by Neil Rowland
‘’course he fucking doesn’t, Bottle. He thinks we’re the New Seekers, doesn’t he. He reckons I look like Leo Sayer. It’ll be too late before he knows what we sound like.’
I fell back on his bed laughing. When I’d recovered, I said, ‘I don’t know what you sound like either.’
‘You can come and hear us, Bottle.’
‘Amazing. No problem.’
‘We’re not as good as The Sex Pistols. That is, we’re not as bad.’
‘So what instrument do you play?’ I wondered.
Finally he explained to me what that little black box did - the amp. He went over to the built-in wardrobe, rummaged and finally pulled out a bashed-about blue guitar. At this stage it didn’t even have a case.
‘Amazing.’
‘Mum got me this second hand. Mum’s going to ask my uncle Luigi if I can have his old guitar. Not that I play well or want to,’ he warned.
‘So you’re not going to learn?’
‘This band’s punk and we don’t need to play any good.’
‘What’s your band’s name?’ Every band’s got to have a name, even a punk group.
‘It’s Mortal Wound,’ he announced.
Most likely my eyebrows joined at the middle. ‘Mortal Wound?’
‘Yeah.’
I tried to get my head around the idea.
They sounded like a right bunch of stiffs.
2. White Riot
So I accepted Jon’s invitation to Mortal Wound’s next gig. What was I letting myself in for? We’ll see!
The band’s first ever gig was at the Dragon (our favoured student public house) which turned into a mass brawl (only avoided when an older biker crowd stepped in). The up-coming gig was being promoted by the Principle as a treat for students’ graduation. Convinced by Stan’s bullshit he was impressed that profits were going to charity. Stan and I had sat exams in the very same hall as the ‘concert’ would be held. We still waited nervously for our final grades; particularly Stan who’d been offered a tasty design job: an apprenticeship. Nulton Arts College and was about to part company with a talented student.
We’d all enjoyed the experience for three years. I’d spent that period kneading lumps of clay, sketching middle-aged perverts, chipping away at lumps of rock. Sculpture was my speciality and particular passion. I still had the cuts and bruises, lumps and swelling to show for it.
During that summer, rough haircuts, rude cosmetics and safety pins broke out like acne. While the Queen’s Silver Jubilee celebrations approached some studios were decked out with the bunting of punk. That classic poster of The Clash was put up in my room. Somehow the college Principle missed these signs of change in culture and fashion. To parents and many teachers (even our trendy art teachers) the punk thing was a hole through the head. To us it dynamited a space in the mind, allowing our passions, energies and imagination to break free.
The original line-up of Mortal Wound was as follows:
Jon Whitmore - lead guitar and vocals
Paul Blumen - lead vocals
Simon Moore - bass
Henrietta Harris - rhythm guitar
Billy Kelly - drums
Otherwise known as:
Stan Snot - lead guitar and vocals
Nutcase - lead vocals
Herb - bass
Anna-kissed - rhythm guitar
Billy Urine - drums
Like sucking arsenic up a straw, I got my first taste of live punk.
Scores of punks (or proto-punks) were hanging about in our college hall, along with an alarming mix of outside cults, hooligans and extremists. Most of them were swigging take-away alcohol, smoking like the Flying Scotsman, looking self-consciously bored to the point of mindless violence. Only a minority were or had been students at the college. The ‘charity concert’ was open to non-residents, in expectation of raising extra cash. Advance notice about a punk gig had spread far and wide; to every town and village in the county it seemed. Luckily the Principle had another appointment that evening and didn’t attend in person.
Many teenagers still had only a patchy idea of what ‘punk’ music and fashion was. Many of them came to Mortal’s gig from curiosity, or just for something to do. This was the right spirit. And if you were below voting age you had to get involved with punk, like getting mugged on the top deck of the last bus.
I always hated my appearance. It was hard to fit in. In my opinion I looked awkward and strange, and it was hard not to live up to that very negative self-image. That’s the way I was shot out of the womb, I reckon. Paul Bottle, a lanky, awkward, oddball boy. With a long nose, a receding chin and boggly looking eyes. The punk movement took negativity and turned it into a powerful energy; as it did all the pain and discomfort of the misfits and outsiders of society. We didn’t analyse it at the time, yet it was bloody true.
As a mate of Snot I got the honour of hanging about with his group ‘back stage’. There wasn’t a support act that night. It was hard to think what kind of support you’d offer Mortal Wound, beyond a straight-jacket.
Pre-gig we were exposed to a barrage of new punk records through the PA. This came courtesy of a significant local DJ, and a former student at the college too (several years above us) by the name of Marty Gorran. Marty was a passionate early champion of punk rock sounds and groups. Despite holding down a regular job he was heavily involved (and invested) with the local music scene. We didn’t know him that well, except by reputation.
Marty regularly visited big independent record shops on the UK network. He had a massive influence by finding new punk releases and even bootleg tapes from America. Not only a successful commercial artist and designer - following graduation from Nulton Arts - he was a promoter, manager and hustler. Marty was a brilliant guy. Like a lot of the people I met during that era - as we’ll see.
That night he was spinning a lot of exciting records from new British bands, along with The New York Dolls (a clear influence) back to Iggy Pop and the Stooges. He even had a recording of Television and The Ramones from the CBGB club.
Stan sneaked a gloating look at the dangerous audience. A raucous and simmering mob had turned up to watch his band. Already the gig had been delayed by fights, provoked by rival political extremists, the long-hairs and the suede-heads, the football ‘casuals’ and gangs from rival towns. Art students were definitely in a minority. The head college steward (or Buildings Officer) along with his gang of assistants, were pressed into service. These guys didn’t look pleased to be at a rock concert anyway. When was Leo Sayer going to turn up? There was a tidal wave of illegal alcohol and more weed than North and South Vietnam combined.
Far from being angered by this hooligan hijack, Stan had a smirk and conniving look. Snot was prepared to ‘up the ante’ of punk with his band’s reputation for chaos. The Age of Aquarius, the hippie message of peace and love (as ciphered down to us) was going toes up with a name tag. Sadly for Snot the college Principle would later call his bluff.
‘Do we get to hear your band, or what?’
‘Lots of time yet. Anna-kissed is learning another chord,’ Stan explained. ‘It’s her second. I gave her a D.’
‘You need more practice!’
He turned big dark sad eyes on me. ‘Punk bands don’t practice, Bottle.’
‘You’d better get on. Unless you want ‘em to rip this place up.’
‘Sounds good. If you’ll excuse that horrible pun,’ he quipped.
‘This is looking ominous.’
‘Why don’t you come out with us, Bottle?’
‘What you on about? To play on stage, you mean?’
‘Join us.’
‘Now you’re really taking the piss.’
‘You’d be great, Bottle. You’ve got ideas, haven’t you?’
Snot hardly paid atten
tion to that mob. He was completely relaxed as if waiting for the bus.
‘Anna-kissed only joined because she’s going out with Herb... You know, that Simon. She doesn’t realise that Herb only fancies himself,’ he commented.
‘You mean Simon Moore, who’s doing fashion design?’
‘Yeah, that tosser. He plays bass.’
‘So it isn’t harmonious?’
‘Any more than the Velvet Underground.’
I’d seen that lad Simon in the refectory, a big show off, laughing loudly - aware of his good looks, swishing his fringe, holding court, waving a French ciggie.
‘Someone told me he can play a bit,’ I said.
‘Yeah, a bit. Any fancy work and he’s definitely out,’ Snot insisted. ‘Why don’t you play some rhythm guitar? You’d be no worse than Anna-kissed. I’ll teach you a couple of chords.’
‘No way... that’s final. It’s not my thing.’ What was? There was time to find out.
‘It’s a piece of fucking iced cake, Bottle. What’s the matter?’ he pursued.
‘I’m happy with a chisel... not a guitar.’
Modern sculpture was my specialist subject. Obviously I was preparing myself for future employment: I could have been the Damien Hurst of rock.
‘Your funeral,’ he told me - eyes still on the unruly audience. ‘Or ours,’ he quipped. ‘You can stay and watch the mayhem... as the rhino shit hits the fan.’
‘Yeah, amazing. I’m going to do that,’ I said.
Stan slouched back to the changing room. He cut a diminutive, stooped, fragile-framed figure, with piratical ringlets. Yet despite physical disabilities, and other health problems, he was a charismatic lad; somehow a thinker and a romantic. Girls adored him at college, even if he had a ‘handicap’. Certainly his female fan club had turned up.
But Stan wasn’t completely up himself, as Herb was. Not a bit.
***
In that aggressive atmosphere rumours spread, that the gig was cancelled. Most likely the grumpy Buildings Officer had put in an emergency call to the Principle, warning him. Unfortunately it was too late to stop the ‘charity pop concert’.
While the band hung back (as engineered by Stan), fuelling frustration and tension, a big fight broke out. This was a signal for the head caretaker, Mr Wheatcroft, to dive in. Wheatcroft was a familiar character around college, with wardrobe shoulders and a ruff of stiff silver hair. On a daily basis Wheatcroft reserved a psychotic look for students. He didn’t like lazy and arty tossers such as students. When pushed on the topic he’d openly describe these scholars as ‘sheep under my feet’. As they strutted the corridors Mr Wheatcroft and his team gave off the attitude that they had more useful work to do. They only enjoyed making mocking comments about our final art shows.
Wheatcroft was ignorant of recent changes in pop music. His team of porters were the same way.
Stage lights were flashing like last orders for the nuclear holocaust. The PA crackled and popped and drenched the crowd in satanic feedback. Marty Gorran had cleared his decks and found a safer corner. Youths surged forward over the floor stage-front, thrusting beer cans and lighted ciggies above. In that mêlée a lad called Mick Dove came to my notice. Mick was a fellow student and we had begun Infants’ School together. But there he was at the centre, lashing out, and wearing a swastika adorned tee-shirt.
Stage lighting was operated by Herb’s little brother, Allan. He was no older than eleven and perched perilously in the rigging, surrounded by a devil’s nest of electrical cables, switches and hot bulbs. Allan was trying to be creative with buttons and sliders, and it was bad news for migraine sufferers. If he survived he intended to make a future career as a lighting technician.
The presence of a drum kit suggested a musical event of some type. Herb jumped out with Anna-kissed and they unfurled a banner at the rear of the stage. They had created this painted backdrop for the group at college. This featured the legend of ‘Mortal Wound’ over the image of a severed torso, cut out of a Sunday supplement. It was a very punk shock statement. But I didn’t see much shock in that crowd.
This was the cue for the rest of Mortal Wound to appear, with Snot slouching on last, as if going to his final period of the college day. The ‘musicians’ slowly took their places and fumbled about with sockets and knobs, trying to plug in and tune up, like Bill Gates with his first fuse.
‘What you spotty wankers studying?’ Stan shouted out. He soaked up a volume of jeers and waving fists. ‘This is gonna wipe the fucking cobwebs out of your ears!’
At this, finally, the group launched into their opening ‘song’. The audience was blown back by force of jagged, angry, electrical noise. It was absolutely thrilling. That was my first reaction - like running through a hard hail storm to reach a hot room. Immediately those lads at the front began to mosh and fight again. Through these fireworks I gained my first view of the band, which was effectively my first experience of punk and of live rock ‘n’ roll.
There was Stan Snot hunched over his battered blue guitar (he still needed to concentrate hard) somehow enigmatic in this fury. On drums - bludgeoning his skins like a ship yard worker - was the more experienced Billy ‘Urine’ Kelly. Billy was a seasoned musician and a good mate of Stan’s. The thundering backdrop was a good disguise for the group’s chronic musical shortcomings.
Simon - AKA Herb - was the only lad who could really play. Stage right, wearing an authentic ‘Sex’ tee-shirt, he was on bass. There was something of the ‘soul boy’ in him, which caused tensions. His well-curated fringe danced along to slapping bass lines. There was a slash flare to his trousers and he was wearing eye-shadow and lipstick. In those days, in our town, that could be a radical statement, despite Glam Rock. He obviously fancied himself a bit, although I admired his guts. The Mods were partial to touches of cosmetics and Herb was into their style.
Anna-kissed focused hard over her rhythm guitar. She forced fingers over the frets, down the neck, to locate a sub-dominant chord or, really, any chord. To begin with she struck some petulant poses, to add to the show. Her stage costume was a minimal black plastic skirt, ripped up the sides and held in place by safety pins, with yards of hospital bandage wrapped around her chest.
So that early version of Mortal Wound crashed out a wall of noise. No matter how painful the process, this was the beginning of something.
Any atom of doubt about Mortal’s punk cred was burst by their ‘singer’. This character bestrode the stage like a bare-chested colossus. His name was Paul Blumen - AKA Nutcase - a man mountain, complete with tree cover. In a pair of ripped tartan trousers with chains attached, he stomped and bellowed over the boards. Taking advantage of an SFX from the college’s drama department, he had poured a bucket of fake blood over bare chest and shoulders. That was dramatic and alarming, and he’d glued up a huge green Mohican cut as well.
Flashing lights painted his contorted features, as he squeezed to an even greater decibel. The lad was definitely a shouter, a ‘gate mouth’ style of vocalist, if you want to push it a bit and say he had a singing style.
After two and a half minutes of this racket - as if pretending to be a three minute pop song - ‘Teenage Playground’ came to an end. Hardly waiting for a reaction, the group threw itself into the next ‘song’. Afterwards I was able to confirm this tune as ‘Toast the Bourgeoisie’ - in its earliest version. As I remember, the cack-handed musicians set off in different times, then caught up with each other at varying speeds. They all had their own ideas about tempi, despite the drummer’s thundering. Simon was trying to play something fancy but, aware of the turmoil, he had a look of blind panic.
The final chord lingered, thunderous and echoing, and was as disturbing as a Seventies airliner taking off.
The band jumped into a third number called ‘Punk Spunk’. I witnessed the new phenomenon of spitting. When the musicians dared
to approach front stage, that mosh of youths showered them with phlegm. For a split second it put the band off - fingers were slipping on strings - yet they squinted their eyes, shrugged and continued. I was shocked by this storm of disgusting gob. Herb was trying to keep out at the back; swinging his bass from side to side, as if with Kool and the Gang.
There was absolute uproar, pandemonium, in that college hall. It created hell for Wheatcroft and his intrepid porters. Whatever sort of anti-social behaviour they spotted - and it was as case of ‘take your pick’ - it wasn’t smart to jump in. The whole squad of them - what was the cream of caretaking and maintenance - vanished into a scrum of psychotic adolescents.
After a couple of songs somebody had thrown a half-full beer can towards the stage. This encouraged the others and one struck Billy full on the nose. Being a tough lad he played on as if he didn’t notice. This time the blood was real and pooled into one of his side drums. Nutcase fobbed off the beer cans and thrust out his Red Wood ribcage; pogo-ed from one side of the stage to the other, snarling out the lyrics:
Bored, bored
Fucking repressed
Your social worker’s pissed
Anna-kissed was playing hunt the lost chord, when a beer can hit her. Fortunately it was a nearly empty one. Still, she wasn’t much amused; she dropped her arms and glared out at the audience. She was screaming back at them like an abused Billy Holiday. You didn’t need to hear what she was saying - you could read her lips. Herb decided to turn his back on it all, flicking his hair, wiggling his tight bum and giving plenty of vibratos with his thumb.
What was Stan doing under this vicious bombardment? He was enjoying himself, that’s what he was doing. With an ironical smile he concentrated on getting out even more feedback and reverb effects, to give impact to Nutcase’s vocal howls.
The hard life, the hard life
Caught in the urban wars
Kill your social worker
During the second chorus Herb and Anna-kissed lost it with the crowd - those lads hurling abuse and other things. They decided to lose face to keep their good looks. According to their point of view, if you asked them, they were the best looking people in town. Anna whipped out the power cord from her guitar and exited in a huff. Herb followed on her heels. For a minute Stan and Billy ground to a halt, lacking a rhythm section. Nutcase concluded Kill Your Social Worker in a type of rasping Capella.
