The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas

by David F. Ross

  26

  21st May 1983

  Max Mojo reflected on a very successful week. The Miraculous Vespas had played a great, incident-free gig at The Hunting Lodge on the 16th. It was their first real gig, Max having already exorcised The Heid fiasco from his memory. The band were spending more time together and a real gang feel had been the result. Although originally grating, Maggie and Grant’s propensity to finish each other’s sentences was a clear indication to Max of just how in sync they were. Max had taken them all up to Paddy’s Market in Glasgow and they had come back with a range of individual stage clothes. Having initially asserted his control of their aesthetic, Max had relented a bit. Maggie had her own style and much of it appeared to involve showing bare skin. Grant stayed true to the monochrome of his new hero, Lou Reed. The Sylvester Brothers experimented. Max had given them photos of Orange Juice. Simon appeared at The Hunting Lodge looking like all four of the Glasgow band members at once. He had bought boxing boots, calvary trousers held up by braces, and a sailor’s shirt. He’d also stolen a Davy Crockett hat but Max prevented him wearing that; it was too Edwyn Collins.

  Max had Xerox’d blue fanzine-style posters with a photo of the band standing around Grant Delgado, who was seated on the Vespa. Even Maggie had applauded the personal effort Max had expended in taping hundreds of them to every lamppost and derelict-building hoarding in the town. However, he blew off this credit with a thoughtless observation that the copying process had apparently made the boys faces darker but Maggie’s whiter. A fuckin’ anti-apartheid photocopier, he’d called it, with no discernible trace of humour.

  Unlike the brief slots when they had supported the hypnotist, Grant Delgado was a bag of nerves for their first gig. He vomited so loudly in the toilet behind the small stage, that Max was certain those out front had heard him. Max overheard Grant telling Maggie he was scared, but mainly because he now felt that they had something. He’d assumed the previous performance at the Metropolis would’ve been the band’s one and only gig. Now, with three real ones lined up, it automatically seemed much more serious and important. With some soothing words from the drummer – which Max couldn’t decipher – the singer regained his composure.

  With Hairy Doug newly installed as sound-and-light technician on a 5 percent future profit share, the band – and Grant especially – had looked and sounded fantastic at The Hunting Lodge. Their set now consisted of an equal number of Grant Delgado original compositions and cover versions re-interpreted to fit their emerging sound. Grant had started writing and playing with a Gretsch ‘Country Gentleman’ guitar, having seen a tape of the Monkees’ Mike Nesmith playing one. The Miraculous Vespas’ music now took on both a contemporary and a retro vibe. With the guitar’s bluesy twang to the fore, ‘The First Picture’ was a stand-out song. The Miraculous Vespas opened with it, and encored with it, such was its immediacy and strength. None of Max’s celebrity pen-pals turned up, but the pub was full.

  The second Kilmarnock gig, two days later at The Charleston in New Farm Loch, was also a success, despite the band appearing more than an hour late due to Jimmy Stevenson’s van getting stuck in the flash flooding that obscured the ford at the Dean Park. Max had insisted Jimmy try and cross the flowing water even though it was almost a foot deep. Max had to wade out through it to get to a nearby house and beg to use the telephone. An irate Washer Wishart arranged for a tractor to get there and pull them out before the police arrived, so the gig could proceed. Mac Barber did show for this one and – despite the memory of a previous threat by Washer’s people when the band was in its previous incarnation – admitted to Grant that he was impressed. He asked if ‘The First Picture’ had been recorded yet, and to get in touch again when it had been.

  And now, here they were, at the end of their mini-showcase tour of local pubs. The Miraculous Vespas were half an hour into their set at Pebbles in Troon. To Max’s delight – and surprise – many of those who had come to the previous two nights had made the ten-mile trip west across to Troon. Although perhaps smaller than the other two venues, there was a much better atmosphere, and as a consequence everyone connected to the band seemed to be in a good mood.

  Earlier that day in Glasgow, Max Mojo had finally been granted an audience with Billy Sloan. The Radio Clyde DJ couldn’t get to the gig, but provided Max bought the lunch, he’d spare him half an hour or so in order to impart some advice. Billy had been intrigued by Max’s promo description of The Miraculous Vespas:

  ‘Fronted by bona-fide rock God, Grant Delgado, The Miraculous Vespas from Ayrshire are the past, present and future of intelligent rock n’ roll. Mysterious guitar hero The Motorcycle Boy plays it left-hand … Butter Biscuit, effortlessly cool and tribal, battering the drums … and don’t leave your scepticism lying around; bass-hound Simon Sylvester will just fucking nick it..!’

  Max had started experimenting with a fanzine to help promote the band. He’d impressed his mother by the amount of reading and research he was doing. He had even turned his furniture into components of the band’s office. His clothes were strewn around the room, while his wardrobe was now full of organised posters, letters, address books and music papers. His drawer unit now housed his overflowing record and cassette-tape collection. Molly and Washer had to admit a grudging respect for his determination to succeed and the untutored organisation with which he was now pursuing that goal. He was so different to the laid-back, carefree, optimistic kid who had gone into hospital after the Henderson Church beating. He was still only nineteen but now he acted – and looked – so much older.

  Billy Sloan had been surprised when Max extended an upward arm and introduced himself at the door of the Stakis-owned restaurant, The Berni Inn, on Hope Street, where Billy had suggested they meet. Based on their limited correspondence, the Glaswegian DJ had expected someone much older and more connected to the burgeoning Glasgow scene. There were a fair few mavericks in that scene already, but even Billy Sloan was stunned when Max strolled in without shoes on his feet. Billy didn’t anticipate this meeting would last long.

  ‘Some cunt just mugged me for ma fuckin’ brogues, man,’ a stunned Max explained. ‘Nipped up the lane for a quick pish tae get rid ae the nerves an’ that … an’ a wee prick wi’ a blade jumps oot fae behind a bin. Whit size are ye, he says. Ah thought he wis askin’ aboot ma knob!’ The DJ was warming to Max. ‘Yer shoes, he says. Ah says, ah’m a 6,’ Max continued. ‘The cunt pulls oot a list ae names wi’ numbers next tae it! Ma fuckin’ brogues have just been nicked tae order!’

  Billy Sloan was roaring at this. ‘Glesga, eh?’ said the DJ.

  ‘Aye,’ sighed Max. ‘Couldnae beat it wi’ a big stick.’ Max took his seat at the table, socks sodding wet. He hadn’t intended it this way, but the ice had been broken.

  As they waited to be served, Max Mojo surprised Billy Sloan. This couth, young man had an extensive knowledge of music lineage that was highly impressive. Max admitted he hadn’t been to many gigs but the ones that stuck – U2 at Tiffany’s, Blondie at the Apollo, The Clash at the Magnum – had all left him with a vision of how to compose a stage presence. As he explained to the influential DJ over a rare steak, ‘We jist need the fuckin’ break, man … so go oan, fuckin’ gie us it!’

  When the rest of the band asked, Max Mojo was deliberately noncommittal about how the afternoon meeting in one of Glasgow’s most popular restaurants had gone. Max had thought tartare was a kind of sauce, just like HP. So he didn’t dare tell Grant that the advice given by Billy Sloan as they chewed through ‘a plate ae fuckin’ cow meat so raw that it prob’ly got its arse wiped an’ stuck oan a bastart plate’ had just cost the band nearly fifty quid. Especially when that advice had already been freely given by numerous others: ‘Get yersel a demo made. Decent sound studio. Bring it back tae me then!’

  Nevertheless, Max reflected that this week-long campaign of profile-building had been highly successful. The next move would definitely be getting ‘The First Picture’ recorded. There was a small place down ne
ar Glencairn Square accurately called Shabby Road Studios. Another emerging Ayrshire band, The Trashcan Sinatras, occasionally used it. He’d contact them in the morning and try to forge a possible touring and recording alliance. Meanwhile he leaned back on the bar, supping his fourth pint of the evening and watched The Miraculous Vespas’ glacial interpretation of ‘Pleasant Valley Sunday’. Life was good.

  And then Max Mojo felt suddenly unwell. He instinctively looked at his glass. A bad pint, he thought. But no … thunderous rumbling and bubbling in his stomach hinted at something more substantial. And immediate. That fuckin’ scabby roadkill that he’d earlier eaten off what looked like a piece of broken toilet cistern, most probably. It tasted awful at the time; it was surely going to taste even worse coming back up. Max shoved his way through the heaving throng to head for the toilet between the bar and where the band were playing. The room was packed and it appeared that its walls were actually sweating. Max felt like he was hallucinating, but not in a good way. He remembered the scene in Midnight Cowboy when Jon Voight took the drugs. Max put his hands up over his mouth, unsure of whether he’d make it to the bowl in time. He burst into the tiny gents. Thankfully, no one was at either of the two urinals, and the single cubicle door was slightly open. He instinctively opted for the cubicle. He pushed it open and vomited. But someone was already sitting on the seat, trousers at their ankles and drunken head down between knees as if braced for an emergency airplane landing. Reactions dulled, it was a few vital seconds before the seated man realised he had been spewed over. Before he’d raised his head sufficiently to see who his assailant was, Max Mojo had delivered a right hook to his jaw, knocking him backwards off the pan.

  Max Mojo watched the resultant carnage from behind The Motorcycle Boy’s guitar amp. The man in the toilet had eventually burst forth, covered in vomit and swinging indiscriminate punches in every direction. His arms were rotating like a swingball with two ropes. He connected with a barman, a woman and – most unfortunately for him – a bouncer. In such a confined space, a chain reaction was set off and Pebbles quickly turned into a Wild West style brawl. Max Mojo pulled his band members behind the bar. Only The Motorcycle Boy remained on stage, still strumming furiously, his back to the melee and in full-face helmet. A thrown glass smashed against it, which was the sign for him to join the others in retreat. Max led the band out of a rear fire-exit door and the five of them ran across Templehill carrying guitars and drumsticks like the Beatles in Help! Max looked back from a safe distance and watched the fighting spill out on to the street. Sirens sounded in the distance.

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Grant breathlessly. ‘Whit sparked that aff?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Max, sheepishly. ‘Some cunts jist cannae handle their drink, man.’

  ‘What aboot Hairy Doug?’ said Maggie.

  ‘Ach, fuck it. He’s a big geezer. He’ll be aw’right,’ said Max.

  ‘Whit we gonnae dae, noo? Jimmy’s no’ due here for another hour and a half yet. Plus, the amps and the drums an’ shit are aw still in there … well, whit’s left ae them.’ They turned and looked at Simon Sylvester. He was also carrying a large bottle of Johnnie Walker.

  ‘Fuck sake, you,’ said Max. ‘No’ gonnae let a riot get in the way ae the thievin’, eh?’

  ‘Opportunity knocks, Mr Mojo,’ Simon replied, unscrewing the top of the bottle.

  The Miraculous Vespas sat on the grassy mound watching the police herding people into the assembled vans, and the catalytic shiter being escorted into an ambulance. Despite the chaos of this last gig, they toasted its apparent success with whisky. Controversy sells, Max had reminded them and, by Ayrshire standards at least, they were now controversial. With a bit of prompting from Max, the local press would surely report their gigs as essential, unpredictable, and a wee bit dangerous. After all, it hadn’t done the Sex Pistols any harm, had it?

  The bigger issue facing Max was how Hairy Doug had fared. They had only rented his mixing desk but since he was now a de facto shareholder in the band, a difficult conversation might have to be had highlighting that shares can go down as well as up. Pebbles’ owners would also be looking for Max Mojo in the days to come and since Doc Martin had an interest there, he was praying that the pub had suffered only limited damage. If not, the Grant Delgado slush fund would be taking as much of a kicking as the recently-vomited-upon drunk guy who just went to the toilet to take an innocent shite.

  Maybe, for Max Mojo, avoidance was better than cure over the next week or so.

  27

  26th May 1983

  9.53 am

  Max Mojo was agitated; more so than normal, although normality in such a context was measured by a very wide gauge.

  ‘Sit doon Max, for Christ’s sake,’ said Grant Delgado. His band’s manager was moving around the church hall as if he was a remote-control car being played with by a hyperactive child on Christmas Day.

  ‘Ah’m fuckin’ beelin’, so ah am!’

  ‘How?’ asked Grant.

  ‘That bastart, Mac Barber,’ said Max. ‘Some daft wee lassie at the paper jist phoned an’ said he couldnae make it this mornin’.’ Max was raging. It had been Mac Barber who had contacted Max after word of the Troon riot had reached his desk at the Ayrshire Post, where he contributed a weekly music column. Max had initially played up the chaos as the inevitable outcome of massive over-demand to see The Miraculous Vespas. Unsurprisingly, he had made no reference to his own part in the proceedings.

  ‘Ah gets aw ready an’ everythin’, an’ then he fuckin’ calls off … an’ sends some other daft wee lassie called Farrah!’

  ‘Might be Farrah Fawcett-Majors,’ said Simon Sylvester.

  ‘Aye. Might be,’ said Max sarcastically. ‘She’ll be takin’ a break between episodes ae Charlie’s Angels tae fuckin’ moonlight by writin’ aboot make-up an’ tampons for the Post!’

  Maggie looked over sharply at Max. ‘You’re a prick, ye ken that?’ she said.

  Max ignored her.

  ‘Whit ye moanin’ aboot? It’s still an interview, intit?’ said Grant, but Max had left the room and the questions hung in the air, unanswered.

  Simon Sylvester was experimenting with another new look. He had found a pair of glasses on that morning’s bus out to Crosshouse. But their lenses were strong and he was having trouble focusing on his hand, which he had held up two feet from his face. He stared at it like an amputee regarding a new prosthetic.

  ‘Whit dae ye think?’ he asked. Grant walked towards him. Through the frames, the singer looked like Marty Feldman in the final stages of a NASA G-Force test.

  ‘You look like Mr Magoo,’ Grant said.

  Over his shoulder, Simon could only vaguely discern the shape coming back through the vestibule door. He took off the glasses. His natural focus readjusted and as it did, he burst out laughing.

  ‘Holy fuck, Max! Is it Halloween aw’ready?’

  The rest of the band turned round. Grant and Maggie also laughed. The Motorcycle Boy raised an impressed eyebrow.

  ‘Sup wi’ it?’ said Max, aggressively. He looked down at his clothing. It looked fine from his perspective. More than fine. He was wearing the baggy denim dungarees that he’d picked up at Oxfam last week. He initially thought they would make him look more like Geoffrey from Rainbow than Kevin from Dexy’s, but, to Max, that fear was now without foundation. They looked fucking great, in his opinion. Below their turned-up legs, he wore his DM boots, but a black one on the left foot, and a tan one on the right. He wore an orange Led Zeppelin t-shirt under the dungarees, and one of Washer’s tweed Hacking jackets with the corded elbow patches over it. Hair that Max had bleached only last week was now teased high in a yellow-hued quiff that resembled Grant’s in shape if not colour. It was, however, the wearing of a monocle and the reintroduction of the cane that was the standout observation from Grant Delgado’s point of view.

  ‘Is it an interview yer gaun tae, or an audition for The Archers?’

  ‘Haw, wee man … chase me!’ The fa
t driver of the number 11 bus, which ran from Ardrossan to Kilmarnock through Crosshouse, thought he was a comedian. He shouted through the open door and edged the bus slowly away every time Max stepped towards the footplate. The bus was at least fifty yards beyond the stop by the time Max was actually permitted onto it. The lower-deck passengers were laughing.

  ‘Gets him every day, the wee balloon. It cracks me up, so it does.’ Max glared at the passenger in the seat reserved for the disabled. Auld cunt’s no’ fuckin’ disabled at aw. The words formed but Max kept them in his head. It had just started raining. An enforced walk across the no man’s land between here and the town in these clothes wasn’t going to be on the cards today.

  ‘C’mon then … chase me!’ taunted the fat Larry Grayson driver, ‘aw hing oan … ye aw’ready did!’

  ‘Ha. Funny. Duncan Norvelle, right?’ Max had to endure this repetitive cycle of cringing banter almost every day. It was as if Western SMT only employed one fucking driver. There were six of these buses an hour, yet Max had only ever been on ‘Duncan’s’.

  ‘Ah telt aw the men tae sit at the rear … but tae keep their back’s tae the wa’, ken?’ said the fat driver.

  ‘Aye. Ah get it. Ye think ah’m a poof. Big fuckin’ laugh.’ This was as aggressive as Max was now permitted to get. Months earlier, he had been banned from the number 11 for calling the same driver ‘a useless fat baldy cunt’. But it was a forty-minute walk into the town centre from Crosshouse with no shelter from the Scottish microclimate, so in the same week, he swallowed his pride – and copious medicinal compounds – and publicly apologised. The homosexual jibes amid an excruciating daily Bernard Manning routine were his penance.