‘Right, we need ten songs … jist in case, ken? Probably only fuckin’ dae eight, but,’ said Max, rubbing his hands together. ‘The two best new yins, obviously…’
‘Obviously,’ said Simon sarcastically.
Max shot him a glance. ‘An’ the rest, jist the best ae the covers, aw’right?’
‘Aye, Max,’ said Grant. ‘It’ll be fine, man.’
Grant seemed calm. Max was surprised. He initially feared that, of the four, the most likely to be struck by stagefright was Grant Delgado. But as they rattled through ‘Here Comes the Sun’, Grant’s vocals started to glide and soar through the rafters. It was like a switch had been flicked and the skinny, black drainpipe had morphed into Jim Morrison overnight. He’d obviously been practising outside of rehearsals, as Max had encouraged him to. He also seemed to Max to have bulked up. It was an illusion but it was truly amazing what burgeoning self-confidence could do to someone. The other three needed a kick up the arse though.
‘For fuck sake, that song’s aw aboot the joy ae bein’ alive. It needs tae be light. It needs tae fuckin’ glisten,’ shouted Max. ‘Feel the fuckin’ vibe for Christ’s sake. Take a lead fae Grant … follow his arc.’
‘Aw, the wee teacher’s pet,’ mumbled Maggie.
‘Whit did ye say?’ asked Max accusingly.
‘She said “you’d like tae follow yer boaby right up Grant’s arc” … or somethin’ like that,’ said Simon.
Max pulled off his eye-patch and ran across the wooden floor. He launched himself straight into Simon’s body like Andy Irvine making a Grand Slam-saving tackle. They landed in a flurry of arms and legs and thick bass strings. A few dull punches were thrown before the two were eventually separated, but beyond a few bleeding cuts and scrapes the principal damage appeared to have been suffered by the bass. It lay in two pieces, held together by two of its four heavy cables but it was in a critical condition. Its neck was broken.
‘Ya stupid cunt, ye. Whit did ye dae that for?’ yelled Simon.
‘Jesus Christ, Max!’ said Grant. ‘They were only fuckin’ kiddin’!’
‘Ah’ve had it wi’ aw the fuckin’ aboot,’ said Max, seemingly unaware that blood was steadily dripping from his nose onto a previously pristine white Levis t-shirt.
‘You’re a fanny,’ said Maggie calmly.
‘Ah’m ploughin’ aw ma money and energy intae…’
‘Haud oan … aw your money?’ said Grant.
Max began again; this time with a more considered, conciliatory tone. Inside, though, he was raging. ‘Ah’m spendin’ serious time tryin’ tae get us a shot at somethin’ special here. We might only get one shot, so … if it’s aw’right wi’ you four … let’s no’ fuck it up oan day one, eh?’
There was silence; a pause developing so far into its third trimester that its head was crowning.
‘Are we doin’ this gig or no’?’ Max Mojo’s arms were outstretched like a pleading Jesus on the Mount of Olives. The medication was working overtime, as deep down inside, the Voice wanted to rip the heads from each of them. Ozzy Osbourne and the bats would be nothing compared to this ritual slaughter.
‘Will there be Tunnocks Tea Cakes an’ Irn-Bru oan the rider?’ asked Eddie innocently.
It was enough to defuse the tautness. They all laughed. Max reluctantly forced a thin-lipped grin, but it was enough. The tension of the moment had passed.
‘Aye … of course we’re doin’ it. We’ll be ready. Jist gie us some time tae sort oot the set. Let me deal wi’ the music side, you sort out the money. Aw’right?’ said Grant.
‘Aye. Fine.’ Max pawed at his dripping nose. Grant looked at them individually until they had all said yes. He then motioned with his head, and Simon reached over and offered a hand.
Max took it, and shook it. ‘Yer a fuckin’ arsehole, Sylvester,’ he remarked with sincerity, but with enough disguise as to be taken differently. He re-patched his fluttering left eye.
Max Mojo left them to it as the sunlight worked hard to penetrate the dark interior of the church hall. He turned back. A sudden shaft of it caught Grant Delgado and held him in its natural coruscating spotlight.
‘Little darlin’, it’s been a long cold lonely winter…’
Grant Delgado was a superstar in waiting. Pride swelled in Max Mojo’s heart while longing stirred in his pants.
16
16th February 1983
5.29 pm
‘How we gettin’ there again?’
‘Ah fuckin’ told ye a hundred times, Jimmy Stevenson’s pickin’ ye’se up. Jesus Johnny … gonnae listen when ah’m talkin’ tae ye?’
Grant was enjoying playing with Max’s increasingly frazzled mindset. Max had met The Heid earlier that afternoon for the first time and far from drawing comfort from the encounter, had left it with more concerns than he’d had over his own band of misfits. The Heid was already pissed for a kick-off. He looked like a Buchanan Street tramp with a Lord of the Rings obsession. Four neat whiskies were despatched in half an hour, during the audience with Max. After passing the obligatory questioning about his age, the teenager had grudgingly bought them all. The deal was that The Miraculous Vespas would be paid from The Heid’s fee, which it now emerged was based on takings at the door. The Ayrshire Post had heavily plugged the gig, mainly building on the growing reputation of the Metropolis as Ayrshire’s newest superclub. Bobby Cassidy was doing well, and his music, as well as Kilmarnock’s unusual four am licence, was now slowly drawing weekend punters from outside the region. The club had an official capacity of three hundred but it regularly took six hundred people, jammed in like a London Central Line tube train at rush hour. Mickey ‘Doc’ Martin was a happy man, and when that was the state of affairs, those positive vibes generally washed down and bathed others in the same line of activity. But sales for The Heid had been slow. The old show pony had an undoubted reputation but it was on the wane. There were only so many times you could watch some poor, overly-suggestive sod eat an onion and it remain funny, regardless of how much El Dorado you had in your belly.
‘It’ll be fine, son,’ said the sixty-year-old Heid. ‘We’ll divvy up efter the show, like, eh?’
Max couldn’t quite place the accent. It seemed like a weird combination of Ayrshire and Edinburgh. The legacy of a life of playing wee smoky clubs and shiteholes up and down the Central Belt, no doubt.
‘Aye. Fine,’ said Max. He stood up to leave. He’d spent well over a fiver on this old tosser already. Any more would eat into profit, although The Heid seemed to be preparing him for bad news on that front.
‘Whit’s yer real name, incidentally?’ asked the standing Max.
‘Head … Harry Head,’ slurred The Heid.
‘Fuck off!’
‘Fuckin’ is, son,’
‘Ha ha ha … ya aul’ prick.’ Max left the Metropolis laughing. He thought of the Quarrymen playing at a church fete, Elvis on the back of a flatbed truck … and then The Miraculous Vespas supporting a miroculous Heid. The stuff of legend.
The Heid gig wis a mistake. Cannae fuckin’ expect tae get it right aw the time though, by the way. Jist seemed like the right bastart thing tae dae, ken? Ah kent a guy that kent a guy that knew he wis lookin’ for a support act. Nae cunt in oor band had ever heard ae him though. So it gets relayed back that The Heid’s been oan Opportunity Knocks. Kicked oot early doors though like. A comedian back then … but noo the cunt’s reinvented hissel’ as a fuckin’ hypnotist, ken? Fuckin’ arsehole that he wis…
Cunt comes in, dressed like fuckin’ Zorro’s Grampa … ah near pished maself. He’s aw in black … an’, back then in the fuckin’ day-glo eighties, that marked the cunt as a major league fuckin’ kiddie fiddler.
17
16th February 1983
9.42 pm
Jimmy Stevenson’s van blocked the Foregate, but the few shops in it that still operated had long since closed, so nobody objected. In any case, it took the band only fifteen minutes to get their gear unloaded – inclu
ding Simon Sylvester’s brand new bass guitar, purchased from the Grant Delgado Emergency Fund. Having deposited them, Jimmy Stevenson disappeared into the crisp night air. Since the terms of his probation restricted his activities to that of driver only, he never now entered any venues where alcohol would be served.
Inside the Metropolis, taped soul music was playing, and the lighting had been set to a pre-programmed choreography. The Miraculous Vespas would be playing to the immediate left of the dancefloor, on a slightly raised podium. The Heid’s show would use the dancefloor as its stage. The punters had ample space to move about, especially since it was clear even this early on that the first gig of the ‘Greatest new band in Scotland’ wasn’t going to be a sell-out.
The Metropolis had only been open a few months but it had already acquired that stagnant pub odour of smoke, vomit, stale perfume and spilt beer. Its carpeted areas felt like they had been coated with adhesive. Its wooden floor was already dappled with embedded fragments of broken glass.
As The Miraculous Vespas tuned up, Max counted just six people in the club. Two seemed to be with The Heid’s entourage, although he was nowhere to be seen. Max had recalled The Heid saying he’d be in his ‘dressing room’, so Max went to look for it. It was a cleaner’s cupboard. Its door was slightly open but Max could hear the old trouper in there, still pissed but talking to someone.
‘Aye, just like that … slow doon a bit tho’, ah’m no’ as young as ah used tae be, hen.’
Max peeked through the gap in the door. The Heid was sitting on a Belfast sink, black trousers and big, off-white y-fronts at his ankles, while a much younger, blonde-haired woman’s head bobbed up and down between his pale, veined, corned-beef legs. Max stuck his head in further. The Heid had a black shirt and black jacket on. He wore a long but skinny white leather tie, which he had cast over his left shoulder, presumably for fear of it getting tangled up in the action happening down below. His eyes were closed. His wispy grey hair and beard were combed. He was holding a massive, lit cigar in his right hand while his left propelled the woman’s head, helping it keep the rhythm. A bag of onions sat at his feet.
‘Where’s the Heid?’ asked Grant, when Max returned to the main room.
‘In the back gettin’ a gobble affa some poor wummin’ he’s obviously pit a spell oan,’ said Max. ‘Ah left him tae it. Good luck tae the auld cunt.’
18
16th February 1983
11.48 pm
‘Good evenin’ Kilmarnock. We’re The Miraculous Vespas…’
Maggie’s drum thudded into action and Grant’s casual strum built up speed afterwards. They had tried to vary their cover of ‘Where Were You?’ but it was such a strong song that the band inevitably retreated back into a more faithful rendition. Max Mojo was standing at the back of the Metropolis, trying to gauge both sound quality and audience reaction. Both fell into the ‘mediocre’ category. The band had no mixing desk to speak of; for future gigs that would have to be rectified. In a quarter-full club context, their sound was muddy. It was distorted and the volume was difficult to set as a result. More bass but less amplification would have been the starting point, Max now reckoned. The club was partially underground and had a mass of concrete surrounding it, but the crispness Max heard in his head was totally missing. One thing that did stand out though was Grant Delgado. He moved like an anaconda, draping himself around the microphone stand, rhythm guitar barely used after those opening chords. Max heard a few girls in the crowd talking favourably about Grant, and what they’d like him to do to them.
The band’s covers of ‘Song from Under the Floorboards’, and ‘Run, Run, Run’ – which Max had advised against – sounded only marginally better. Then Grant introduced ‘Your Love Is a Wonderous Colour’; the first of their two original songs. Grant had written it a month ago. Maggie liked it because she assumed it was about her. The Sylvester brothers also liked it, as they both had interesting parts. Eddie had a cyclical guitar part not dissimilar to the Beatles ‘Dear Prudence’, and Simon had a bass line that took a few twists and turns of its own. Admittedly, he had relied on his brother teaching him the nuances, but Simon Sylvester was definitely improving. For a first song, it was pretty accomplished, and while lyrically, it wouldn’t be giving Leonard Cohen any sleepless nights, the band considered it to be a cut above the dross being peddled by the Club Tropicana set.
The three-and-a-half-minute song ended with the same apathetic response as the three that had gone before. It had been Grant’s task to introduce The Heid, but he’d forgotten, and they’d walked off calmly but in a descending storm of ear-splitting feedback. The Heid was not amused.
‘Big hand fur the band, lays an’ gennulmen…’ The Heid sarcastically slow-clapped until the squealing sound had gone. He strode to the DJ booth and angrily flicked a switch. This was to have been Max Mojo’s job, but he was still at the back of the club eavesdropping. A burst of dry ice covered the stage, briefly obscuring the black-clad hypnotist with his shirt now open to the navel.
Max saw this and laughed at the thought of the skinny, whiteleather tie being his everyday-wear. He emerged through the fog to the sound of the theme from Star Wars. It would have been reasonably impressive as an entrance had The Miraculous Vespas not fucked up the illusion.
A deep voice that reminded Max of the Wizard of Oz burst through the Marshall amps. ‘I am the amazing and mysterious Heid,’ it said. ‘Prepare to be shocked and astonished at my powers of suggestion.’
‘Ah’m fuckin’ shocked an’ astonished any cunt actually pays tae see this!’ whispered Max to an adjacent stranger who had earlier paid to see it. She moved away from him.
‘You’re gonna see people do things you’d never believe possible…’ said the Heid.
‘…like eat a bastart onion, thinking it’s an apple?’ whispered Max, to no one in particular.
‘You’ll see them act out their fantasies … with no inhibitions at all,’ said The Heid. ‘You’ll be telling people about this next forty-five minutes for the rest of yer life…’ The Heid stepped back a few paces, to be briefly obscured again by the diminishing mist. With the majority of the fifty or so people in the audience currently smoking, this was less impressive than it might otherwise have been. The Heid re-emerged to a brief burst of Black Sabbath’s ‘Paranoid’. Another fuckin’ desperate cliche, thought Max.
‘I want you all to think of a happy place,’ said The Heid. He twisted his long grey beard with his right hand and appeared to Max to be scratching his arse with his left. But The Heid was looking for a 50p coin; performance prop number one.
‘Ah’m gonna toss it…’ said The Heid, waiting patiently for the laughs and sniggers that always followed this line. ‘And, because my mind is controlling yours now … those that can answer my question are gonna be the stars of tonight’s show.’
‘Aye, right’, ‘Tosser’ and ‘Ya prick’ came back at him from various standing hecklers.
The Heid flipped the coin and it landed. Max cynically assumed he’d simply ask people whether it had landed heads- or tails-up, but the old entertainer surprised the teenager by saying, ‘Those who know the identity of the person on the side facing upwards … step forward and come to the edge of the stage.’
Max sniggered. There was no stage, just a rough edge where sticky carpet met wooden dancefloor. The Heid had a rehearsed script though, and context didn’t alter it.
Max watched four people from different parts of the crowd move forward. It was, perhaps predictably, an equal gender split. He was sure that one of the women was the same woman that he saw earlier, on her knees and administering head to The Heid. She was now wearing a different top, though, and since Max hadn’t seen her face in the cleaner’s cupboard, he assumed he was mistaken.
The four made their way to the dancefloor where four wooden seats were now waiting for them. Out of the corner of his eye, Max noticed Eddie being restrained by his brother. Max headed down through the crowd to join them.
One
by one, the four wrote the words ‘Britannia, seated with a lion’ on pieces of paper The Heid had handed them. After he held each piece up for the audience to examine, he asked the four what they had just written. One by one, the four said that they didn’t know. They had a look of total bemusement on their faces, as did most of the audience. The Heid declared them to be the most suggestible people present, and that he had planted the words. They were ignorant to the question but that he … The Mysterious Heid … was now controlling their minds.
The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Page 10
