Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  Realising that the gig was ending, the crowd was infuriated. Snot savoured the situation for a few minutes. He even had time to twist knobs on his amp, before at last padding away. Apart from being the smartest lad in town, he was also a cunning artistic provocateur.

  Unfortunately he also had a bitter enemy and rival from college days. During the gig I had seen Mick Dove in the thick of it. He was also hurling missiles, any type of projectile, with particular venom, at Stan.

  I didn’t let this ruin the gig for me. I’d never experienced anything like it. We’d unleashed this monster punk. It had torn a hole through our boring and tedious lives.

  You had to face the world with some defiance during those times.

  ***

  Following the pandemonium I was nervous about meeting them afterwards. It was easy to assume that Stan was humiliated. Even worse, his new band’s credibility was ruined, wasn’t it? What did I know?

  I was hanging about, watching as the rag tag crowd left. Mr Wheatcroft and his team gathered by the exits to shepherd them. I’d never seen a more bruised and dispirited lot of college porters in my life. The matter didn’t end there. There was no chance Wheatcroft was going to write a rave gig review for the Principle. Any money raised for charity (potentially) would have to go on repair work. Talented student, Master Jon Whitmore, was set to leave college that summer, requiring a reference to begin his apprenticeship.

  Crossing the stage I kicked through heaps of spilling beer cans. The boards of the stage were slippery with spit as well. Recently this very stage had produced a student version of Oklahoma, getting rave reviews in The Nulton Chronicle. Stan Snot wasn’t involved in that show of course. That type of musical theatre wasn’t his scene at all.

  Unknown to any of us there was a cub reporter from the Chronicle present at the gig. This lad would put in a review for that week’s edition of the newspaper.

  In years ahead lads would claim to have been there, as with the Pistols at the 100 Club, the Clash at the Kilburn Ballroom or even the New York Dolls at CBGBs (believe it or not).

  Anna-kissed and Herb were all lovey-dovey. She was doing a belly dance and he was swinging a towel above his head. No sign of being down in the dumps. Even a bump on the forehead didn’t concern her. Their confidence felt a universe away from me.

  The drummer, Billy Urine, was the most hardened musician. Fortunately his nose wasn’t broken, just very sore. He’d played in an impressive variety of local bands, including show bands, Fifties rock ‘n’ roll and even heavy metal groups. So you could say he was versatile, even accomplished, though he didn’t brag about it.

  ‘Right then, lads, was I feckin’ loud enough?’ He had a big grin.

  ‘Deafenin,’ Nutcase told him. ‘I ad to struggle to get ‘eard.’

  ‘Ai, nuttin’ bothers me bay! Let the fuckers throw what they want.’

  Stan kept himself to himself, minding his words, but no less smug about the gig’s impact.

  ‘Feckin’ a-mazin’ so it was!’ Billy continued to celebrate, wiping his face and biceps with a beach towel.

  ‘It was World War Free,’ Nut commented.

  ‘I’ve never had so much fun,’ Anna-kissed said, giving a skip. ‘Let’s do it all again soon.’

  ‘Did you notice the way I stuck my arse out?’ Herb said. ‘Come on your bastards, try to hit this with a can!’

  ‘Ya nob!’

  ‘Not my knob, my arse, you dick.’

  ‘You stormed off stage. Boat of yer!’

  ‘They chucked the ole off licence at me,’ Nutcase recalled. He ran a huge rough palm over the green blade of his Mohican cut. Everyone in the band knew he was a gentle type of giant. And he was a brilliant dad to his toddler.

  ‘You sang good and loud,’ Anna-kissed assured him.

  ‘You frightened the life out of them, Nut,’ Herb agreed. ‘Where does that high pitched scream come from? Honest I really thought my ears would burst.’

  ‘I didn’ get all the ‘igh notes,’ Nutcase recalled - like he was Pavarotti or somebody.

  ‘Fair play now, neither did anybody else,’ Billy assured him.

  ‘Just the dogs,’ Herb remarked.

  ‘You played some feckin’ crackin’ guitar there, Stan bay.’

  Stan didn’t bother to look up from the frets. ‘I just filled in the gaps.’ Which gaps?

  ‘You’ve got talent, Stan, honest.’ This was Nutcase.

  ‘Talent? I don’t want to catch nothing like that.’ Yet, even during these early days, he couldn’t keep his hands away from a guitar.

  ‘You wanna take yer music more seriously now, bay,’ Billy Urine advised. They all seemed to have the same opinion.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘If you do that Stan, you could go places so you could,’ the drummer argued, holding up a forefinger. ‘You wanna listen to me now cos I’ve been around a bit.’

  ‘When we take this disgusting racket seriously, that’s the time we break up,’ Snot muttered.

  The rest of the band gave him a look. The idea of breaking up was a real downer. Despite which he continued to tinker about with the instrument. As a matter of fact a guitar was stuck to him for the rest of his life. Music was his inspiration during times of loneliness, confusion and despair. Though I never played three notes together, music came to have a similar power for me.

  Stan had a self-rolled funny cigarette on the go, bobbing along on his bottom lip. Sweet smelling smoke formed an ambient fug in the room, while he adjusted and corrected finger placements, groping towards a new riff.

  ‘How are you feeling then Stan?’ I shuffled closer to him trying to make my presence felt.

  ‘Feeling? How should I know?’

  ‘Whacked by beer cans... all that spit flying around.’

  ‘You have to go to the next Pistols gig,’ he advised.

  ‘Are their gigs like yours?’

  ‘Worse!’

  ‘Incredible,’ I replied.

  ‘So, you know, what did you think to Mortal?’ Even without looking at me, he wanted to check my opinion for the first time ever.

  ‘I thought you were brilliant!’

  Snot nodded with total calm.

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t like the violence directed at you... personally. I’ve got to talk to you about that.’

  ‘It’s anarchy,’ he retorted.

  3. Enter ‘The Gorran’

  In the aftermath of this war zone, there came a rap on the ‘dressing room’ door. Who would even bother to knock? The police?

  Luckily it wasn’t the cops. Their surprise visitor was none other than star DJ Marty Gorran, who’d come round to congratulate them. Not only the best alternative club jock in town, he had established himself as a local rock raconteur. And if Gorran came knocking on any band’s door they knew their gig had been a proper event.

  Marty had all the positive energy, full-beam optimism and supra-confidence necessary for a Pop impresario. He also had a medley of anxious tics and a great talent to stir up a PR hurricane in a media tea cup. Bearing a set of impressive teeth, a striking coiffure of puffy hair, Mick Jagger-like sexy ‘tyre tread’ lips, a post-midnight pallor and snake hips, the DJ cut a striking figure on the music scene.

  ‘Hello, hello, you lot. Fantastic to see everybody gathered together! How all you lads doing then? Great, great. It’s Marty. Marty Gorran. Yeah, amazing, well I’m blinkin glad to meet you after that cracking performance!’

  Apart from Stan the band was dazzled.

  The pop meister moved among them, shaking hands. ‘How are you blinkin doing now you’d touched up your cuts and bruises? Yeah, I mean that was a bloomin brilliant noise and a fantastic show. Or I’m Inglebert Umpledink,’ he told them, enthused.

  Marty was an ‘authority’ on punk fashions and sty
les, due to his day time job as an artist and designer. Gorran was rigged up in the fashions of the Ramones’ rent-boy chic. There were Joey Ramone’s signature skin-tight ripped jeans and a Warhol tee-shirt, with just a black linen jacket over the top, to indicate his serious business credentials. The playlist at the Dragon and for his ‘Pink Pants’ Disco Nights - as part of his DJ residency - had propelled punk into our neighbourhood, along with the underground disco scene.

  Snot was mistrustful of Gorran’s hype, as our parents mistrusted PM Uncle Jim Callaghan, or Chancellor Dennis Healey, when they invited the IMF to reduce our national pocket money. Then again Marty Gorran had zero interest in conventional politics or economics. If his aim was to break his groups nationally and internationally, to win them (and himself) acclaim, fame and fortune in the music business, his overriding motivation was musical passion.

  ‘Right, definitely you punks, that was the most amazing blinkin gig I’ve got to this side of the fucking Pistols’ surprise gig at the Duncehead Ballroom,’ Marty eulogised.

  ‘It was disgusting,’ Stan remarked.

  ‘I fort it was all right,’ Nutcase said.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Herb said. ‘Were you watching me, Marty? Did you see my moves? How my bass lines stand out?’

  ‘Ai lads, what a nob this lad is!’ Billy complained.

  ‘Don’t talk to my boyfriend like that!’ Anna-kissed warned him.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re all jealous of him, that’s why.’

  ‘Feckin jealous of this lad? This one here? Me arse.’

  Such droll dressing room banter continued, while our big name local DJ tried to make his mark on their egos.

  ‘No bullshit, I was stood out there in the blinkin hall tonight watching Mortal and I an’t been so impressed with a new punk outfit since I got into Penetration,’ he admitted, looking in raptures.

  ‘So did you fink we was any good?’ Nutcase wondered.

  ‘Fair play, Marty, but are you serious now?’ Billy replied.

  ‘He says he was impressed,’ Herb said, ‘and I’ll take that.’

  ‘Penetration. Now they are a brilliant group,’ Snot conceded.

  ‘No bullshit, I an’t seen a better punk rock group this side of fucking Pauline or the blinkin Damned gig at the Rock Garden last month,’ Gorran confessed, spreading his hands. He smiled broadly, pale eyes aglow, knobbly inky hands appealing, and spinning a full circle on his heels to include everybody. Strobe lighting came through the infinite filaments of his barnet.

  ‘Ace’

  ‘Did you hear what he just said now?’

  ‘That’s complete bollocks,’ argued the lead guitarist.

  ‘Amazing. Cheers Marty, mate,’ Nut said regardless.

  The pop magnate had big snaggle teeth and wasn’t afraid to deploy them for effect. ‘Straight up lads, something bloomin’ special happened here in Nulton Arts College this evening. You completely blew me away to be totally blinkin truthful with you,’ he argued, revealing both rows of those rectangular teeth, like yellow icebergs.

  ‘You need to get out more,’ Stan suggested.

  ‘Straight up, Jon mate, nobody gets out of the blinkin house more than I do to catch these new punk bands!’ he objected, dipping his shoulders dramatically and grinning in amazement at such a misunderstanding.

  ‘It’s Stan. Not Jon. Stan Snot.’

  The burly drummer needed more convincing. ‘Fair’s fair, Marty bay, ya sure we’re good as you say? There’s a bit of competition out there now.’

  ‘For once that brute on sticks has a point. There’s plenty of new bands on the circuit,’ Herb noted.

  ‘Right, definitely, I take your blinkin point on the number of bloomin bands sprouting up like fucking cabbages. But fair play, Mortal’s gig was even more bloomin gob-smacking than the first time me and Rob caught the fucking Dolls at the Garden,’ the DJ enthused.

  ‘New York Dolls, you mean?’ said Stan.

  Gorran reacted in startled fashion. ‘Right, definitely Snot, the blinkin New York Dolls, who else could I mean?’ he said, with a wince of anxiety.

  ‘Our band’s only been together three weeks,’ Anna-kissed said.

  ‘We could break up next week,’ Snot pointed out.

  ‘Fair play Snot, what you blinkin talking about? Breaking up? Where can your group be next blinkin year, if you put your fucking energies behind it? Cos, straight up, Mortal can have a fucking massive impact on the UK music scene,’ Marty suggested, before his grin could shatter under the stress. ‘Or I’m Barbara Strident.’

  ‘More bullshit than bum notes,’ Snot sneered.

  ‘We don’t need you to tell us how good I am,’ Herb argued. He was now changed back into a billowy shirt and ‘Rupert Bear’ style, yellow and black checked trousers.

  ‘The band got to put in a lot of rehearsin’ time yet so,’ Billy reminded.

  ‘We’re a hot band... or we can be,’ Anna-kissed added. She was remembering her own tortuous guitar practice.

  Gorran raised his large blotted artist’s palms, like some Aztec chief at the top of his pyramid. ‘Right, definitely lads, you already know how blinkin fantastic you are. No bullshit, cos self-confidence is important as fucking sex in this industry,’ he argued. The DJ began dragging on a fresh ciggie, exhaling the noxious fog, teeth emerging like the battlements of Leeds Castle.

  ‘We’re crap,’ Stan disagreed. ‘We’re the dregs of society and a bunch of losers.’

  ‘Straight up Snot, tell me something blinkin new, or you’ll never get on in this business. Fair play, like some nervous donkey running up the blinkin beach, after some kid smacked its fucking arse,’ Marty objected.

  ‘What are you offering to the band?’ Anna-kissed wondered, cradling her chin as she leant forward.

  ‘Right, definitely, a good question, what can I blinkin offer to this great little punk band? No bullshit lads, how can I promote you in this fucking cut throat bloomin business? So how bloomin hungry is this talented little fucking punk band to reach the top of the indie charts?’

  ‘Fair play, let’s hear sometin’ feckin’ concrete, Marty,’ Billy suggested.

  Stan looked up from his frets a moment. ‘Well expressed, by our friend on a drum stool.’

  ‘Right, definitely, with total bloomin respect and no offence fucking intended, what do you know about the cuts and blinkin thrusts of the music industry?’ Marty asked. His facial muscles turned into over-strung strings on the point of snapping under the strain.

  ‘What do we know?’ Anna-kissed considered, gazing around.

  ‘Not sure what he’s offering,’ Herb told her. ‘That we couldn’t do for ourselves.’

  ‘On the button, that man,’ Stan declared.

  ‘Right, no bullshit, all those fucking big shot London managers and music agents’ll be waiting for you down in the bloomin smoke. No bullshit, take my advice, cos they’ll be fucking swarming around your gigs like a bunch of starving sharks after their blinkin meal tickets.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Nutcase asked - impressed.

  ‘OK, so we don’t play any more gigs. We break up. This was a farewell gig,’ Snot added. He gave a definitive twang.

  The impresario gave an ironic laugh and hunch of the shoulders: ‘Right, definitely Snot mate, get yourself into the blinkin picture, cos any good new band has to know how to blinkin promote itself and fucking sell its music.’

  Mortal was more or less flattered and impressed. They were up for it.

  ‘What’s the proposal?’ Snot pressed. All the same, he didn’t interrupt his after-gig tunings.

  ‘Can you get us some more gigs?’ Anna-kissed asked.

  ‘Right, definitely, can I get you some more fucking gigs?’ Marty wondered, treating her to five-octave optimism, as he squeaked about
on his baseball boots’ rubber heels. ‘Fair play, can I get you some more gigs?’ The grin was cranked up to full volume - he was the Motorhead of schmooze.

  ‘We’re a punk group. We’re meant to break up.’

  ‘It’s really only a college joke, you know?’ Herb - unusually - agreed.

  ‘It’s like for charity,’ Anna reminded him.

  ‘Yeah, anarchist charity.’

  ‘Right, definitely, very clever Snot,’ Marty objected. He froze his ironical expression of disgust, to shock them back to reality. ‘Straight up, that’s the height of all your blinkin ambition? You’ve no more faith in your own fucking abilities than that? No bullshit, tell me I got blinkin hearing problems, cos it seems like you don’t want to find any more big gigs?’ he stated, looking appalled.

  ‘So can we make an impact?’ Anna-kissed asked, hopefully.

  ‘We’re going to vanish. Overnight,’ Snot predicted.

  ‘Maybe this night,’ Herb joked, laughing too loudly.

  The DJ promoter blenched with pain at this. ‘Right, definitely Simon mate, enjoy your bloomin joke. But, no bullshit lads, punk’s why I got into this business in the first place. If you want success as a punk band, get me in as your blinkin manager. Cos with the right attitude you lot can go up the fucking charts quicker’n a fucking nuclear rocket,’ he argued, keeping up the ends of his sensual Jagger mouth. ‘I’m the type of big thinking blinkin promoter and agent, with the kind of push and contacts, that you’re gonna need in this bloomin business. Or I must be Des O’fucking Connor.’

  ‘Des has got more talent than us,’ Snot jibed.

  ‘I’m the only real musician here,’ Herb pointed out.

  ‘You’re a nob, so you are!’

  ‘Leave him alone, will you?’ Anna-kissed challenged.