think, John?’ I ask.
‘S’alright,’ says John.
Joe, our bassist, isn’t quite so loquacious. One of life’s great smilers, Joe has such a repertoire of attentive grins that it’s possible to have a half-hour conversation with him without realising he hasn’t spoken. When Matt and I fight over The Smiths, Joe grins. When Matt tells me that what I’ve written is soppy shite, Joe grins. When I gently suggest to Matt that he might want to add a fourth chord to his repertoire, Joe grins. Joe’s grins, despite their diversity, all seem to mean the same thing: ‘S’alright’. Do John and Joe enjoy being in Rick Argues? Who knows. Do John and Joe talk about Matt and me behind our backs? Perhaps, but in our presence they communicate with one another on a purely psychic level.
On the days we can’t afford a proper rehearsal room, I drive across town to Matt’s front room. First of all, though, I pick up John and Joe, who live on the posh side of town, and load their equipment into the boot of my parents’ Vauxhall Astra. I drive in the style of a punk rock Alain Prost, but not quite as slowly. I am an idiot. No-one talks, because I’ve worked out by now that John and Joe are beyond words, and besides, Green Day’s Kerplunk!, cranked up on the car stereo, makes conversation difficult. You might say that, as seventeen-year-olds go, I’m a reckless driver, but I know the etiquette of the highway. When, such as now, I detect the wail of an ambulance’s siren behind me, I pull over to the side of the road with my hazard flashers on. Only, instead of an ambulance, the Astra is surrounded by three police cars, one in front, one at the back and one at the side.
Joe, John and I are bundled roughly out of the Astra and get a police car each. I see John’s policeman accidentally-on-purpose trap John’s leg in the door. For once, John doesn’t say, ‘S’alright.’ He says, ‘Owwww!!’ The policeman doesn’t apologise.
My policeman doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, while I sit there, thinking how much he looks like a human version of Basil Brush. He asks me for my name and licence, then enquires what I was doing outside Joe’s house five minutes ago. I tell him I was picking Joe up. He asks me where we are going. I tell him our band, Rick Argues, is on the way to rehearse our new song, ‘T-Shirt’.
Basil asks me a few more questions, about where I live, how old I am. Then he makes a call via his crackly radio. By this point, his two colleagues are standing outside the car, waiting to talk to him. Joe and John are sitting on the grass verge; Joe looks sad and worried, but is still sort of grinning.
It is clear there has been a terrible mistake. We have been reported by one of Joe’s neighbours for breaking into Joe’s house and stealing Joe’s bass guitar and amplifier. Basil returns to the car and explains this to me in the chuntering voice of the six-year-old who knows he is wrong for setting fire to the manger in the school nativity play but doesn’t want to admit it in the presence of his tough mates.
‘If you’re going to have to pick Joe up in the future, just be more careful next time you’re in his area,’ Basil tells me.
I wonder what Basil means by this. How can we be more careful to show Joe’s neighbours we aren’t breaking into his house? Perhaps I should refrain from driving a nine-year-old car with a Dead Kennedys log
o painted on the side, or, even better, we should all wear fluorescent t-shirts with name tags and ‘Law-Abiding Citizen’ emblazoned on them. I am about to put this suggestion to Basil, but think better of it.
‘And there’s one other thing,’ he says. ‘You went through a red light back there.’
‘It was amber,’ I correct him.
‘It’s the same thing.’
I really have to put Basil right here, if only for his own good and his future as a successful policeman. ‘How can they be the same thing if one’s orange and the other one’s red?’
‘Both signals request the driver to stop. I’m going to let you out the car now, but just remember: you’ve been very lucky not to be fined. It’s a criminal offence to waste police time, you know.’
Police time? What about Rick Argues’ time?
We arrive at Matt’s place in stunned silence. For once, though, I feel I can rely on John and Joe for support: we’re all pretty shaken up, right? Those pigs are such bastards, aren’t they? We’re innocent punk rock heroes, railing against the system! I recount the experience to Matt, being careful to double the number of police cars and the level of physical violence.
‘So then this bastard copper slams John’s head against the car bonnet and starts reading him his rights!’ I tell Matt.
‘Fucker told me I sped through a red light at ninety miles an hour. I told him where to stick it!’ I tell Matt.
I look to John and Joe for support.
‘S’right,’ says John.
‘. . .’ says Joe, grinning.
Rick Argues’ signature song is called ‘T-Shirt’. I genuinely feel it’s my masterpiece. Here is the first verse:
Over there you are
Walking in the dark
I don’t know your name
But I know your name
The bridge builds the tempo slightly:
I’d like to thank you
For your T-shirt
Congra-tu-lations
On your T-shirt
The chorus goes like this:
T-shirt, T-shirt, I remember
T-shirt, T-shirt, last December
T-shirt, T-shirt, look but don’t touch
T-shirt, T-shirt, I’ve seen too much
I like the coda best, though:
Don’t throw it away!
Don’t throw it away!
Don’t throw it away!
‘T-Shirt’ is intended to be a meaningful commentary on the eternal search for identity via band logos among indie youth at Nottingham’s premier alternative venue, Rock City. Through its more profound lyrics – ‘I don’t know your name/But I know your name’ – I am trying to convey the sensation of not knowing someone, but feeling like you know someone. Ultimately, though, the song is a love letter to the girl in the Suede t-shirt I see at Rock City every week, who, on the one occasion that I tried to speak to her, told me to ‘piss off’ before I’d even managed to say hello. One day, I hope, she will sit in the front row at a Rick Argues gig, and I will be able to sing our signature song to her. As I said, I am an idiot.
Rick Argues are called Rick Argues because we have a friend, Rick, who argues. We invite Rick along to our rehearsals as our mascot, but he just disrupts the creative process by arguing.
‘Why did you call yourselves Rick Argues?’ asks Rick.
‘Because you argue a lot,’ Matt and I tell him.
‘No, I don’t,’ argues Rick.
Rick argues about everything, but doesn’t seem to realise it. I’ve noticed that when I abruptly change my mind and agree with him on a topic over which I previously disagreed with him, he’ll drop his original argument and borrow my original argument, just because he likes arguing so much. I don’t think Rick has ever agreed with anyone in their presence.
Matt and I have a song called ‘Rick Argues’, too. It doesn’t have a chorus, and the verses simply consist of me shouting out random topics which I’ve argued about (apart from The Smiths, of course, who are banned). For example:
Argued about my mum
Argued about my leg
Argued about John Major
Argued about hedgeclippers
Argued about third division footballers
It makes me happy!
We don’t think of it as one of our classics.
The microphones in the rehearsal rooms where Rick Argues practise smell of regurgitated parmesan. The crusty who owns the studios, Chiz, usually sits in the room adjacent to the room where Rick Argues rehearse, reading the Daily Star, smoking weed and feeding Kentucky Fried Chicken to his dog, KFC. ‘Here, KFC, want some KFC?’ enquires Chiz.
‘Wuff!’ replies KFC.
Our plan was to spend six months honing our style before cutting a demo or playing a gig. However, we feel, with our polished version of ‘T-Shirt’ and a new song, ‘Bike Mother (I Want Your Omelette)’, we are ready to book time in the Big Room, where people record things.
‘Chiz, we want to cut a demo,’ Matt and I inform Chiz.
‘Are you sure?’ asks Chiz.
We eventually convince him that we’re ready to lay down some tracks, and we’re booked in for the following Monday. When we arrive, though, Chiz claims he has double-booked us. The week after that, Chiz tells us his mixing desk is playing up. He sends us back to the rehearsal room with a small, early 1980s tape recorder and a C90 cassette. Matt and I see the rehearsal through in a dolorous mood, both of us thinking the same thing, but not wanting to say it.
‘Matt, do you think we’re actually any good?’ I ask Matt the next day at college.
‘Of course we are,’ Matt replies.
‘But, y’know, I mean proper good. Like on-tour-with-Green-Day good.’
‘I’ve told you, “T-Shirt” could quite easily be off Kerplunk!’
‘So when I sing it back to back with a Green Day song, it sounds just the same?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And that’s all we want, really, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
I’ve never wanted to be a rock star – I just want to meet the girl with the Suede t-shirt (I am an idiot). Matt doesn’t want to be a rock star, either, but he has different reasons, chief of them being that rock stars are corporate scum. I think if Matt could bring himself to admit it to his subconscious, he would really like to be a rock star. I would like to be in a band, definitely, but I don’t think I’m particularly musical. I’ve thought about the band I want to be in, and I think it should have horns and mandolins and lyrics about nothing in particular and everything in the world, all at once. It should be gentle and poetic, or epic and surreal, not laconic and primitive. Matt would kill me if he knew.
Matt calls me up one night. ‘Up for a rehearsal this weekend?’
‘Yeah, deffo,’ I say. I’m panicking because droning away in the background as I speak is Bona Drag, a solo album by Morrissey.
When I come to college in a t-shirt which doesn’t say ‘Too Drunk To Fuck’, ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’ or ‘I Am Not What I Own’, Matt tells me off. ‘What the fuck you wearing that for?’ he asks me when I turn up in the bootleg Teenage Fanclub shirt I bought outside Rock City the night before. I’m growing my hair out slightly, and hoping he hasn’t noticed. At lunchtime, in the college refectory, I often think I’d quite like to sit next to Nick and Steve from my design class, but they have long hair, and Matt says all people with long hair are ‘townies’ or ‘hippies’. Matt also says you can’t trust a song which doesn’t include swearing. The few lyrics Matt writes for Rick Argues invariably contain the words ‘coagulate’, ‘enema’ and ‘pigfuck’.
I think I’m in the process of re-evaluating my artistic relationship with Matt.
‘. . . This is the greatest thing you’ve ever written,’ Matt is repeating, still shaking his head at the piece of A4. ‘I mean it. This is it, Tom. This is what I knew you had in you.’
John fiddles with his drumsticks. Joe grins. I slouch against the wall, shrug, and smile internally. I’m wasting mor
e of Rick Argues’ time, but I have to admit I’m quite enjoying this. Maybe I’ll let Matt construct a few chords around my lyrics. Then, at some point, I’ll gently explain to him that the words on the piece of paper are not mine, that I copied them this morning from the sleeve of The Smiths’ 1983 album, Hatful Of Hollow. But not yet. Not just yet.
BIG KYLIE MINOGUE FAN
‘WHAT HAPPENED AFTER that?’
‘Oh. We split up.’
‘What? Without playing a gig?’
‘Yeah. We were meant to play the college refectory one time, but the computer room above it flooded so the gig got cancelled.’
‘That’s a bit shit. Can you call yourself a proper band if you haven’t played a gig?’
‘The Beatles went four years without playing a gig, so, yeah. Can Goat Hero call themselves a proper band if you haven’t recorded a demo?’
‘We’re just getting properly prepared. Anyway, it’s Punishment again now.’
‘What? Why did you change it back?’
‘Raf got bitten by a goat at breaktime.’
‘Ouch.’
‘So what happened to Matt? Do you still know him?’
‘Yeah. He’s one of my best mates. He works at the DSS these days. Big Kylie Minogue fan.’
‘What about Rick?’
‘You could say we’ve grown apart. He argued too much. Works for New Labour now.’
‘I hate Labour. It totally pisses me off what they’re doing with A-levels.’
‘Mmm. Don’t tell Rick that. I have a feeling he’d be forced to argue.’
‘What about the girl in the t-shirt song?’
‘I went out with her for six and a half years.’
‘Did she ever hear the demo?’
‘No. Joe stole it.’
‘I can’t believe you liked Green Day.’
‘Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Well . . . I’m sorry, but yeah. They’re a dork’s band.’
‘Your turn then.’
‘What? You want me to write it down too?’
‘No. I don’t imagine you’d ever get around to it, seeing how long it’s taking you to read that Julian Cope book.’
