by Neil Rowland
Anna-kissed had to look away. ‘He’s charming, isn’t he,’ she remarked.
‘So that my skin crawls,’ Herb agreed.
Mortal continued to swap uneasy looks, even Nutcase, while Dave was flagging emergency orders to the bench. Only Billy Urine had the presence of mind to shout ‘Cheers!’ Billy could handle himself, but he knew that Crock was the gaffer for a lot of dodgy local construction sites.
‘What a dive this is,’ Snot remarked.
‘Better’n being at home,’ I suggested.
‘Yeah?’
‘I don’t fancy playing any gig here,’ Herb said.
‘Imagine the changing rooms,’ Anna-kissed suggested.
‘It’s a gig though. Give it a chance, lads.’ This from Nutcase. Like a privet hedge his green brush-cut ran between the painted figures of the Duchess and the Griffin. For a split second or two Crock had the illusion of being sober, every time he noticed the mammoth singer among us.
‘Right, definitely Dave mate, I’m giving you the head’s up on Mortal playing select blinkin prestige gigs around Nulton and Duncehead.’ Gorran took a moment to suck down the other half of his B&H. He winced with pleasure at the intake and blew exhaust over his shoulder.
The club owner staggered a few steps nearer. ‘What you after, Marty boy?’
‘Right, definitely Dave, now you’re asking, I’ve got to negotiate with some more blinkin top quality local venues,’ he argued. ‘Fair play, you can’t expect this group to headline at the Albert Hall without any bloomin extra practice. No bullshit Dave, before they play their headline London gigs and pull in those top A and R men down there in the bloomin smoke. Cos after that they can get signed up to one of the big fucking record labels and think about their first bloomin hit album.’
‘Fucking brilliant, Marty. You’re on the ball,’ Crock told him, rubbing his rough purple nose.
But you could tell that the club owner was on a different planet.
‘Wait a minute Mr DJ,’ Stan cut in. ‘When did we agree to all this?’
‘Right definitely, Stan mate, no blinkin sweat if you leave the detailed negotiations to me. No bullshit, there’s no big bloomin national tour ‘til you get signed up to a serious fucking indie label. Straight up, an’t you got any blinkin ambition?’ he objected. The body language was hunching up, moderating the grin.
‘I’m supposed to be starting a job soon,’ Snot explained. ‘This band’s only a laugh. We’re breaking up.’
Crock grew sentimental. ‘Marty boy knows is moosic! E’s a talented boy. Anyfin’ that lights Marty’s fire is good wiv me. I’ve never known Marty to back a loser. I’m backin’ this fuckin band.’ He stuffed a fresh cigar into his mouth and tried to clip the end of it. For the first few attempts he was snatching at the air.
‘Cheers Dave. All the best t’ya now.’ Billy was enjoying his free pint.
‘You’re fuckin welcome son. Everybody! Ave another drink! On the ‘ouse. Reena!’
In disgust Herb and Anna-kissed broke away into a private lovers’ conversation. Stan began to study his long gifted fingers. What had he got himself into, just by starting up that band for fun at college?
‘Honest, Marty? You fink Mortal can make it?’ Nutcase said, pressing him. ‘Do you really rate us that much?’
‘Straight up, Nut, do I really fucking rate you?’ Marty replied, nodding his chin and turning a toothy grin of disbelief on the vocalist.
Nutcase’s slitty eyes shifted from side to side. ‘Yeah, what d’you fink?’
‘Fair play Nutcase, do I believe a blinkin word of what I’m fucking telling you? No bullshit, am I going to put all my fucking money where my bloomin mouth is and support this great little kick arse punk group of yours?’ Gorran wondered. He looked aghast around the room and back at the vocalist.
‘So d’you really fink we’re any good?’ Nut persisted. He began looking around at the rest of us for help.
‘Straight up, no bullshit, Nut, are you any fucking good? Mortal’s the smartest fucking little band in town, since Strummer and Simeon first turned up at the bloomin Stag’s Head without any instruments or even the Kilburns,’ the rock guru argued persuasively. Gorran boggled at the wonder of the rock world, waving around another ciggie like Simon Rattle with a baton.
‘You reckon?’
‘Straight up Nut, don’t you remember when Joe and the boys turned up in fucking Duncehead for a surprise gig that time, after missing their bloomin train back to London? Topper without his blinkin drum kit and only a fucking empty instrument case on ‘im?’
Nutcase was stunned. ‘Honest?’
‘Bollocks,’ Snot said.
‘No bullshit, Stan, cos I was the one who blinkin persuaded them to stay and blinkin play,’ the pop guru told us.
Dave Crock was impressed, even though pop music was all Greek to him. ‘Cheers! All the best, everybody!’ The club owner raised his pint pot, like the FA Cup on wobbly extra-time legs. ‘Marty knows is moosic,’ he added, having drained it in one. ‘What do I know about fuckin moosic? Tom tit,’ he admitted, flushing claret. The booze flamed in his veins. He was roasting alive in a velvet tux and frilly shirt. ‘Marty boy looks after me bands. I never fuckin interfere. ‘E plays all the ‘it records.’
‘Right, definitely, that’s what I wanted to bloomin talk to you about, Dave mate.’
‘Marty’s me moosic man. What do I know? What do I fuckin care? S’long as I dunt get no complaints. I trust Marty boy with is bands. E’s got a safe pair ov ands. S’long as punters is ‘appy. If those kids ‘and over their five quid on the fuckin door.’ He took a monographic hanky from his top pocket and mopped his eyes, cheeks and brow, breathing heavily.
‘Straight up Dave, before we get them out on their first blinkin national tour we’ll have to play a few more bloomin showcase gigs a’tome here in Nulton,’ Gorran said, wincing.
‘You’re on the ball Marty. No sneaky moves.’ Crock bent his knees to pour down another pint. An unflappable Reena lined up substitutes along the bar.
‘Fair play Dave mate, cos there’s a big blinkin punk night organised for the Lyceum ballroom off the Strand next month. Straight up, and I can get Mortal on the same bill as the blinkin Buzzcocks, Ruts and UK Subs, if we can back them up with quality local gigs at recognised venues.’
‘Marty’s knows is moosic. He’s always a safe pair of fuckin ands. I don’t interfere. Nah, nah, only if I ‘ave to kick some fuckers out the back fuckin door,’ he recalled.
‘Right, definitely Dave mate, so what do you say to my bloomin proposal?’
Crock brought his large mauve face nearer to the impresario’s. ‘What you pullin’ Marty?’
Gorran held the winning smile at four octaves. ‘Fair play, Dave mate, what I’m politely blinkin asking here is that you offer Mortal a couple of big gigs downstairs at the bloomin Hatter’s Music Box venue.’
The club owner was stunned. His eyes popped at this impudent genius. ‘At the Atter?’
‘Straight up, and we can get the Hatter known as a bloomin important venue on the fucking national music circuit, Dave mate. No bullshit and we can get the whole fucking town talking and buzzing about the bands in this place,’ the promoter promised.
‘What you sayin’? You want em to play ‘ere? At the Atter?’
‘Right, definitely Dave mate, so we can put ‘em on and promote ‘em at the Music Box down in the blinkin basement,’ Gorran enthused, radiating and squinting through more smoke. ‘No worries Dave, you’ll be pulling in the big crowds of local kids and making a bloomin fortune out of it all.’
‘Ten quid on the door. Late bar extension.’
‘Fair play, Dave, you can’t blinkin lose. No bullshit you’ll have the best gig in years. I promise you’ll go hop skip and blinkin jumping all the way to the fucking bank.’
‘You’re sellin’ it, Marty boy,’ Crock agreed. ‘So what’s your fuckin cut?’
‘Right, definitely, fair play, fifty quid and ten percent of the door.’
‘My shout, Marty boy. Call it five.’
Crock’s head always cleared at talk of profit.
‘Right, definitely, I want to be bloomin flexible on the terms, but Mortal’s already in big fucking demand. I’ve been speaking to Dougal down at the Dragon and he’s expressed a lot of blinkin interest in putting on a few gigs with ‘em.’
‘Sixty quid, Marty boy.’
That was a reasonable amount of money then - or so it sounded to us.
‘Right, definitely, it’s a fair offer Dave, we can blinkin agree between us, ten percent at the door.’
Menace deepened the bass voice. ‘That’s what I fuckin said. That’s what we fuckin agreed.’
‘Right, fair play, that all sounds blinkin straight up and narrow as your trousers Dave, so I’ll just have a quick flip through my fucking diary, true as I’m talking to you now,’ Gorran suggested.
‘First Saturdee night next month, Marty boy. No support. Take it or fuckin leave it.’
‘Right, definitely, looks here like it’s free with us, so let’s call it a bloomin deal shall we?’ Mortal’s manager concluded.
The publican took a few seconds to calculate. ‘Cheers everybody!’ Crock finally bellowed. ‘Listen to Marty boy. ‘E knows is moosic.’ He steadied himself. ‘Reena! Where the fuck yer got to! Drinks all rarnd. Make yourselves at ‘ome. Dave Crock knows ow to look after is mates. Dave Crock ‘asn’t ad to buy a fuckin drink in twenty two years. Cheers everybody!’
5. Phoenix, Betsy and the contest
Snot apart, the group was mesmerised by such success. If Gorran could clinch a headline gig at the Hatter maybe he knew his way around the rock ‘n’ roll jungle after all.
As the midnight hour passed Mortal nerves began to shred. The saloon area was crowded out with drunks who had no interest in listening to music or to each other.
Above our heads the ceiling was shuddering and juddering from the nightclub stampede. British Home Stores lamps and chandeliers in the saloon bar shook and swung, as if the entire floor above was about to crash on our heads. One time I’d gone up into the ‘Looking Glass’ disco to watch the dancers. While pummelled by the Amazonian vocal style of (the incomparable) Donna Summer, or the squeezed balls falsettos of the Bee Gees, I lost my bearings completely. Marty had fitted huge mirrors along every wall, including the ceiling. Disco dancers were reflected into multiple infinity. For a couple of hours I was looking for an escape route. Even the keenest dancers were prone to smashing into surfaces, or into each other. Despite this the ‘Looking Glass’ was the most popular club in town. Well, beats me.
‘Right, definitely, I’m getting itchy feet here playing statues at the bloomin bar,’ Marty argued. ‘So why don’t we find out who’s playing down in the Music Box? Straight up, I only gave it a fresh lick of blinkin paint yesterday morning.’
‘Fair play, I’m up for it!’ Billy agreed.
‘Is there a band tonight?’ Herb asked.
‘I can see The Damned playin’,’ Nutcase argued.
‘The Damned in this armpit? No chance, just the usual buncha no hopers,’ Stan argued, tongue in cheek.
Gorran flinched amiably, but sustained the HM good mood music: this was the night he’d signed Mortal and it was worth celebrating. For him it was down in legend like Warhol finding the Velvets. ‘Right, definitely, Stan, you need to keep your bloomin ears pinned back like that Prince Charles tonight. Fair play, meet some blinkin influential people in the business and form vital bloomin contacts,’ he argued.
‘Don’t be negative Stan. A gig’s a gig, bay, an’ Mortal’s gonna play here next month so,’ Billy argued.
‘Well lads, I oughta go home ‘fore long,’ Nutcase told us.
‘What for?’ I wondered.
The gargantuan shouter looked glum. ‘The wife’s expectin’ me. About an hour ago.’
‘Ah come on Nut man, that isn’t very rock n roll!’
‘Get it straight,’ Stan retorted.
‘You won’t moan if we get that gig at the Lyceum,’ Herb pointed out.
‘In panto,’ Snot cut back.
‘Supporting the Buzzcocks!’
‘You’re too fucking gullible, listening to the big cheese.’
‘I can’t keep my Janet up too fuckin late. She’ll ‘ave me for breakfast, wunt she.’
‘Well, I don’t fancy going home yet,’ I argued.
‘Right, definitely, if you’ve finished with all your dirty blinkin laundry in public,’ Marty objected ironically. ‘No bullshit, it’s time we got down there so I can introduce you to these influential music business movers and bloomin shakers. No bullshit, before all you blinkin babies go and fall asleep on me.’
‘Who exactly are you expecting to see in here?’ Anna-kissed wondered. ‘David Bowie or what?’
‘Straight up, I heard on the grapevine that Bowie’s in Berlin agen with bloomin Eno, cutting another fucking record. No bullshit, in a few years Brian’ll be too fucking busy cutting Mortal Wound’s LPs. No disrespect but Brian’ll be more interested in working with you, instead of hanging around with Iggy and Bowie all the fucking time. And Gord ‘elp us all, he’s probably sick of looking at that bloomin horrible great fucking wall in Germany now.’ Gorran offered a knowing grin, leading us down rickety stairs to the basement.
‘It’s bollocks,’ Snot assured us. ‘Don’t listen to him.’
‘About Bowie?’ Anna-kissed marvelled.
Mortal Wound - or most of it - was pissed and disoriented enough to enjoy celebrity status.
The Music Box resembled a toxic swamp by then. They had a late bar going, if you could make it so far. You had to wade through lager, vomit and overflow from blocked toilets, topped by a flotilla of discarded cigarette butts and exhausted spliffs. There were inland lakes in communist Romania healthier than this place.
Marty’s design concept was to daub everything black. It was like being thrown into a cave of hell, albeit with a record player. Every sense was deprived; apart from the hearing; which was overloaded. To be fair similar clubs were in business all over the country. The legendary Marquee Club along Wardour Street was cramped and claustrophobic. Stan and I assumed that CBGBs had to be some fantastic glamorous glittery club in New York. When we eventually saw photos of CBGBs, we realised that the venue was not any superior to ours. I suppose that grot ‘n’ grime was rock ‘n’ roll, and it was definitely punk.
The emergence of punk created this excitingly edgy live scene. Any Mortal appearance would already be a draw to all punk rock fans in Nulton. The group’s first club gig was anticipated, even before the date was set.
Marty worked the hype like a hamster in a wheel. Mortal were introduced to his mates and associates - most of them in bands or on the scene - as if the Beach Boys were out socialising with the Monkees.
Gorran shepherded us. ‘Guess what band they got on in the Box tonight,’ he grimaced. ‘It’s Betsy Dandie and the Screamers.’
We were baffled by the name. ‘Never heard of them,’ Herb admitted.
‘Me neither,’ Anna-kissed said.
‘I caught them once in the pub,’ Stan admitted. ‘Crap.’
‘Fair play Snot, maybe they an’t to everyone’s taste, but Betsy’s established and starting to make a bloomin name for herself. No bullshit, you have to meet her blinkin manager, Les Phoenix. Fair play, he’s handling little Betsy and the boys this side of the Atlantic. Bet’s gigging hard to make it big here in the UK like Jimi Hendrix, after all the American rock fans have got fucking hearing problems,’ Marty informed us. Excitement, anticipation and rivalry set off nervous tremors in his volcanic features.
House lights
dipped - adding to a murky and confused atmosphere. There was a menacing buzz and crackle as the PA came live. My eye caught a small, yet formidable and busty blonde in the shadows, as she jumped on stage. She had sucked herself up into a black leather bodysuit, lazily zippered. Then a trio of imposing blokes, in leather jackets and black jeans, joined her on the warped boards. In contrast to Mortal’s first fumblings, they were strumming and twiddling purposefully. Well, they say the Americans are always one step ahead.
Striking a posture, snatching the mic, ‘Hey Nulton! How ya doin guys!’ Betsy yelled. At this her band blasted into an opening chord and the first number. As well as being lead singer Betsy had a white guitar, though she mostly filled. They were a tight ‘power pop’ band, who’d been together for a while, going by how the sound meshed.
Betsy projected herself, every curvaceous rocking inch. She was a sexy macho blonde and knew how to handle herself. She threw her truck-stop voice as if already playing to stadiums. The wheels and hammers of my ears went crazy as Belgium clocks in a freak electrical storm. Later on, when I knew more about music, I’d place her between Chrissie Hynde and Bonnie Raitt. She wrote a lot of her own material, mixed in with cover versions such as ‘Try a Little Tenderness’ or (appropriately for The Mad Hatter) ‘Eve of Destruction’.
This was all ‘top dollar’ for Nulton town, as if Dolly Parton had turned up at a TUC barn dance. The Screamers came back for several encores - they were great value - going off after striking a last reverberating power chord. They waved thanks to a raucous crowd.
The Screamers didn’t excite Stan or Marty, judging by their expressions; any more than Johnny Rotten was bowled over by the Queen’s Silver Jubilee celebrations.
***
High from the show, Betsy and her Screamers pushed through an admiring crush, back to the bar. Marty had the chance to step in to PR overdrive, among her friends and supporters. Apart from the day job Marty was CEO of his Star Materials music management corporation. The organisation was based in a spare corner of his workshop/studio, off a Nulton back alley. Unfortunately Star Materials’ corporate hospitality budget had been overspent. But the words still flowed.
