Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  ‘What’s your offer Marty? We play gigs and you make money from it?’ Stan wondered.

  ‘Let Marty speak ‘is mind,’ Nutcase appealed.

  ‘Right, definitely, it’s appreciated, because we want these high profile gigs in the biggest blinkin venues in the fucking UK. I can find you more top gigs here in Nulton and down in London as well, to put you up in the blinkin glare of the national music press.’ Marty’s positive grin switched up to three bars on full power, before a wire snapped.

  Mortal sprawled about the room, listening and absorbing, in various post-gig postures.

  ‘You truly offer to be our manager? Get us more gigs and even a deal? That’s what you’re offering here?’ Herb concluded.

  Stan was playing a kind of sarcastic rock opera, although thankfully without amplification.

  Gorran would launch the band from his artist’s workshop in Nulton, just as MacLaren had launched his group from the ‘Sex’ boutique in Chelsea.

  The band members were looking at each other, doubtful about the necessary commitment and hard work. The band really did begin as a type of art school dare and provocation, hatched by Snot in the canteen one lunch time.

  ‘I don’t want to take my group to that level,’ Stan explained.

  ‘Straight up, we can pop down to my workshop in a minute or two and get your first bloomin contract inked up and ready to sign,’ Marty clarified.

  ‘We don’t need fucking contracts.’

  ‘Right, definitely Snot, but you don’t want to fall victim to some smooth talking blinkin alley cat, trying to cheat you out of millions of quid in royalties, and strip you down to your bloomin plectrum,’ he said. Marty put a hand over the place where his heart was.

  ‘We need to talk this over,’ Anna-kissed suggested.

  ‘Fucking talk.’

  At this delicate point Gorran was prepared to be diplomatic and step back. While the band went into a discussion he held his peace, leaving only the aura of that toothy grin.

  ‘I fink he’s talkin’ our kinda language,’ Nutcase said.

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘Bays, honest to goodness, I’m not sure if we’re ready for a manager. ‘Never had a feckin’ manager. But I’ve seen what feckin’ managers can do, so.’

  ‘If he can make this group a success. If he makes us very rich, I’m in favour,’ Herb said.

  ‘Knock me over,’ Stan told him.

  ‘If yer get a manager he’ll rip yer off,’ Billy insisted. ‘That’s what most so-called managers do, in this business! After they cut their slice there’s nuttin but crumbs left for the group, mind.’ He held up his huge spark-covered arms.

  ‘Good point, Billy mate.’

  ‘We’re going to need somebody to arrange gigs,’ Anna-kissed said.

  ‘Do we need Mickey the Mostest here?’

  ‘If the band continues we’re gonna need a manager,’ she insisted.

  ‘I dunt wanna give it up,’ Nutcase explained. ‘Whatever the missus says.’

  ‘Let’s go as far as we can,’ Herb decided.

  ‘Then we split up,’ Snot argued.

  ‘Me voice as got in its stride,’ Nutcase said.

  ‘We need somebody trustworthy to look after us. Somebody who really likes us,’ Herb put in.

  ‘You mean this big cheese?’

  ‘Sounds like Marty does rate us. I don’t listen to flattery... but it’s nice. Maybe he can negotiate for us, if we want to play bigger venues. The college won’t let us play here again, not after tonight’s trouble.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Stan advised.

  ‘Herb’s right. I don’t want to give up,’ Anna-kissed argued.

  ‘Why not?’ Billy said.

  ‘You’re only our drummer,’ she shouted, rounding on him.

  ‘Yeah, remember Pete Best,’ Herb warned.

  ‘Yeah, roight, the best lookin’ lad in the group!’

  ‘Nobody mentions The Beatles again,’ Snot told them.

  ‘Marty’s resident DJ at the Mad Hatter and he could get you regular gigs,’ I suggested.

  ‘Come on now, Stan bay, you started this group, so what do you fink so?’

  ‘Yeah, Stan, it’s your band, so you what do you fink?’ Nutcase agreed.

  Edgy glances shifted around the circle of non-musicians while the tension and agony of decision mounted.

  There were nerve jangling notes and discords from the little guitarist. ‘All right. On your fucking heads be it. If you’ve got to have him.’

  ‘Right, definitely, no bullshit everyone, fucking congratulations!’ Marty cut back into the action.

  4. The Nulton Night Life

  Formal contract negotiations were to be suspended overnight, while we went to celebrate at the town’s top music club, The Mad Hatter.

  In those days the town centre was so shadowy and deserted (after pub closing) that even a dead man wouldn’t be caught out. But if that unfortunate ‘Everyman’ did find himself in such a lonely place, most likely he’d pop into the Mad Hatter for a nightcap.

  For youth (that was us) the place was a sanctuary from early bedtimes, frustration, boredom and restlessness. After ’76, thanks to hustling lads like Marty Gorran things were really happening. The DJ got an exciting playlist together and began to promote live music with his local bands.

  Gorran pulled his little Austin car into a make-shift car park, over rubble of a demolished block, behind the town’s new East Berlin style concrete and glass shopping centre. He worked successfully for himself as a commercial artist, sign writer and designer. And he could afford to buy an Austin Sunbeam Deluxe car - ‘Bring a little sunshine into your life’ as Petula Clarke sung in the TV ads. In the boot of the car he kept a heap of his artist’s tools and materials, besides clip boxes containing records.

  Marty took on freelance jobs for the big Co-operative Store, including window and shop floor displays. I often noticed him dashing about the store, because I was also employed by them. I was a ‘Saturday lad’, working part-time in groceries, handling top quality fruit and veg. The excitement, buzz, enthusiasm and friendship of the local music scene lured Marty, as it did me, as Jane attracted Tarzan. In many ways he was the person who started it all. Gorran’s boyfriend Rob was vocalist for a heavy rock band too, which gave him the push to become their manager. Then the punk rock thing came along, he heard Mortal Wound at college and, like Joe Frazier with his jab against Ali, opportunity struck.

  So that night, after Mortal Wound’s infamous gig, he was desperate to sign them up. We clambered out of his solid little car - yellow as a New York taxi - and strode out through litter and stones towards rock ‘n’ roll destiny. Marty’s thoughts focussed on platinum discs and world tours already, as he loped across that bombsite of thuggish and corrupt Seventies development.

  The rock impresario headed towards that alluring bright light, his legs as long and knobbly as a kangaroo’s. With that big hair and skinny frame, distinctive in tight-fitting Ramones jeans, and a Johnny Rotten type fluffy jumper over the top, he was unmistakeable. Stan was a much shorter figure scrambling behind, thick set in body shape, swarthy and with a hook nose. In fact he dragged a foot and there was a bump between his shoulders. Putting aside this disability, which was never an issue with him, Snot didn’t show any inclination towards health or fitness. Any thought of doing exercise would have killed him off and definitely spoiled the taste of tobacco and marijuana (from a friend’s basement).

  I noticed that Herb’s white Polo car was already parked, like a cubic igloo. Anna-kissed and Nutcase had gone along with him. Excluding street lighting, Nulton was locked down in a paranoid blackout. The down-town area was disturbed only by the whistle of a mail train, rumbling through the shadowy station, passing through the town’s valley. Just mixed in wit
h stray shouts and jeers from those drunks out and about, with no interest in music or socialising.

  Certainly the Hatter was the only establishment with any sign of life. It advertised itself with a neon light over the entrance. As students we’d enter full of youthful hope and optimism, only to become bitterly disappointed with the place. Typically we would find a terrible MOR band playing comatose rock standards, ignored by a room of menacing misogynist drunks. Only at the next weekend, with short memories, we’d repeat the whole dismal scenario. It was enough to turn Captain Sensible into Nick Drake. When the punk scene developed it changed all that depressing stuff. It ended the regular let downs and sense of time-wasting, the moment Gorran turned up with his decks and music collection.

  The club’s notorious bouncers were snazzy in dinner suits, resembling tight-arsed snooker players. They’d gaze out in boredom from the entrance, across that rocky baize of desolation. All the same they would grin with pleasure and recognition whenever Marty came along. Our local rock guru could charm the back legs off a herd of asses. He sprinkled music biz fairy dust wherever he went in town, and even those psychotic hard men were flattered by his attention. They were chuffed merely to spot his big blonde afro and blocky teeth, as he came bobbing along the broken pavement to greet them.

  ‘Evening Marty!’ These gorillas even touched their forelocks (if they had one) and squeezed buttocks together in respect.

  The other Mortal members hadn’t received such a courteous welcome. The snooker men had frisked them all on the entrance steps. We heard how Nutcase’s trademark Mohican head style had set thuggish nerves jangling. They padded down his massive bulk (still sweaty from the gig) suspicious that he was trying to smuggle in tomahawks or scalps. It was a mark of Nut’s gentle nature that he hadn’t reacted to this manhandling prejudice.

  As mates of the DJ, Stan and I got into the venue free of charge. Another pair of tuxedoed apes pointed us in the direction of the saloon bar. This was the starting point of The Mad Hatter offer. The club was located over several floors, with a long bar in each, serving watered down lager at double price. There was a regular upstairs disco, while live music was in a basement area, usually starting after midnight.

  Gorran started to confetti banknotes at the bar. ‘Straight up lads, I reckon this calls for a bit of a blinkin celebration,’ he told us. He was ready to schmooze.

  Stan was complaining. ‘What we doing in this dump?’

  ‘Come on, give it a chance. Let’s stick around,’ I advised.

  Marty was responsible for the club’s Alice in Wonderland themed decor. The club owner had tasked him to come up with a decorative concept. Lewis Carrol fantasy characters were painted across walls and free areas. Marty had also created a set of giant playing cards, cut outs from stiff card, which were suspended from ceiling hooks. These garish creations span and dangled ominously (I thought) over our heads. But, as I hinted, many of the customers were more grotesque.

  ***

  The owner of the club was a bloke called Dave Crock. In a previous life Crock was a long serving centre-half with Nulton Athletic Football Club. He’d worn that legendary No. 5 shirt through a decade of seasons, including the 1960/61 campaign when Nulton had won promotion to the old First Division. If it hadn’t been for his personal problems (and an unrelated armed robbery and GBH conviction back in 1965) he might have gone into football management, rather than pub management. He was a legendary centre-half who’d succeeded in ending the playing careers of several top strikers, including a potential England international.

  A bruised toe had forced him into an early testimonial match. That same year he bought his first public house, in partnership with former Nulton Athletic club mate, the dribbly winger Graham Gross. The duo soon had a chain of pubs together, in prime spots around the town and the county. Sadly, Graham Gross (a talented player) was mysteriously eliminated by a sawn-off shot gun, during the middle of the night, while he had been asleep. Despite this tragic setback Dave Crock had soldiered on and even prospered. The Mad Hatter nightclub was created in the shell of a derelict Victorian gin palace and became his centre-piece.

  That evening we found Crock dominating his lower bar area. He was built like a warehouse, darkly complexioned, hirsute and conky. I heard him above the din of the saloon, laughing very loudly and backslapping his cronies. These blokes were old mates from the worlds of sport, leisure, government and law enforcement.

  Gorran was considered ‘tight’ with Crock, since he knew how to attract the punters with his disco nights. There was gratitude for that Alice in Wonderland theme. Marty sensed that Crock owed him a favour for those illustrations, which he was intending to call it in. The idea was to get the publican to offer Mortal Wound their first big club gig. Marty regularly recommended acts for the venue, but required the ex-footballer’s approval. Fresh from signing them up Gorran was eager to introduce his new punk talent to Nulton’s significant players.

  ‘Right Mortal, look sharp, cos here comes that blinkin Dave Crock,’ Marty warned, arranging his stringy limbs. He began to limber up another shit eating grin, if only to keep the club owner at a safe distance.

  ‘Where’s Johnny Cash to protect us?’

  ‘Fair play, keep quiet Snot, look harmless and let me do all the blinkin talking. Old Crock’s making over towards us now, wanting to know who you are. Straight up, I know how to handle him, so don’t say anything until I give you the bloomin signal.’

  ‘It’s Marty!’

  ‘Dave mate.’

  ‘Marty boy! My moosic man! Match fit, mate,’ Crock barked, steadying himself. ‘Match fit and commandin’ the centre. ‘Preciate you askin’, but match fit.’ He had an arm around the pop mogul’s shoulders, having a feel of that mohair jumper soft as a baby’s new blanket. Crock’s pink bleary eyes narrowed at us, in a mottled drinker’s face, through the bar’s smoke-filled, alcohol fuelled atmosphere.

  ‘Dave mate, Mortal Wound. Mortal Wound, Dave Crock,’ Marty declared, with a waft of his arm and a fag in the other hand.

  ‘Mortal what?’ Dave blurted.

  ‘Wound,’ Snot volunteered.

  ‘Fuckin Wound!’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Suddenly the former central defender had Stan in his range. ‘Ain’t I seen your fuckin face somewhere, son?’

  ‘Right, definitely, Dave mate, maybe you’ve spotted our friend here and thereabouts. No bullshit, familiar friendly faces apart, you’re stood next to the next big rock group in this blinkin town or anywhere, Dave mate. Straight up, that’s going to break fucking massive in the UK this summer.’

  ‘Fuck me, that so?’

  ‘No bullshit, cos these blinkin talented, bloomin good looking boys and girls here, are set to be the most exciting new band the public have heard this end of the fucking Seventies. Or I’m Rat Scabies on the blinkin wagon, Dave mate,’ Marty claimed. He made an ironic noise while embracing Herb, without touching him, on account of his ciggie.

  ‘And this big fucker stood ere, with the spiky fuckin ‘ead? ‘Oo’s ee?’

  ‘Straight up, Dave, this big lad’s their blinkin vocalist,’ Gorran explained. ‘He’s Nutcase.’

  ‘Blumen,’ I clarified.

  ‘Fair play, why don’t you mind your language, Bottle,’ the DJ suggested.

  ‘Me stage name,’ said Nutcase.

  ‘Fuck me. What a giant. Well, Marty boy knows is moosic,’ Crock agreed, tearing his eyes off Nutcase and getting the crick out of his thick neck.

  The publican began to squeeze hands, including mine, even though I could only handle a chisel. Crock was wobbling about, woozy, going in and out of consciousness. His knees had gone and alcohol didn’t help them.

  ‘Delighted,’ the club owner shouted at us. ‘Welcome to the Mad ‘Atter. How you lads fixed for a drink? I ‘ope Marty’s lookin after yer.’ He gestured and silently
mouthed at the barmaid, as if signalling for a bucket and sponge from the dugout.

  Crock had to bawl through the hubbub. ‘Bring em over ere Reena sweet’eart!’

  His girth had inflated since the glory days, putting strings and buttons under threat. That once famous shock of black curls was reduced to a silvery shower curtain. But he still had ‘none shall pass’ presence in the space.

  ‘Right, definitely Dave, that’s very kind of you, so me and the band just popped down to the club to say hello and get introduced. Straight up Dave, I thought you’d better know, after the group just played the most amazing gig I’ve seen since this side of the Dolls.’

  ‘Dolls?’ Crock was bamboozled by music biz lingo. ‘That’s your business, Marty boy. The moosic!’ A port complexion darkened, as if he was pumping ‘Black Velvet’ through his veins.

  ‘Straight up Dave, I was so blinkin impressed with tonight’s performance I had to get backstage to ‘em fast and offer to be their bloomin manager,’ Gorran explained, working his shoulders, beaming humbly. He’d had more chasers that Epsom Downs.

  ‘Good for you, Marty boy... So did they accept?’

  ‘After a lot of haggling and long negotiations,’ Marty said, grinning and shrugging modestly.

  ‘Well done, Marty boy,’ Crock told him, giving him a whack on the back. ‘You always fuckin do it.’

  Gorran slipped out another ciggie. Lighting up with a flourish, with a snap from a chunky lighter, he finished the wrap. ‘Right, definitely Dave mate, lucky they accepted the contract, cos they’re gonna need all the fucking inside expertise and advice available to ‘em in this hard blinkin business.’

  ‘Listen to this crap,’ Snot muttered towards me.

  However, I wasn’t cynical about the talk, I was fascinated.

  The other Mortal musicians stood about dazed and confused. Despite radical punk appearances they were out of their comfort zone.

  ‘Fuckin brilliant, Marty boy. This calls for a big celebration. Reena! Reena darlin! This way! Just fuckin pour, love.’