Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail!

by Gary Phillips

But Jerry was already backtracking.

  New Recruits in the Psychic Wars

  “As long as we all believe in the New Jerusalem,” said Mitzi Beesley, having trouble with her Knickerbocker Glory, “we stay together. And as long as we stay together, we can all believe the same thing. And if we can all believe the same thing long enough, we can believe for a while that we’ve made it come true. We all have to be a bit over the top. But when some silly bastard goes well over the top, that rocks the boat. The trouble with Johnny, for instance, was that he wouldn’t bloody well stay in uniform. And after Malcolm had gone to all that bother, too.”

  “I wouldn’t know abart any o’ that, love.” Mrs Cornelius waved away the offer of a bit of jelly and ice cream on a long spoon. “Can’t stand the stuff. I ‘ave ter carry it arahnd orl bleedin’ day, don’t I?”

  They sat together on red vinyl and chrome stools at the bar. Behind them was a big plate glass window. Behind that was the traffic; the Beautiful People of the Kings Road in their elegant bondagerie. Dandyism always degenerated into fashion.

  Little Mitzi was having trouble getting to the bottom of her Glory. Her arms were too short. Mrs C. tilted the glass. “Pore fing. There you go.” She laughed. “Didn’t mean ter interfere, love.” She glanced out of the window.

  From the direction of Sloane Square a mob was moving. It was difficult to make out what it consisted of.

  “Skinheads” said Mrs C. “Or Mods, is it? Or them Rude Boys? Or is that ther same?”

  “Divide and Rule,” said Mitzi. “My dad always thinks. And that’s the first lesson in the management of rock and roll bands.”

  “Oh, well, they all do that, don’t they.” Mrs C. squinted up the street. “Blimey, it’s a load of effin’ actors. Innit?”

  The mob was dressed in 17th century costumes. “Pirates?”

  “Nostalgia hasn’t been such a positive force since the Romantic Revival.”

  “’Ippies, yer mean?”

  “The Past and the Future—they’ll get you every time.”

  “I know wot you mean, love.” Mrs C. picked up her handbag. “Stick to ther Present. I orlways said so, an’ I bloody orlways will. I’ve met some funny bastards in me time. Lookin’ backwards; lookin’ bloody forwards. It’s un’ealthy. Nar. Ther future’s orl we fuckin’ got, innit?”

  “And it doesn’t do you any harm.”

  The mob was carrying effigies of four young men. Over loudspeakers came the sound of Malcolm McLaren singing “You Need Hands.” The mob began to growl in unison.

  “I’ve seen ’em come an’ I’ve seen ’em go.” Mrs C. shook her head. “An’ it’ll end in tears every time. Wot good does it do?”

  “It stops you getting bored,” said Mitzi. “Some of the time, anyway.”

  The effigies were being tossed on a tide of angry shoulders.

  “You can get ’em attackin’ anyfink, carn’t yer.” Mrs C. was amused. “Give ’em a slipper ter worry an’ they won’t bovver you.”

  “The Sex Pistols were the best thing that ever happened for British politics at a very dodgy moment in their career.” Mitzi reached her money up to the girl at the till. “Or so we like to think. But no bloody B.O.s or whatever they are for them. Divide and Rule, Mrs C. And up goes your Ego.”

  “I ’ope this doesn’t mean they’ve stopped ther bloody buses again.” Mrs Cornelius looked at the clock over the bar. “I’m due for work at one.”

  “They still showin’ that picture?”

  “It’s really good business.”

  “I think Malcolm McLaren is the Sir Robert Boothby of his generation, don’t you?” Mitzi got to the exit first and pushed on one of the doors.

  “Well, ’e’s no bloody Svengali, an’ that’s for sure.”

  “He did identify with the product … “

  “‘E should ’ave bought an Alsatian. They’re easier ter train.”

  A youngish man in a trilby and a dark trenchcoat went past them in a hurry.

  “That’s Jerry.” Mitzi pulled on her jacket. “He still thinks there’s a solution to all this. Or at least a resolution.”

  “It’s one o’ ther nice fings abart ‘im.” Mrs C. directed a look of tolerant pity at her retreating son.

  “The trouble with messed up love affairs,” said Mitzi “is that you waste so much time going to the source of the pain and asking it to make you better.”

  “‘E’ll learn. You on’y got yerself ter blame in the end.” Mrs Cornelius saw that the mob had parted to allow a convoy of No. 11 buses through. “I’d better ’op on one o’ these while I’ve still got ther chance.”

  “The ultimate business of management is not just to divide your group but to divide their minds. The more you fuck with their judgement, the more you control them. It’s like being married, really.” Mitzi waved to Mrs C.’s lumbering figure as it launched itself towards the bus.

  “Don’t let ’em piss on yer, dear.” Mrs C. reached the platform. “Just becos yore short.”

  “You can only manage what you create yourself. The trouble with people is that they will keep breaking out.”

  The mob was beginning to split up. Fights were starting between different factions. Cocked hats flew.

  “After all,” said Mitzi shadowing Jerry, “someone has to take the blame. But you can bet your chains we won’t have anarchy in the UK in our lifetime. Just the usual bloody chaos.”

  What Do You Need?

  “Role models make Rolls-Royces. Kids pay for heroes. But it doesn’t do to let either the audiences or the artists get out of control—or you stand to lose the profit. It’s true in all forms of show business, but it’s particularly important in the record industry.”

  Frank Cornelius lay back in his Executive Comfort Mark VI leather swiveller and wondered if it would be going too far if he waved his unlit cigar.

  “What can I do for you, Mo?” His eyes, wasted by a thousand indulgences, moved like worms in his skull.

  “I was wondering what happened to the money.” Mo unbuttoned his trenchcoat, looking around at the images of rock singers in various classic poses, emulating the stars of westerns and war films except they had guitars instead of rifles.

  “It hardly existed.” Frank put his cigar to his awful lips. “Well, I mean, it’s real enough in the mind. And I suppose that’s the main thing. What are you selling me, Mo? Thinking of going solo? This company’s small, but it’s keen. We really identify with the kids. Can you play your guitar yet? Don’t worry if you can’t. It’s one of the easiest skills in the world to learn.”

  “What happened to the money, Frank.”

  “Don’t look at me. Malcolm had it.”

  “He says you had it.”

  “I haven’t made a penny, personally, in six months. It’s all gone on expenses. Do you know how much it costs to keep an act on the road?”

  “Where’s the money?” Mo was beginning to lose his own thread. Frank’s responses were too familiar to keep anyone’s attention for long.

  “Gone in advances, probably. Ask Malcolm, not me. I only became a director towards the end. For legal reasons.”

  “Where’s Malcolm?”

  “Who knows where Malcolm is. Does Malcolm know where Malcolm is? Is he Malcolm? What is Malcolm, anyway?”

  Mo frowned. “Give me an address, Frank.”

  “You’re not kipping on my floor again. Not with your habits. Haven’t you got a squat to go to?” Frank glared in distaste at his brother’s ex-friend.

  “Where?”

  “You’re too heavily into bread. That’s your problem. You’ve really sold out, haven’t you? I remember you when you didn’t give a shit about money or anything else. What are you really after? Mummy and Daddy, is it? If you don’t like the heat, you should stay out of the kitchen. I look after a lot of people, but I can’t look after you all the time. It’s killing me. I have to deal with the hassles, cool out the managements of the venues, pay for the damage … ”

  He raised a suede arm.
“I haven’t had more than twelve hours sleep in a week. Profits? Do you think there are any profits in this business? If so, where are they? Show them to me.”

  “They’re up your nose, Frankie.”

  There came a noise from Frank’s throat like the sound of an angry baby. Mo recognised it. It was called The Management Wail. It was time to leave.

  Public Image

  Identity Manipulation Associates (IMA = Whatever You Want Me To Be) had taken over the old Soho offices. Mo was beginning to feel a little flakey around the edges. He’d started off thinking this was a caper: a time-filler. Now, what with one thing and another, it was beginning to smell like an obsession.

  “I’ve had enough of obsessions.” He felt the old call to retreat, to get some air. “On the other hand, this might not be one. It could just be ordinary.”

  He opened the door and went into the lobby. A young woman looked up at him from threatened brown eyes. “Can I help you?”

  “I was wondering about the money. Did Malcolm … ?”

  “We only do identities here. The money comes later.”

  “Is there anyone I could see?”

  “They’re all in meetings. Are you a performer?”

  “I … ”

  She became sympathetic and far less wary.

  Mo was no-one to be afraid of. She spoke softly. “They won’t be back this afternoon, love. What do you play?”

  “I think it’s Scrabble, but I’m not sure.”

  “Magic!”

  He was plodding off again.

  Adapted for the Market: Finally It’s the Movie

  The permanently depressed tones of Malcolm McLaren, doing his best to make some sense of his impulses, could be heard on the other side of the doors.

  Mo pushed his way through. There were no pictures, only a soundtrack. The little room was dark, but somewhere in it lawyers and accountants shuffled and whispered. “Why is everybody so unhappy?”

  “Sometimes it’s all you’ve got left of your adolescent enthusiasm,” said Mo. He began to giggle.

  “Were you ever talented?” Aggressive, self-protecting, attempting condescension, a lawyer spoke.

  “Did you deliberately set out to shock?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mo. “I don’t read the papers any more.”

  “Have you just come from Highgate?”

  “That’s an idea.”

  “It’s the image that’s important, isn’t it?” This was an upper-class woman’s voice. Lady D?

  “So they say.”

  Bodies were coming closer. “Well, ta ta.”

  “Ta ta.”

  Swallowing Your Own Bullshit

  Mo waded into the mud. He was not quite certain what lay on the other side of the vast building site. He wasn’t sure why he was trying to get to South London. A helicopter came in low seeming to be observing him. He looked up. “Mum?”

  A voice began to sing “My Way” through a loud hailer.

  It was beginning to feel like victimisation, or a haunting. That energy was going. Or maybe it had already gone and that was what he was looking for.

  All he’d wanted was a bit of this and that. Some peace and quiet. Some fun. Everybody was going crazy. He hated the lot of them. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Why couldn’t he leave them alone?

  He was dying for a crap.

  He cast about for an anchor. Five feet away the back wheel of a new Honda could be seen, sticking out of the mud, as if the rider had tried to make it across this no-man’s-land and failed.

  Mo blinked. “Sid?”

  What the hell did it matter anyway?

  Sulphate Heaven

  The room was full of heavy metal. In one corner about fifteen old hippies were wondering where it had all gone, while in the opposite corner fifteen punks were wondering where it was all going.

  Mo stood in the middle.

  “Anybody want a fight?”

  A few eyes flickered, then faded again. Wired faces tried to move.

  It was a musician’s graveyard. They existed as far apart as Streatham and Kensal Rise. They had served their turn. Many of them had even shown a profit.

  Mitzi came in. “Blimey.” She rattled her box.

  “Line-up, lads” said Mo. “The lady’s got the blues.”

  “Been to Highgate yet?” she asked him.

  “Is there any point?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “I’m on my way,” he said.

  CLAIM TWO: WE HAVE A GOOD REASON

  Johnny Rotten, the angelically malevolent Scaramouche, is a third-generation son of rock ’n’ roll—the galvanic lead singer of the Sex Pistols. His band play at a hard heart-attacking, frantic pace. And they sing anti-love songs, cynical songs about suburbia and songs about repression, hate and aggression. They have shocked many people. But the band’s music has always been true to life as they see it. Which is why they are so wildly popular. The fans love the Sex Pistols and identify with their songs because they know they are about their lives too.

  —Virgin Records Publicity, 1977

  “Sex and agro are the best-selling commodities in the world. Everybody’s frustrated or angry about something, particularly adolescents.”

  Frank was having his hair redone to fit in with current trends. “Easy on the Vic, Maggy. We don’t want to go too far, do we?”

  The phone rang. Maggy picked it up. Her hand stank of camphor. “Popcorn.”

  She listened for a moment and giggled. She turned back to Frank. “It’s your mum.”

  “Tell her I’m dead.”

  “You’re about the only one who isn’t.”

  Frank took the greasy receiver.

  “Hello, mum. How are you? What can I do for you, then?” He was patronising.

  He listened for a while, his expression becoming devoutly earnest. “Yeah.”

  Maggy began to pluck at his locks again, but he stopped her. “Okay, mum.”

  He frowned.

  “Okay, mum. Yes. Yes. Look after yourself.” He handed the phone back to Maggy. “Well, well,” he said.

  From the other side of his office door his dogs, a mixed pack of Irish Wolfhounds and Alsatians, began to scratch and whine. He sometimes felt they were his only real security. Moved by some impulse be couldn’t define, he placed a reluctant hand on Maggy’s bum.

  Sentimental Journeys: The Other Side of the Coin

  Mo had managed to reach Tooting. Autumn leaves fell onto the common. In the distance was what looked like a ruined Swimming Baths. He dipped into his tub of Sweet and Sour Pork and Chips. His fingers were already stained bright orange, as was his entire lower face. Over to his right the road was up. Drills were hammering. He was beginning to feel more relaxed. It was when they put you in the real country that you went to pieces.

  Jimi was waiting for him behind a large plane tree. “I shouldn’t really be talking to you, you bastard.”

  “Divide and Rule,” said Mo. “Aren’t we part of the same faction any more?”

  “What does Malcolm say?”

  “Haven’t seen him.”

  “Or the Record Company.”

  “They haven’t released anything.”

  “Then it could be okay.”

  “It could be.” Mo offered Jimi the tub. The guitarist began to eat with eager, twitching fingers.

  “I’ve been trying to make this deal with the devil all day,” he complained. “Not a whisper. What you up to then, you bastard?”

  “Very little, my son.”

  “Got any money?”

  Mo shook his head. “How long you got to stay down here?”

  “Another six months. Then I might get remission.”

  “Play your cards right.”

  “A bit of spit never hurt anybody. Are you in Tooting just to see me?”

  “No. I’m looking for a train robber.”

  “They’re difficult to fence, trains.”

  “You have to have a buyer set up already.”

  “Thi
ngs were simpler in the fifties, you know. The poor were poor and the rich were bloody rich. People knew where they stood. I blame it all on rock and roll. Now we’re back where we started.”

  “It was the only way out. That doesn’t work any more. You think it does. But it doesn’t.”

  “The music goes round and round.” Jimi farted. “And it comes out here.”

  Rock Around the Clock

  Mrs Cornelius flashed her torch around the cinema. “It’s filthy in ’ere. You fink they’d do somefing abart it.”

  Customers began to complain at her. She switched off the torch. “Please yerselves.”

  She went back into the foyer.

  With intense concentration, Alvarez was dissecting a hot dog.

  “Found anyfink?” she asked.

  “Not a sausage.”

  “Anybody ring fer me?”

  “Ring?”

  “Never mind.”

  She’d done her best to warn Frank. Now it was up to him. Three guardsmen in heavy khaki and caps whose visors hid their eyes marched into the cinema and bought tickets. “This had better be good,” said one of them threateningly to Alvarez.

  “You can’t go wrong with sex and pistols.” His mate began to guffaw. They had that smell of stale sweat and over-controlled violence common to most soldiers and policemen. It was probably something in the uniform.

  Sonic Attack

  “A little vomit is a dangerous thing.” Miss Brunner tried to smooth a lump in her satin trousers. Her thin hands were agitated, irritable. “There’s no point in going for that. Not unless you mean to do it properly. Vomit has to have some meaning, you know.”

  “What about gobbing,” said her eager assistant, Clive. “Should that stay?”

  “Well, it is associated with the band, after all.” She sniggered. “Disgusting, really.”

  “But we have to get into disgust, don’t we? Disgust equals the Pistols. Ugly times. You know? But will people be disgusted enough?” This was the constant worry of the publicity department at the moment. “I mean, it’s important to associate Sex Pistols with nastiness. They should be synonymous in the public’s view.”